That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories

by James Kelman

Do what ye want with it.

  Jesus christ there’s nothing I want with it, you’re the woman. Women and Horlicks. Know what I mean. I laughed for some reason.

  Ssh. Wilma frowned at me.

  Sorry, I said.

  Are you having a breakdown?

  Pardon?

  Sometimes ye act like ye are.

  People are starving in nine tenths of the world Wilma, know what I mean, and the other tenth are like wohhh throw it all away. I’m talking about natural resources.

  Ssh.

  Sorry.

  Wilma sighed. Ye banged the chair.

  Did I? Jees.

  It just makes a noise.

  Sorry, oh god.

  There’s something about men, she said.

  Sorry.

  No but there is.

  Because we tell the truth?

  No because yez are so noisy.

  I smiled.

  Do you think I actually fall for that nonsense? she asked.

  What nonsense?

  Natural resources and the starving hordes. Eh, do ye think I fall for it?

  Sorry. Did I say that! Jesus christ!

  Ssh.

  Sorry.

  Ye’ll waken the kids.

  Sorry. I whispered, Fancy a coffee?

  I wouldnt mind a cup of tea.

  Is that a new skirt by the way?

  Shut up.

  Naw I’m being serious.

  My Mum bought it for me. Remember Sunday, me and her went out? I’ve just been trying it on. Wilma turned with it, swirling the skirt. Do ye think it’s okay?

  Yeah. I shrugged.

  Wilma stared at me a moment then turned away. To end the conversation. She knew where it was headed and wanted to end it. The new job. She had a new job. Her Mum would take the kids, nurseries and whatever, whatever. Because we couldnt manage on our own. We needed help. Help! Her family. Ha ha. Oh well. Fuck it anyway. The only reason the guy gave her the job was because she was wearing this skirt. It is the kind of skirt one notices. One cannot help fucking noticing. This is a truism about the sexes. It is why he gave her the job and it was pointless her denying it because the reality is she did not know because she did not understand. What went on in the male cranium, she just did not understand.

  Fuck all went on. A short skirt: that is what went on. A skirt like hers and the best legs in Scotland man that is what went on with these fucking bastards. The job is yours. Start on Monday. Wear the same skirt and bend down a lot.

  Women dont get it. It is just crazy and silly; mad mental shite and I would have resigned from it altogether, the whole fucking shebang, fucking he-bang.

  Unfortunately I should have said Monday instead of Sunday. Sunday she went out with Mummy. Monday she went for the effin job. Thus I destroyed my argument. If I had had an argument. Did I? Fuck knows.

  There was a serious side to it but what was it? One has one’s weans and one’s life to live, one needs to survive survive survive. Oh children, my children.

  I shook my head and discovered the plate with the toast and cheese in my left hand. This was a reflex action. Her Mother was a nice sod. Obviously it was her bought the skirt. Of course it was. We could not afford a skirt. A skirt for the Mother of one’s weans. Of course I couldnt afford that. Late capitalism.

  I couldnt afford another fight, that is for sure. My world was composed of fights; battles, quarrels, rows and arguments: wars. Aw man. One wearied, one wearied.

  This was me now until tomorrow at 10 a.m. These were the shifts I was doing; 10 in the ay ems until 10 in the pee ems. Four 12-hour shifts, and sometimes five if I was lucky enough to be looked upon favourably by the whitecoat managerials. The men killed one another for the extra day’s work. I was no different. I was the same. I did not lead any struggle. I did not take part in any struggle. I allowed the fucking system to steam-roller me into oblivion oblivion oblivion.

  Oh god Wilma of course we could have afforded the skirt. Of course we could have afforded the fucking thing. She had looked at me. That was the problem. I didnt care for these looks, her looks to me, at me. She looked at me. Oh well. She came and knelt at the side of my chair. She kept me going. The woman and the children, husband as one of them, the other child. In the old days the women didnt eat the meal, they gave it to their husband; if not could they have completed their shift? Maybe not. Or was I waxing sentifuckingmental; oh dear, mental as fuck, oh dear again.

  I allowed her to hold my hands. Her hands were smaller than mine. But she had these long tapering fingers which surely were longer. It was the mass. My hands were of the male mass, born to shovel shite. You wore that skirt to yer interview? I said.

  Of course.

  I smiled. I smiled again.

  She stared at me. She leaned to kiss me, was kissing me on my mouth. I needed up, up and off, and tried to get up, get out of my chair but she grasped and held onto my hands and I could not, could not rise. Good god, powerless. I need to go to the bathroom, I said.

  Wilma stared at me until I met her stare. Dont be so silly, she said.

  I didnt know what she meant. I was not able to withdraw my gaze. I was a fish. And she studied me. Dont be so fucking stupid, she said, so stupid.

  I nodded. But I did need a piss. When I came out the bathroom I waited in the lobby for peace. The cistern was a noisy piece of crap. It had to go through an entire clanking and juddering process in order to empty and refill. If I didnt wait for the racket to end before opening the door it would have wakened the kids. I was wanting to see them.

  Kids. We believe in them. Me too. I believed in them. This was me in the world. This was my humanity, not the existence of weans but the belief in them. The measure of my ‘success’ if survival may be described as such, e.g. ‘He negotiated life to a natural conclusion, thus may we judge him a success.’ Without such belief this individual who is myself would not have survived.

  I opened the door to the front room. Moonlight and their breathing; my nightly fix. Their beds side by side: I walked to them but that scratching, the scratching. What was that scratching. Fuck sake. What the hell was it? Rats. Dear god. More than mice. We had had mice. I knew mice; little fuckers, but not this, this fucking scratching. It was bloody loud. I stared at the wall above the cots. Wilma had arrived next to me. Is that it again? she said.

  Yeah.

  It’s through the wall, the neighbours up the next close.

  Ye reckon?

  Yes.

  They’re making the noise? I said.

  Yeah.

  Thank god. Better than rats. Annoying, okay. Neighbours were annoying. Rats werent, they were like scary as fuck man. Although this time of night . . . What the hell time was it at all! How on earth could they be making a racket at this time of bloody night when weans are trying to sleep, that is like fucking outrageous! To hell with it, I said, I’m going round to see them. Nay wonder the weans are so bloody nervous with that racket going on, it would drive anybody daft never mind a toddler. Really, it’s shocking.

  It’s been like that for a while.

  Has it?

  I told ye about it. I told ye.

  Sorry.

  The kids are used to it now. They’re used to it.

  I’m no. I’m going round to see them.

  I wish ye wouldnt.

  Even if it is just mice they should be doing something about it. They might be dropping down the walls.

  I dont think it’s mice.

  Well what then?

  I dont know.

  Wilma watched me pulling on my boots, lifting my jacket. It was late November, and cold, cold. My feet had been freezing for days. I wish ye wouldnt go, she said, it’s too late to go chapping people’s doors, especially if ye dont know them.

  I thought you did?

  Yes but not to talk to, they’re elderly. I just know them from being out the backcourt. They’re okay. Wilma smiled. Really, they’re okay.

  They shouldnay be making a racket but.

  It’s not a rack
et.

  It is, I mean there’s kids trying to sleep.

  Yes and they are sleeping.

  We cannay just say nothing. We’ve got to tell them. I tied my bootlaces and lifted my jacket.

  Dont upset them, said Wilma.

  I’m not going to. Keep the door locked till I come back.

  Wilma sighed.

  Downstairs and across the street I stood on the pavement to see up to our building and our front room, where my son and daughter were asleep. There was a dim light in the window in the front room through the wall from them. This was where the noise was coming from. That was the room. I climbed the stairs to the third storey. Donnelly was on the nameplate. I chapped the door. Inside there was some sort of movement. I chapped again, though not so loudly. A man called: Who is it?

  I’m yer neighbour through the wall.

  Now the locks and chains were unbarred, and a key turned. An elderly man wearing jeans, vest and baseball cap. The stub of a cigarette stuck out from one corner of his mouth. His vest and jeans were spattered with lumps of plaster. By his side an elderly woman dressed in a sort of housecoat or else a dressing gown. I live through the wall from you, I said. Look it’s just that my kids sleep next to your front room and they keep getting wakened at night with the noise. Nightmares too they’re getting and it’s because of this. My girlfriend thinks it’s rats or something though to be honest . . .

  The old guy interrupted me. Come on in, he said.

  He held the door for me and I went in. The woman locked the door behind me. The man led me into the kitchen and she followed on. He saw me looking at the cigarette stub and took it out the corner of his mouth, leaned to tap ash into the sink, then looked to make sure it was not burning and dumped it in the rubbish bin. The smell of old tobacco was strong.

  The tea’s infusing, said his wife.

  He nodded and took another cigarette from a pack on the mantelpiece. He didnt light it but stood near the window. What’s the matter? he said.

  It’s just the noise through the wall, I said, I mean like it’s just eh . . .

  Ye talking about the front room?

  Aye well that’s where the weans sleep. It’s their bedroom.

  He glanced at his wife. I’ll take him ben the room hen.

  I’ll bring yer tea. D’ye take sugar son?

  Eh, I dont really want a cup.

  Ye sure?

  Aye, I’m fine, thanks.

  In the front room a wardrobe, a dressing table and a tallboy were stacked along one side of the room. No other furniture, and nay wonder because the floor, the slope, what a slope! Christ! The floor was bare. Maybe ye couldnt have laid down a carpet, it would have slithered into the wall.

  Near the window lay a bucket containing a kind of cement mix, and there were trowels and a wine bottle with water in it. My daughter’s bed would have been through the wall from there. Mr Donnelly saw me looking and walked across. I followed him and it was like walking up a hill. He pointed at the corner of the wall. There was a crack from the ceiling to the floor and it was open in places. Christ almighty, I said.

  He crouched a little and stuck his hand in, and through beyond his wrist. He said, If ye were standing in the street ye’d see me waving. He withdrew his hand and wiped it.

  That’s a nightmare! I said.

  He gazed at me. After a moment he took off his baseball cap and scratched his head.

  Have ye been filling it in?

  Aye, he said, that’s the noise ye’re hearing.

  Huh, yeah.

  He lit the cigarette, sucked in a lungful of smoke. He gestured at the crack down the wall. It isnay structural I dont think. Mr Donnelly watched me, waiting for a response. When I didnt say anything he added, Otherwise it might have fell down, the building.

  Jeesoh!

  I’ve been keeping it blocked. Trouble is son it’s never-ending; a Forth Road Bridge situation, ye spend yer life doing it; by the time ye get to the end it’s time to start back at the top. He frowned, noticing something about the crack; crumbly-looking concrete or plaster. He lifted a trowel and knocked the stuff out. It’s mine, he said, probably there since last year. Needs replacing. Same with this here, he said, tapping another spot with his trowel, and he glanced at me. Maybe if I changed the mix a bit, got a drop more sand or something. I might be using too much cement. I’m no great at the concreting, being honest about it.

  What about lime? I said.

  Lime? He puffed on his cigarette. Lime . . . He nodded, looked at me again. D’you know the building game son?

  Eh naw, no really. I mean I did my brickie’s labourer for a few months.

  Did ye?

  Aye.

  Right. Ye think lime . . . ? He scratched his chin, gazing at the crack then frowning at it.

  Well I dont know, I said, I was just eh I was just saying. What about the housing association like I mean have ye been on to them about it?

  Hoh!

  Naw?

  Naw son ye dont tell them nothing. A big big mistake that. The very excuse they’re looking for. They’ll fucking demolish the place.

  Jeesoh!

  That’s the very excuse. He sniffed, shook his head. Naw son I think it’s the mix, if I got the mix right. There’s a resin I’ve heard, it’ll stick to anything. He knocked at the top of the crack with his trowel. See by the time I get to there I’ve got to start back down the bottom. I know it’s the wrong way round. But I used to start first at the top but it just didnay finish as well. How I dont know.

  I thought ye started at the top and went fast down the way like if ye were concreting.

  Aye, only it starts crumbling out the way, like I say, it doesnay take the grip or something.

  The water dries in . . .

  That’s how I was thinking about the resin.

  Right, yeah. At least it’s no rats.

  Rats?

  My girlfriend worries about them.

  Fucking rats, he said, rats are easy. Just batter them ower the skull. It’s the front door with them anyway son, know what I mean, they ring the fucking doorbell, rats, open the door and in they stroll. Usually they’re wearing polis uniforms. He glanced at the door. I thought she was bringing tea . . .

  He saw me peering at the floor and furniture stacked at the end wall. I said, That’s some slope ye’ve got.

  Nought to ten and three-eights. Cannay put a stick of furniture anywhere bar the wall. Ye want to see it in the house up above. Murder polis.

  Do they no complain?

  Does who no complain?

  Up the stairs.

  There isnay any cunt up the stairs. There’s a nest of doos. I used to have a set of keys but the bastards changed the lock. It’s got worse too. Ye stand across the street ye see them all sitting about, all the birds, they’re all fucking in there; it’s like that fucking movie son know that one. Some racket they make too. Do ye no hear it?

  Aye, yeah.

  Fucking billowing and cooing. It started the same time as the slope, the crack in the wall. It’s a bugger too with the decorating. Ye cannay paper the walls. That’s how I shove on a lick of paint. Them down below tried to paper it. It all fucking fell aff. Ye would need to be a mathematics teacher to get the lines. Mr Donnelly laid the trowel on the floor. Come on ben the kitchen, he said, and paused. Dont mention rats.

  When we entered the kitchen Mrs Donnelly was sitting on a dining chair with a newspaper on her lap which she was not reading. What like’s the crack now? she said.

  Much the same.

  She nodded. There’s tea in the pot. Ye for a cup son? I made extra.

  Eh naw, I better go back.

  Mr Donnelly walked to the sink and switched on the tap to rinse his hands. Did ye make a sandwich? he said.

  Mrs Donnelly didnt reply. She said to me: What age is yer kids?

  The boy’s three the girl’s two.

  Is that his mammy with the fair hair?

  Yeah, Wilma.

  She looks awful like the lassie our
grandson married, she has the fair hair too. Mrs Donnelly called to Mr Donnelly: Billy’s wife.

  Mr Donnelly frowned at her. I’ll need to change the mix.

  Aw.

  The boy here thinks it might be lime, if we add some lime.

  It might be worth trying, I said. I stepped to the doorway into the lobby. Anyway I’m sorry to bother yez at this time of night.

  Och we’re aye up late, said Mrs Donnelly.

  She’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.

  Mr Donnelly had poured himself a cup of tea and was stirring in sugar. Mind what I was saying if any of yer mates were in the building game, they might know the score ben the room.

  I’ll ask around.

  That’d be good.

  Nay bother.

  Mrs Donnelly smiled and got up to see me to the outside door. Back up my own stair Wilma had the television on in the kitchen. What happened? she said.

  Nothing.

  Ye were gone a while.

  I filled a kettle and shoved it on for a cup of tea. Wilma was watching me. I forgot ye were out! she said.

  That’s no very nice.

  So what happened?

  Nothing. I grinned. The outside wall’s falling down.

  Ha ha. Was that the noise?

  Yeah, the fire brigade.

  Wilma smiled.

  I shrugged. He’s doing a bit of plastering; the auld guy, he’s good. His wife was there.

  What’s their name again?

  Donnelly.

  Is it okay?

  Yeah, I said.

  BRINGING

  HER TO THE

  LIBRARY

  Then her feet. How come you’re not wearing socks? I said. She stared down at her feet, mulling over the question. There were alternative answers. Is it because you have been wearing sandals? I said.

  Yes! She laughed. That’s it. She stared down again, wiggling her toes, then frowned. Only if it rains how you get the water in and your feet get slippy.

  Definitely, I said. Sandals are out the question in this weather.

  She looked at me.

  What did you do at church? Did you take them off?

  She grinned suddenly. Yes! Did you know I did?

  Of course.

  She chortled, but cautiously, covering her mouth to muffle the sound, seeing a punishment possible.

  Dont worry. Seriously, I said, there’s no need.