Not Not While the Giro

by Kelman, James

  I didnt bother going into the college on Monday or Tuesday, and I stayed away from the pub. On Wednesday we kept out of each other’s road but from the way the manageress of the refectory gave me the tinfoil package for him I knew he had kept the thing secret. Towards clocking-out time he came looking for me while I was out pushing a stationery barrow. He apologised immediately. What a cunt, he said, always have been. You ask anybody Jock, they’ll tell you.

  I shrugged. It was just one of these things.

  Several days later I was handing the uniform back into the ex-R.A.F. man and saying cheerio in the lodge. Even without the incident I would still have been leaving. It was a good few quid I had gathered, and the weather progressed, a nice hint of spring in the air. John was back hitting the betting shop every afternoon; as far as I heard he was taking a hammering. It was totally daft, the results were still far too erratic. And leaving that aside, there was only about a month to go before the start of the flat season. John was like me in that respect, things like the jumping season and greyhound racing only helped fill the winter break.

  Ascot was his favourite course – for the Royal Meeting. Without fail he took his holidays in June each year. Well you got to go, he said, them’s the best racehorses in the world.

  He was superstitious about it. On numerous occasions he had been skint and June rapidly approaching. Then at the last possible moment he would get a turn, and everything would be fine. Yeh, he said, you believe it you dont believe it, it’s all the same to me – but I’ve seen me, in it right up to the fucking eyeballs – cant show my face or the cunts, they’ll be taking swipes at it, yeh – then bingo! right out the fucking blue – and I’m down there. Go on Lester! Go on my son!

  That punters’ dream again, the summer sunshine with strawberries and champagne, and Lester going through the card.

  No longer the warehouseman

  What matters is that I can no longer take gainful employment. That she understands does not mean I am acting correctly. After all, one’s family must eat and wear clothes, be kept warm in the winter, and they must also view television if they wish – like any other family. To enable all of this to come to pass I must earn money. Thirteen months have elapsed. This morning I had to begin a job of work in a warehouse as a warehouseman. My year on the labour exchange is up – was up. I am unsure at the moment. No more money was forthcoming unless I had applied for national assistance which I can do but dislike doing for various reasons.

  I am worried. A worried father. I have two children, a wife, a stiff rent, the normal debts. To live I should be working but I cannot. This morning I began a new job. As a warehouseman. My wife will be sorry to hear I am no longer gainfully employed in the warehouse. My children are of tender years and will therefore be glad to see me once more about the house although I have only been gone since breakfast time and it is barely five o’clock in the afternoon so they will have scarcely missed me. But my wife: this is a grave problem. One’s wife is most understanding. This throws the responsibility on one’s own shoulders however. When I mention the fact of my no longer being the warehouseman she will be sympathetic. There is nothing to justify to her. She will also take for granted that the little ones shall be provided for. Yet how do I accomplish this without the gainful employment. I do not know. I dislike applying to the social security office. On occasion one has in the past lost one’s temper and deposited one’s children on the counter and been obliged to shamefacedly return five minutes later in order to uplift them or accompany the officer to the station. I do not like the social security. Also, one has difficulty in living on the money they provide.

  And I must I must. Or else find a new job of work. But after this morning one feels one . . . well, one feels there is something wrong with one.

  I wore a clean shirt this morning lest it was expected. Normally I dislike wearing shirts unless I am going to a dinner dance etcetera with the wife. No one was wearing a shirt but myself and the foreman. I did not mind. But I took off my tie immediately and unbuttoned the top two buttons. They gave me a fawn dusk or dust perhaps coat, to put on – without pockets. I said to the foreman it seemed ridiculous to wear an overcoat without pockets. And also I smoke so require a place to keep cigarettes and the box of matches. My trouser pockets are useless. My waist is now larger than when these particular trousers were acquired. Anything bulky in their pockets will cause a certain discomfort.

  One feels as though one is going daft. I should have gone straight to the social security in order to get money. Firstly I must sign on at the labour exchange and get a new card and then go to the social security office. I shall take my B1 and my rent book and stuff, and stay calm at all times. They shall make an appointment for me and I shall be there on time otherwise they will not see me. My nerves get frayed. My wife knows little about this. I tell her next to nothing but at other times tell her everything.

  I do not feel like telling my wife I am no longer the warehouseman and that next Friday I shall not receive the sum of twenty five pounds we had been expecting. A small wage. I told the foreman the wage was particularly small. Possibly his eyes clouded. I was of course cool, polite. This is barely a living wage I told him. Wage. An odd word. But I admit to having been aware of all this when I left the labour exchange in order that I might commence employment there. Nobody diddled me. My mind was simply blank. My year was up. One year and six weeks. I could have stayed unemployed and been relatively content. But for the social security. I did not wish to risk losing my temper. Now I shall just have to control myself. Maybe send the wife instead. This might be the practical solution. And the clerks shall look more favourably upon one’s wife. Perhaps increase one’s rate of payment.

  I found the job on my own. Through the evening times sits vac col. It was a queer experience using the timecard once more. Ding ding as it stamps the time. I was given a knife along with the overcoat. For snipping string.

  I am at a loss. At my age and considering my parental responsibilities, for example the wife and two weans, I should be paid more than twenty five pounds. I told the foreman this. It is a start he replied. Start fuck all I answered. It is the future which worries me. How on earth do I pay the monthly rent of £34.30. My wife will be thinking to herself I should have kept the job till securing another. It would have been sensible. Yes. It would have been sensible. Right enough. I cannot recall the how of my acceptance of the job in the first instance. I actually wrote a letter in order to secure an interview. At the interview I was of course cool, polite. Explained that my wife had been ill this past thirteen months. I was most interested in the additional news, that of occasional promotional opportunities. Plus yearly increments and cost of living naturally. Word for word. One is out of touch on the labour exchange. I knew nothing of cost of living allowance. Without which I would have been earning twenty two sixty or thereabouts.

  It is my fault. My wife is to be forgiven if she . . . what. She will not do anything.

  There were five other warehousemen plus three warehouselads, a forklift driver, the foreman and myself. At teabreak we sat between racks. An older chap sat on the floor to stretch his legs. Surely there are chairs I said to the foreman. He looked at me in answer. Once a man had downed his tea I was handed the empty cup which had astonishing chips out of its rim. It was kind of him but I did not enjoy the refreshment. And I do not take sugar. But the tea cost nothing. When I receive my first wage I am to begin paying twenty five pence weekly. I should not have to pay for sugar. It does not matter now.

  Time passes. My children age. My wife is in many ways younger than me. She will not say a word about all this. One is in deep trouble. One’s bank account lacks money enough. I received a sum for this morning’s work but it will shortly be spent. Tomorrow it is necessary I return to the labour exchange. No one will realise I have been gone. Next week should be better. If this day could be wiped from my life or at least go unrecorded I would be happy.

  The warehousemen were discussing last night’s televi
sion. I said good god. A funny smell. A bit musty. Soggy cardboard perhaps.

  The boss, the boss – not the foreman – is called Mr Jackson. The foreman is called George. The boss, he . . . The trouble is I can no longer. Even while climbing the subway stairs; as I left the house; was eating my breakfast; rising from my bed; watching the television late last night: I expected it would prove difficult.

  Mr Jackson, he is the boss. He also wears a shirt and tie. Eventually the express carriers had arrived and all of we warehousemen and warehouselads were to heave to and load up. It is imperative we do so before lunch said Mr Jackson. I have to leave I said to him. Well hurry back replied George. No, I mean I can no longer stay I explained. I am going home. And could I have my insurance cards and money for this morning’s work. What cried Mr Jackson. George was blushing in front of Mr Jackson. Could I have my cards and money. It is imperative I go for a pint and home to see the wife.

  I was soon paid off although unable to uplift my insurance cards there and then.

  The problem is of course the future – financing the rearing of one’s offspring etcetera.

  Keep moving and no questions

  It was my own fault. My planning never seems to allow of action of an intentional nature. I can always bring myself right to a point where some sort of precipice appears odds on to be round a corner. But this bringing-of-myself appears to be an end in itself; nothing further happens which can squarely be laid as an effect of my own volitions. Terrible state of affairs. I had arrived back in London fine, as conceived, was ambling around the Kings Cross Area quite enjoying seeing the old places. Next thing a publican was calling Time Gentlemen Please and I was stranded. Nowhere to go. Nothing fixed. Never anything fixed. This fixing business . . .I dont know about this fixing business at all. Obviously getting here was sufficient otherwise something further would have been transpiring. And something further could easily have been a straightforward sign-in at a cheap bed & breakfast of which the Kings Cross Area has more than a few. The money right enough. The money could have been one subliminal motive for my lack of the leap forwards. I wasnt too well fixed. Fixed. Not fixed again.

  I was watching this drop of water on the tip of an old woman’s nose. It didnt quiver. We were sitting on a bench at a busstop outside St Pancras Station. The rain had stopped some twenty minutes ago. I got a bar of chocolate from a machine. Fifteen pence it cost me. The old yin took the piece I offered and chewed on it for a long time. She had no teeth and was probably allowing this chocolate to slide back and forth over her gums, wearing it down while increasing the saliva flow. She never spoke. Stared straight ahead. I was to her right. I doubt whether she knew I was watching her; doubt whether it would have bothered her anyway. She didnt smoke and I found this surprising. I lighted my own. Although she moved slightly her gaze never altered. The drop of water had gone from her nose. Then the rain again, a slow drizzle. I rose from the bench, making more noise than necessary when I lifted my bag; for some reason I reckoned a quiet movement might have disturbed her.

  Along towards Euston I walked. Night lights glinting on the pavement, on the roads and on the roofs and glass fronts of office buildings. And on the moon as well; a moon in full view, to be beheld during this drizzle. I was no longer ambling now. And a good thing this; it was somehow sending me on ahead of myself. Yet at the same time I was aware of the possibility of missing out on something a more leisurely stroll could perhaps have allowed me to participate within. On up, Tavistock way. Nobody about. A brisk pace. My boots were fairly able; no misgivings about stepping into puddles. Across and towards the British Museum and around the back in the shadows, and around the front and back around the back and back around the whole thing again for Christ sake.

  Onwards. Figures appearing hailing taxi-cabs, going home to their places out the rain. More lighting now, brighter on the main road. Through into the rear of Soho where my pace lessened. Smaller buildings, narrower pavements, railings and basements; rain drops plopping off the edges of things; occasionally sharp lighting giving out from windows where folk would be gathered, snugly. One basement in particular with its iron gate at the top lying ajar. Downstairs I went slowly. A sign on the wall: two quid to enter. Music. One please, I said to this guy inside the lobby who gave out no ticket and stuffed the money into this pocket on the breast of his shirt, buttoning the flap down on it.

  The push door made a creaking sound. The lighting dim. A girl singing in this English voice. An English traditional song she was singing in this icy voice. An odd voice; not a voice without feeling. A direct voice, and reminiscent of a singer whose id I couldnt quite rake out although I used to hear her fairly often at one time. All the people there; a lot sitting down on the floor with their backs to the wall, others lying with their hands clasped behind their heads or sitting cross-legged. Couples with arms about shoulders and heads on shoulders. All listening to the girl singing her song.

  I sat down in a space next to the back wall and after a moment closed my eyelids. When I opened them again the space to my right had increased to around five yards and a girl was kneeling on the floor with her arms folded. She was alone – but in this direct fashion. Her head stiffly positioned, the neck exactly angled. Only her shoulders twitched. The position must have been uncomfortable. The small of her back there – I can make the curved motion with my hand. And yet only her shoulders made any movement whatsoever!

  I closed my eyelids. Footsteps. It was a man making towards her, his manner of moving was only to her though he walked loosely as he threaded the way between people. And now the girl’s shoulders were not even twitching. She had edged her feet from her shoes. Her toes seemed to be maintaining a sort of plumb point – and her arms! – folded in this direct fashion. Jesus.

  He paused a fraction when he arrived, then dropped to his knees, his hands placed on the floor to balance, fingertips pointing on to the side of her limbs he was facing her. But she continued to stare at the singer. Poised there, only her toes working.

  He could kneel by her all night but it would still be finished. I could have told him that. She half turned her shoulder and said about three words; her eyes had remained in the direction of the singer. Then the shoulders returned to their former position. His time was up. Your time’s up I said without opening my mouth.

  He left, but he was not making a retreat. He was just making his way away from her. Eventually the girl swivelled her knees to stretch out her legs, moved to rest her back against the wall. She opened her handbag but after a brief glance inside she closed it over. She placed it to the blind side from me. I could see her toes now exercising, her knees, and her neck; until finally she relaxed. A bit later I rose to see if they served coffee; I left my chattels lying on the spot.

  I bought two and back inside I handed one across to her. Put it to the side of her. Look, I said, all I’m doing is giving you this coffee. Nothing else. Just a coffee. Just take a drop of this coffee.

  She didnt reply.

  I’m leaving it lying there, I said. You should drink it. I’m not doing anything. Just giving you this coffee to drink.

  She lifted it. The eyes passed over me. She took a little sip at it.

  Jesus Christ; well well well.

  Pardon, she said.

  I didnt answer. I lighted a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Too much for me. Everything. The way she could do it all. Even the man. He could do it all as well. Jesus. It was bad. I had the arrival for a plan. An arrival! Dear God. Hopeless. It was bad.

  Pardon?

  What . . . I glanced at her. I must have spoken aloud. Maybe the bad or the hopeless.

  Nothing . . . I said. I was only . . . Couldnt even finish the sentence. With a slight nod she looked away from me. I closed my eyelids. But they opened immediately. Look, I said, will you take a smoke? I saw you footering around in your handbag and I was going to offer then but decided against it – not a real decision – not something I . . . A cigarette. Will you take a cigarette from me?

 
She nodded. I passed her one.

  My coffee was lukewarm. It had never really been hot either. I shuddered on draining the last third of it. I dont mind lukewarm tea but never seem to have got the taste for lukewarm coffee. The singer had stopped for a breather and her band were playing a medley of some kind. Some of the audience had risen and were moving around on the floor.

  I glanced at the girl. She was smoking in a serious way although she let out big mouthfuls of smoke before inhaling; and when she exhaled this last stuff she did so making an O shape of her mouth so that the smoke came out in firm columns. Food. A meal, I said, fancy a meal. Nothing startling. Just a plate of chips or something in a snackbar. Nothing else involved. I just feel like a plate of chips and taking you for one as well, eh? Fancy it. That coffee was murder polis.

  Pardon?

  That coffee. Terrible. Lukewarm to begin with I think. No chance of enjoyment from the start. Fancy a plate of chips?

  Scotch?

  Aye, yes. what d’you say? – you coming?

  She hesitated, another cloud of smoke before the inhaled lot emerging in its fixed shape. She said, To be honest I . . .

  Nothing else involved. I’m not doing anything. Look, I said, all I want to do is get a plate of chips and take you for one as well. Too much for me. All of it.

  What?

  Ach. Fuck it. What a carry on. I dont know . . . can never really get it all connecting in an exact manner. Out it all seems to come. She was not bothering though. Knew what I was saying, she knew it fine well. I was just . . . passes the time: I said. Keeps you warm – plate of steaming chips and a piping hot cup of fresh tea.