That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories

by James Kelman

  Ye dont have hot chocolate? I’m joking.

  He smiled. Sorry.

  You say sorry a lot.

  Actually I used to have some ye know, in the cupboard someplace.

  Oh you’ve got a cupboard?

  He scratched his head.

  Tea’s fine, she added.

  Ye sure?

  Yes.

  I definitely did have a tin of hot chocolate. I had Horlicks too. Things vanish in this house. Sometimes they turn up again, sometimes they dont.

  Are you cold? she asked.

  Me?

  Ye’re hopping about.

  Well it is cold.

  Ye look like ye’re freezing!

  Okay, he said and walked ben the kitchen. He did have central heating but it had the habit of switching itself off. What a facility! It only worked when it wanted to work which was hardly at all nowadays. Past tense, like most everything else.

  It was true about things vanishing. It happened with a particular mug he liked. It disappeared then turned up out the blue. He thought of it as an independent wee soul who liked to visit other pieces of crockery. He told his daughter that story. It turned out the only mug was the one telling the tale. He hadnt seen her for a couple of weeks. She was a polite wee girl. He wished she wasnay. He wished she was a harum-scarum, a proper wee kid, one that didnt worry. She worried. At seven years of age. If she wasnay polite he might disappear altogether.

  Ach, enough; enough enough.

  He made a slice of toast and ate it while making one for Fiona who was delighted when he returned; amazed and delighted. He switched on the light. She was sitting up in bed, had pulled a cardigan over herself. What a smile. A beamer! The way to a woman’s heart, he said. He passed her the toast and placed the tea on the floor at the side of the bed.

  Thank you!

  It’s only toast!

  The smell alone! When ye were making it, I wondered if it came from next door! I didnt even think I was hungry! Oh but where’s yours?

  Mine, I scoffed it, while I was making yours. It’s just a wee toaster. It only makes one at a time.

  It must be the last of its kind, she said, reaching for her tea.

  Yeah, well. He shrugged.

  She sipped at the tea, munched on the toast. He grinned. What? she said.

  Nothing.

  She lifted the last of the toast and put it into her mouth but noticed he was still watching her. What’s wrong? she said.

  Nothing.

  Ye’re just standing there watching me. Why arent ye coming into bed?

  I’m waiting to put the light out.

  You should have a bedside cabinet. It would be useful for putting things on, including a lamp.

  I used to have one.

  Yer books too, ye could put yer books on it. I know ye’re a reader.

  Yeah. He smiled again, to which she noticed but made no reference. Another reason why he was standing there! He was waiting for an invitation! How come? It was his bed but he was the guest. Weird. It was an old pair of boxers too. Tried and trusteds; the kind ye wear to yer work, if ye are unlucky enough to have work to go to.

  She had finished her toast now.

  Ready? he said.

  I’m fine, she said. He turned and switched off the light. In bed he faced out the way, away from her. She dropped her cardigan to the floor.

  But it was weird. He hadnt been expecting to be in this situation. Which said much about him and where his head was. At one time he would have dressed for every occasion merely in the off-chance of bumping into a woman. Footloose and fancy-free. He was neither and this was neither.

  But what exactly was it? There was nothing between them. She was in his bed but they hadnay slept the gether in the accepted sense: in other words sex, there wasnay any! They were in bed for sleeping purposes only. So that degree of familiarity did not exist between them. Nowhere near it. Not even a prolonged kiss like from her as well as him. She maybe pecked him at one point but not an actual kiss, not a proper one.

  But she didnt appear to grasp any of this. She was acting as if they knew each other really well. Christ almighty he had only seen her twice in his life and the time before tonight was only hazy, very hazy, although she had a clearer vision. The truth is he couldnay remember a single damn thing about it. What could he remember? Nothing. He had been drunk. Another fucking night of nothing.

  That was him, that was his life. Tonight too. The beautiful Barbara. Bla bla. Just shit, all shit. Humbug and crap nonsense. In three hours’ time he would have to go to work. That was the reality. Wage-slavery. All of his hopes and dreams. What was he doing with his life? It was just fucking shit and he was just utterly daft, a mental kind of lunatic, and he would never sleep anyway, what was the damn point of it all? He turned onto his back; it was like nowhere to go; he didnt have any place, and Fiona there. She was looking at him. Why are ye sighing? she said.

  I’m not sighing.

  Yes ye are. What’s wrong?

  Nothing’s wrong.

  She kept looking at him.

  You have an inquiring gaze, he said.

  She kept looking at him.

  But I dont criticise ye for that. Which reminds me. Am I right in saying this, or have I got a faulty memory: before we left the pub – am I dreaming, did you accuse me of having a shocking sense of humour? If so it is a most interesting phenomenon because at one time I fancied myself a comedian. Honest.

  I dont like comedians, they think they’re smart and they arent. They act like schoolboys most of them. That’s what they remind me of, boys from the third year acting big.

  Does that include the females? he said and added quickly, But how can ye not like comedians? Although there again . . .

  She muttered, Oh God.

  Okay?

  She sighed.

  Now it’s you sighing, he said.

  Your feet are cold.

  Because I was making the tea.

  Do ye not have a pair of slippers?

  He chuckled.

  What’s so funny?

  The very word itself! Slippers, how it represents an entire way of life, like a whole world. So a whole world of meaning. What it all signifies. Just the word itself; that’s what I’m talking about. The way I see it, being a comedian in periods of social abjection is the pinnacle of public achievement. Either a comedian or a sports star. It’s only temporary. Once ye pass through this what-dye-call-it doldrumistic phase ye need them, comedians and athletes, football players, then ye start to get musicians after that, artists and writers; then a few years later everybody’s fighting for independence. So it’s a form of liberation.

  You’re not a comedian you’re a musician.

  No I’m not.

  Yes you are.

  I play music but I’m not a musician. I know musicians, I’m not one.

  Yes you are.

  No I’m not. He raised his head to see her and their hips touched, their hip bones.

  So him with the ponytail, is he one?

  Eh . . .

  Yer duvet’s too wee. Look, she said, clutching the duvet up to her chin, waggling her feet at the bottom. He pushed his arm beneath her shoulders and neck. She allowed it. He let his other hand lie there on the bed. So is he? she said. Tony whatever ye call him. Is she with him now?

  Who?

  Her, the blonde woman.

  I dont know. Maybe. Barbara, yeah, probably she is, I would say, probably.

  Mm.

  If he had allowed his arm to come right the way round her it would have been touching over her breasts, just below, but nudging them. Maybe she was thinking the same, she shivered. Did she? Slightly. She did. Her head came onto his chest and the twinges again immediate but a great feeling and he wished he was naked, he just felt like that, to do with just being free or something, his body being free, even if he fucking wasnay – stupid thing to say of course he was, of course. Just stupid. He was aye guilty of that, stupidity.

  But if she was naked, her tits –
boobs, softly, he felt them; she was turned into him slightly and he did. Her hair tickling his face. It tickled very much and affected his nose and his eyes. He didnt mention this in case it went against him. It would not have been a criticism but people take things differently. He had to move. Are ye cold? he said.

  No.

  Shivering is a reflex action anyway and we cannay be responsible for reflexes. It’s not like intentional, like it’s an intentional thing. There’s all these different parts of the body and if some outside thing happens it just reacts, the body.

  Fiona was silent.

  Anyway, you will be glad to know I gave up the idea of being a comedian.

  You’re a musician.

  I was too droll. Droll’s good but no in Glasgow. Ye get compared to the greats.

  The who?

  The greats. Chic Murray, if ye’ve heard of him. Have ye heard of him?

  No. Maybe. I dont think so.

  Andy shrugged. Ye find it in countries going through a bad patch of inferiority, a kind of mass infantile behaviour. We all suffer from it, like in primary school we’re all sitting there and the teacher has to leave the room, so everybody starts farting and burping. The boys do anyway. Maybe girls dont.

  I’m not sure what ye’re talking about.

  Dont they?

  What?

  Doesnt matter. It’s just like a theory I have. Or used to have! You’ve just shot it down in flames.

  Fiona chuckled.

  I felt that! Your facial muscles twitched.

  I was only wanting to say about countries going through a bad patch, did ye mean the whole country?

  Eh . . .

  Ye said countries going through a bad patch.

  Yeah.

  Do ye mean countries?

  Sorry, what?

  Fiona said, Is it the whole country ye mean or is it like working-class people?

  Eh, working-class people, I suppose. Yeah. He raised his head a little to see her face but could only see her hair, until she turned her head and settled her hand on his stomach and nestled into him side on. And she yawned. He was aware of her boobs almost like squashed on the side of his chest, they were squashed and just – fleshy. The shirt she wore was open and her boobs bare against him, she was not wearing a bra. She had taken off her bra and he was hard. He was going to say something, whatever, whatever it was. She had taken off her bra. Her breasts were squashed in against his chest and felt just – he drew his arm round her more tightly. She eased herself away. Who’s the wee girl in the photograph? she said. The one on the wall, standing next to you.

  My daughter.

  After a moment Fiona said, I knew ye were married. I knew ye were.

  Well, divorced. How about you? Do you have any kids?

  I knew ye were going to ask that.

  Well because . . .

  Because ye’re nosy.

  Andy smiled.

  Ye are, she said, ye pretend not to be. She removed from his chest but raised herself, closing her shirt; she sat up with her back to the bed-end, leaving an absence, he was so aware of the absence, of her absence. The warmth of her, from her. Why are ye smiling? she said.

  I’m not smiling.

  What are ye doing?

  Not smiling. A gentleman doesnt smile at a lady.

  Fiona reached her hand to the centre of his chest, twirling the hair in her fingers, then pulled out a hair. He reacted with a shriek: Jesus christ what was that! Jesus! That’s sore! That’s actually sore! It’s a sore thing to do.

  I know!

  I mean really.

  Yes.

  God.

  Coward!

  Coward? What do you mean coward? Andy shook his head.

  I warned ye about smiling before.

  Christ almighty! Pulling a hair out my chest! It was probably the only one I had too! Andy chuckled.

  I dont like ye swearing.

  Huh.

  I dont. Sorry.

  Christ almighty isnt swearing.

  It’s worse than swearing.

  What?

  It’s a lack of respect for people’s religion. Fiona glanced at the window. Daylight now, unmistakably. She shivered.

  Okay? he said.

  Do ye have another duvet?

  Duvet, eh, no, sorry, I dont, sorry.

  Have ye a spare blanket?

  No . . . what are ye cold?

  Not so much cold but it’s uncomfortable with this one ye have, when it gets dragged over yer legs, the way ye’re moving about all the time.

  Aw sorry I mean yeah . . . Andy got out of bed and in the lobby he found his big coat then a spare cushion from a chair. She watched his return. He passed her the coat but held onto the cushion and proceeded to plump it up for her. This is an activity known as pummelling, he said, the experts call it ‘plumping’. People plump up pillows. Nurses do it. Let him plump up your pillow, they say; plump plump.

  Fiona smiled.

  If it was a male nurse he would say ‘pummel’; let me pummel yer pillow. Know why? Because plump sounds gay and they wouldnt want to sound gay. I’m talking about some.

  Fiona was silent.

  Only some. Some dont mind at all. Male nurses I mean. Because they are nurses doesnt mean they are gay. Andy frowned. Sorry, he said. Where did all that come from! I’m not anti-gay at all, not even like the slightest slightest. Just some words are amusing. Plumping. It just sounds – I dont know – vulgar. It makes me think of fat people. Plump equals fat.

  I’m plump.

  Nonsense.

  I am.

  Nonsense.

  I dont care and dont know why ye’re going on and on; fat and gay and . . . Fiona shook her head. It’s just stupid and prejudiced – fat. It’s horrible, just a horrible word.

  I didnay mean it like in any sort of . . . I’m not anti-anything. I’m not.

  Yer jokes dont work anyway. They dont. I’m sorry, they just dont.

  Well, I’m not a comedian, that’s for sure.

  Ye’re a musician. Ye’re a musician.

  Whatever.

  Ye are.

  I’m not prejudiced anyway so just I mean like if any of my mates heard this conversation they’d be like who are we talking about here because it wouldnt be me.

  Bla bla.

  Andy waited by the side of the bed, aware of the cup of tea he had left there. No doubt he would kick it over before the night was over, before the morning was through, before dawn had broken, whatever time it was. But it had broken, the daylight through the window, oh god and work, work work.

  The teacher returns to the room and everybody is silent and sitting with their arms folded. But it’s all a lie and the teacher knows the teacher knows the teacher always knows.

  She was on her side facing away. He needed to say something. He didnt want her thinking anything bad. How come she did because he wasnt like never ever anti-fat, anti-gay, he was not anything like that, racist, that horrible bigotry horrible horrible shit. None of that. Never. He told bad jokes. He told them bad; maybe they were good till he told them, it was him, he made them bad. What else? He talked too much. That was normal he was just normal. She just

  something

  He needed back to bed; maybe he didnt.

  THE

  CARTWHEELS

  OF LIFE

  Kids come stoating in the door like ye werenay there. Oh fuck maybe I’ve disappeared! That was how ye felt. Ye dont know whether to laugh or get annoyed like how in my day there was a bit of respect for folk about to hit the eternity trail. Us auld-timers I’m talking about. Okay boy meets girl: I know all that, the cartwheels, jigging about in their shorts and skirts; I understand the scenario, sex everywhere and high spirits, great. One allows for that, growing up nowadays: different to the likes of us. Me I should say. I’m speaking for myself. I dont want to use the plural in that way. I’m no trying to talk for everybody and that’s how it makes it seem. If it happens it isnay intended, and if I have done it I apologise, it wasnay deliberate. I
hate that kind of thing. I’m no wanting to be one of these moaning-faced old bastards that hate weans. And I’m no one. Rest assured. I’ve got grandkids, and I love them. But I’m no goni keep my mouth shut if things are wrong and nowadays they are wrong. Ye could start with the ‘us’, using the plural in that sense. That is worse than a bad habit, it is a misguided confusion and it only spreads mental disarray. ‘We’ this and ‘we’ that. Everybody is at it, from top to bottom, all as bad as one another, all falling for the propaganda. My parents were the worst, and that’s going back, my maw’s been deid thirty years. My da? well, who knows. That’s another story. But begin from them, and it’s the education system. Which is obvious. Nothing new about that. Fine, so we all know where the blame lies but so what, if naybody does fuck all. And they dont. Onwards in ignorance. The cartwheels, the shorts and the short skirts: know what I’m talking about. Young folk aye, but they’re no weans, aw flashing their kit. Who cares? And too easy to blame the system. As a kid myself I was a dunce. Inside anyway, if I wasnay one on the outside. The kind of boy that gets lost in the stream. I wasnay even the class clown. That was a pal of mine – Hughie Montgomery; Hughie died twenty years ago. It was a blow to us all. I miss him. It was something to do with community. That was it in the auld days. Weans nowadays know nothing about that. Ye feel sorry for them. Ye see them going about, ye just feel sorry for them, stoating in with all their stupidities. Ye think all sorts when ye see them. They dont seem to worry about stuff. No like how we worried. Ye see them dancing, just dancing; good-looking wee lasses. The boys too. They’re all nice to look at; young folk doing their jigs and polkas, legs flashing; it cheers ye up on a dull day. Nay thoughts of changing the world. No like us, revolution here, revolution there. Nowadays they dont worry about that kind of thing. Only each other, they just go with each other. They dont care about adults. What about adults? Ye want to ask them. Fuck the adults. Reminding them they are going to be adults themselves, they just look at ye. Daft auld bastard. Although some of it could be left for the classroom. That is my opinion. No that we ever got cartwheels. No me anyway. I couldnay do a cartwheel for love nor money. I couldnay. I tried to try it and couldnay. I had this fear of banging my heid on the grun. A cartwheel but what is a cartwheel? Ye spin round in a tight circle, like a somersault. Maybe it is a ‘somersault’. I’m no sure the difference. Did I ever? Maybe I didnay. I thought I did. What I do know is I couldnay do it. And either ye can or ye cannay. There is nay inbetween. Like standing on yer hands. Ye do it or ye dont. Naybody does it for ye. Ye jump to it: allez oop. Nowadays they’re all at it. Ye score a goal and that’s that; ower ye go. It makes life look simple too and that’s the problem. Because life isnay simple. Ye think it is and it isnay. No matter what they tell ye. I’m talking the propaganda. Ye make plans. I did. Same as everybody. All us anyway. Talking my generation, people try to put ye down.