Not Not While the Giro

by Kelman, James

  Fine sandwiches, I told her. What kind of stuff is this?

  Pardon?

  I parted the 2 slices of bread.

  O. Sausage. You like?

  It’s good.

  Yes. Suddenly she laughed, she laughed and held up the sandwich she was eating: In Glasgow piece – a piece. Yes?

  Christ.

  She laughed again, flicking the hair from her face: My friend in Glasgow she say peez, geez peez pleez.

  That’s right geeza piece, I grinned. Heh, more tea? fancy some more tea?

  She nodded.

  At the turnoff for the Mallaig Road we shook hands in a solemn sort of way, and she headed along in that direction, her gaze to where the boots were taking her. I watched until she reached the first bend on the road. She hadnt looked back at all.

  When I banged out the signal the hammering halted and I crawled through the short narrow tunnel into the big chlorine tank we were relining. I climbed the scaffolding. The two of them were now sitting on the edge of the platform, their legs dangling over, having a smoke. Without speaking I got the working gear on, pulled the safety-helmet, the goggles and the breathing mask into their right positions about my head. While tugging the sweatband down to my brow a loud snort came from Sammy, and he said: Looks like he’s decided not to speak.

  Aye, said Chas.

  Waiting for us to ask I suppose.

  Must be.

  God love us.

  A moment later Chas glanced at me: Well?

  Well what?

  Well?

  Well well well.

  Hh, Christ.

  Ach never bother with him, grunted Sammy.

  But Chas said: Did you or didnt you?

  What? What d’you mean?

  Did you or fucking didnt you?

  Did I or didnt I what?

  Sammy sighed: Aye or naw, that’s all he’s asking.

  Is it? I laughed.

  Orange bastard, muttered Sammy.

  So you did then, Chas asked.

  Did what?

  Ah fuck off.

  What’s up.

  What’s up! Chas said, Are you going to tell us? aye or naw!

  I had a look at the hammer to make sure it was properly adjusted onto the pressurised air-hose, then got myself a chisel. By the way, I said, thanks for bringing my gear up from below, makes a difference having good mates on a job like this.

  Sammy gazed at me. He said to Chas: You wouldnt credit it – look at him, he’s not going to tell us anything right enough. Tell you something for nothing Chas it’s the last time the cunt’ll even smell one of these tea bags of mine.

  That goes for my duffel coat, grunted Chas.

  I fixed the chisel into the nozzle of the hammer, and began whistling.

  Fuck off, cried Chas.

  Ach. Never bother, muttered Sammy, never bother. Who’s interested anyhow!

  I slung the hammer across my shoulder, tugging the airhose across to the place I had stopped at the day before. Both of them were watching me. I winked before pulling the goggles down over my eyes, triggered off the hammer.

  Wee horrors

  The backcourt was thick with rubbish as usual. What a mess. I never like thinking about the state it used to get into. As soon as a family flitted out to the new home all the weans were in and dragging off the abandoned furnishings & fittings, most of which they dumped. Plus with the demolition work going on you were getting piles of mortar and old brickwork everywhere. A lot of folk thought the worst kind of rubbish was the soft goods, the mattresses and dirty clothing left behind by the ragmen. Fleas were the problem. It seemed like every night of the week we were having to root them out once the weans came in. Both breeds we were catching, the big yins and the wee yins, the dark and the rusty brown. The pest-control went round from door to door. Useless. The only answer was keeping the weans inside but ours were too old for that. Having visitors in the house was an ordeal, trying to listen to what they were saying while watching for the first signs of scratching. Then last thing at night, before getting into bed, me and the wife had to make a point of checking through our own stuff. Apart from that there was little to be done about it. We did warn the weans but it was useless. Turn your back and they were off downstairs to play at wee houses, dressing-up in the clothes and bouncing on the mattresses till all you were left hoping was they would knock the stuffing out the fleas. Some chance. You have to drown the cunts or burn them. A few people get the knack of crushing them between thumbnail and forefinger but I could never master that. Anyway, fleas have got nothing to do with this. I was down in the backcourt to shout my pair up for their tea. The woman up the next close had told me they were all involved in some new den they had built and if I saw hers while I was at it I was to send them up right away. The weans were always making dens. It could be funny to see. You looked out the window and saw what you thought was a pile of rubble and maybe a sheet of tarpaulin stuck on the top. Take another look and you might see a wee head poking out, then another, and another, till finally maybe ten of them were standing there, thinking the coast was clear. But on this occasion I couldnt see a thing. I checked out most of the possibilities. Nothing. No signs of them anywhere. And it was quiet as well. Normally you would’ve at least heard a couple of squeaks. I tramped about for a time, retracing my steps and so on. I was not too worried. It would have been different if only my pair was missing but there was no sight nor sound of any description. And I was having to start considering the dunnies. This is where I got annoyed. I’ve always hated dunnies – pitchblack and that smell of charred rubbish, the broken glass, these things your shoes nudge against. Terrible. Then if you’re in one and pause a moment there’s this silence forcing you to listen. Really bad. I had to go down but. In the second one I tried I found some of the older mob, sitting in a kind of circle round two candles. They heard me come and I knew they had shifted something out of sight, but they recognised me okay and one of the lassies told me she had seen a couple of weans sneaking across to Greegor’s. I was really angry at this. I had told them umpteen times never to go there. By rights the place should’ve got knocked down months ago but progress was being blocked for some reason I dont know, and now the squatters and a couple of the girls were in through the barricading. If you looked over late at night you could see the candle glow at the windows and during the day you were getting the cars crawling along near the pavement. It was hopeless. I went across. Once upon a time a grocer had a shop in the close and this had something to do with how it got called Greegor’s. Judging from the smell of food he was still in business. At first I thought it was coming from up the close but the nearer I got I could tell it was coming from the dunny. Down I went. Being a corner block there were a good few twists and turns from the entrance lobby and I was having to go carefully. It felt like planks of wood I was walking on. Then the sounds. A kind of sizzling – making you think of a piece of fucking silverside in the oven, these crackling noises when the juice spurts out. Jesus christ. I shouted the ids of my pair. The sound of feet scuffling. I turned a corner and got a hell of a shock – a woman standing in a doorway. Her face wasnt easy to see because of the light from behind her. Then a man appeared. He began nodding away with a daft smile on his face. I recognised them. Wineys. They had been dossing about the area for the past while. Even the face she had told a story, white with red blotches, eyes always seeming to water. She walked in this queer kind of stiff shuffle, her shoes flapping. When she stepped back from the doorway she id the cuff of her coat sleeve across her mouth. The man was still giving his daft smiles. I followed. Inside the room all the weans were gathered round the middle of the floor. Sheets of newspaper had been spread about. I spotted my pair immediately – scared out their wits at seeing me. I just looked at them. Over at the fireplace a big fire was going, not actually in the fireplace, set to about a yard in front. The spit was fashioned above it and a wee boy stood there, he must’ve been rotating the fucking thing. Three lumps of meat sizzled away and just to the
side were a few cooked bits lined in a row. I hadnt noticed the woman walk across but then she was there and making a show of turning the contraption just so I would know she wasnt giving a fuck about me being there. And him – still smiling, then beginning to make movements as if he wanted to demonstrate how it all worked. He was pointing out a row of raw lumps on the mantelpiece and then reaching for a knife with a thin blade. I shook my head, jesus christ right enough. I grabbed for my pair, yelling at the rest of the weans to get up that effing stair at once.

  le jouer

  Him with the long face and that conical hat sitting there with the clay pipe stuck in his mouth, the widower: he enters this café around 7 every evening with a nod to the barman, a quick look to ensure his chair and table are vacant; though in a place as quiet as this anything else seems out of the question. Lurking about at the rear of the table is a wee black & white dog that finally settles into a prone position in the shadows by the wall beneath the grimy mirror. On putting the tall bottle of wine and the two glasses down onto the table, the widower has tugged this huge coloured handkerchief from his right jacket pocket, and into it has given a muffled honk; and sniffed while stuffing it back out of sight. Several moments on he is glancing across at the clock on the gantry and taking the handkerchief out once more, to wipe at his nostrils.

  The door has opened.

  That younger man – him with the upturned brim on his hat – has walked in, hands in coat pockets; and a half twitch of the head by way of greeting the barman; and a half rise of the eyebrows on seeing the widower’s glance at the clock. A deck of cards he lifts from the bar en route to the empty seat facing the widower. With a slow yawn the dog lowers its head, closes its eyes, reverting into its prone position. While the wine is being poured by one the other is shuffling to deal methodically, ten cards apiece.

  Later, him with the conical hat will rise and knock the bowl of the clay pipe against the heel of his right boot and without so much as a grunt will head for the exit followed by the wee black & white dog; and this dog must dodge smartly to get out before the door shuts on it.

  That younger man will have refilled his own glass and will then gather up the cards and, as he is shuffling, he will be gazing round the interior of the room: but the only person present apart from the barman will be Paul Cézanne: and so he will continue to shuffle the cards for a period, before setting out the first game of solitaire while half wondering if his kids are behaving themselves.

  Roofsliding2

  The tenement building upon which the practice occurs is of the three storey variety. A section of roof bounded on both sides by a row of chimney stacks is favoured. No reason is known as to why this particular section should be preferred to another. Certain members of the group participating are thought to reside outwith this actual building though none is a stranger to the district. Roofsliding, as it is termed, can take place more than once per week and will always do so during a weekday mid morning. As to the season of the year, this is unimportant; dry days, however, being much sought after.

  The men arise in single file from out of the rectangular skylight. They walk along the peak of the roof ensuring that one foot is settling on either side of the jointure which is bevelled in design, the angle at the peak representing some 80 degrees. During the walk slates have been known to break loose from their fixtures and if bypassing the gutter will topple over the edge of the building to land on the pavement far below. To offset any danger to the public a boy can always be seen on the opposite pavement, from where he will give warning to the pedestrians.

  When the men, sometime designated roofsliders, have assembled along the peak they will lower themselves to a sitting posture on the jointure, the legs being outstretched flatly upon the sloped roof. They face to the front of the building. Roofsliding will now commence. The feet push forward until the posterior moves off from the jointure onto the roof itself, the process continuing until the body as a whole lies prone on the gradient at which point momentum is effected.

  Whether a man ‘slides’ with arms firmly aligned to the trunk, or akimbo, or indeed lying loosely to the sides, would appear to be a function of the number of individuals engaged in the activity at any given period (as many as 32 are said to have participated on occasion). Legs are, however, kept tightly shut. When the feet come to rest on the gutter roofsliding halts at once and the order in which members finish plays no part in the practice.

  A due pause will now occur. Afterwards the men manoeuvre themselves inch by inch along the edge of the roof while yet seeming to maintain the prone position. Their goal, the line of chimney stacks that stand up right to the northside of the section. From here the men make their way up to the jointure on hands and knees. It is worth noting that they do so by way of the outside, unwilling, it would appear, to hazard even the slightest damage to the ‘sliding’ section that is bounded between here and the line of chimney stacks to the southside. When all have gathered on the jointure once again they will be seated to face the rear of the building. Now and now only shall conversation be entered upon. For up until this period not a man amongst them shall have spoken (since arrival by way of the skylight).

  At present a ruddy complexioned chap in his 44th year is the ‘elder statesman’ of the roofsliders. Although the ages do vary within the group no youth shall be admitted who has yet to attain his 14th birthday. On the question of alcohol members are rightly severe, for not only would the ‘wrong doer’ be at mortal risk, so too would the lives of each individual.

  As a phenomenon there can be no doubt as to the curious nature of the practice of roofsliding. Further observation might well yield fruits.

  not not while the giro

  say not talkin about

  not analysin nuthin

  is if not not

  Tom Leonard, Breathe deep and regular with it

  of tea so I can really enjoy this 2nd last smoke which will be very very strong which is of course why I drink tea with it in a sense to counteract the harm it must do my inners. Not that tea cures cancer poisoning or even guards against nicotine – helps unclog my mouth a little. Maybe it doesnt. My mouth tastes bad. Hot and kind of squelchy. I am smoking too much old tobacco. 2nd hand tobacco is stiff, is burnt ochre in colour and you really shudder before spluttering on the 1st drag. But this is supposed to relieve the craving for longer periods. Maybe it does. It makes no difference anyway, you still smoke them 1 after the other because what happens if you suddenly come into a few quid or fresh tobacco – you cant smoke 2nd hand stuff with the cashinhand and there isnt much chance of donating it to fucking charity. So you smoke rapidly. I do – even with fresh tobacco.

  But though the tea is gone I can still enjoy the long smoke. A simple enjoyment, and without guilt. I am wasting time. I am to perambulate to a distant broo. I shall go. I always go. No excuse now it has gone. And it may be my day for the spotcheck at the counter. Rain pours heavily. My coat is in the fashion of yesteryear but I am wearing it. How comes this coat to be with me yet. Not a question although it bears reflecting upon at some later date. Women may have something to do with it. Probably not, that cannot be correct. Anyway, it has nothing to do with anything.

  I set myself small tasks, ordeals; for instance: Come on ya bastard ye and smoke your last, then see how your so-called will fucking power stands up. Eh! Naw, you wont do that. Of course I wont, but such thoughts often occur. I may or may not smoke it. And if it does come down to will power how the hell can I honestly say I have any – when circumstances are as they are. Could begin smacking of self pity shortly if this last continues. No, yesteryear’s coat is not my style. Imitation Crombies are unbecoming these days, particularly the kind with narrow lapels. This shrewd man I occasionally have dealings with refused said coat on the grounds of said lapels rendering the coat an undesired object by those who frequent said man’s premises. Yet I would have reckoned most purchasers of 2nd hand clothing to be wholly unaware of fashions current or olden. But I have faith in him. He does fine.
Pawnshops could be nationalized. What a shock for the smalltrader. What next that’s what we’d like to know, the corner bloody shop I suppose. Here that’s not my line of thought at all. Honest to god, right hand up that the relative strength of the freethinkers is neither here nor there. All we ask is to play up and play the game. Come on you lot, shake hands etcetera. Jesus what is this at all. Fuck all to do with perambulations to the broo.

  Last smoke between my lips, right then. Fire flicked off, the last colour gone from the bar. Bastarn rain. The Imitation Crombie. And when I look at myself in the mirror I can at least blow smoke in my face. Also desperately needing a pish. Been holding it in for ages by the feel of things. Urinary infections too, they are caused by failing to empty the bladder completely ie. cutting a long pish short and not what’s the word – flicking the chopper up and down to get rid of the drips. Particularly if one chances to be uncircumcised. Not at all.

  In fact I live in a single bedsitter with sole use of confined kitchenette whose shelves are presently idle. My complexion could be termed grey. As though he hadnt washed for a month your worship. Teeth not so good. Beard a 6 dayer and of all unwashed colours. Shoes suede and stained by dripping. Dripping! The jeans could be fashionable without the Imitation Crombie. Last smoke finished already by christ. Smile. Yes. Hullo. Walk to door. Back to collect the sign-on card from its safe place. I shall be striding through a downpour.

  Back from the broo and debating whether I am a headcase after all and this has nothing to do with my ambling in the rain. A neighbour has left a child by my side and gone off to the launderette. An 18 month old child and frankly an imposition. I am not overly fond of children. And this one is totally indifferent to me. The yes I delivered to the neighbour was typically false. She knew fine well but paid no attention. Perhaps she dislikes me intensely. Her husband and I detest each other. In my opinion his thoughts are irrelevant yet he persists in attempting to gain my heed. He fails. My eyes glaze but he seems unaware. Yet his wife appreciates my position and this is important since I can perhaps sleep with her if she sides with me or has any thoughts on the subject of him in relation to me or vice versa. Hell of a boring. I am not particularly attracted to her. A massive woman. I dont care. My vanities lie in other fields. Though at 30 years of age one’s hand is insufficient and to be honest again my hand is more or less unused in regard to sexual relief. I rely on the odd wet dream, the odd chance acquaintance, male or female it makes no difference yet either has advantages.