That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories

by James Kelman

The new technologies are of a certain order. Technologies do not change things in the world they change the world.

  I had a proposal for Anne; not wedlock, of slightly greater importance than that. But she, however, was a woman.

  What do I mean by that?

  Nought may be taken for granted.

  I had one ex-wife and one who – well, the reality, I had been a widower when I married her. My ex-wife was my second wife, my first wife died a heck of a long time ago. So so long ago. Mother of my daughter. Yes I thought of her. Parents, mothers, fathers.

  It would be wrong to say that I did not think of her. Yes, I did, after so many years. I no longer felt like her lover because I had been her lover. I carried a photograph of her and had scanned a couple too. My daughter kept most of the photographs. She was quite remarkable really. She had a smile – what would one call it? – beautiful, the most beautiful smile. Girls are so damn open, they are so damn generous! In fact

  move on.

  Women regard wedlock in a favourable light.

  Vodka and water. A typical drink. Not my favourite. A colleague described it as a ‘working drink’.

  Things that are truths are no longer truths. This type of mental whatdyacallit peregrination. By the time one remembers the context one has forgotten the word. It was age. Ten years ago I would have followed the thought, wrestled from it the sense. My line of work destroys the intellect. I was a university graduate. Now look at me. I glanced round quickly, having spoken aloud. I did. I thought I did anyway, maybe I did not, maybe it was

  oh well, and if I had, what odds, what odds.

  The reader of the quality newspaper appeared to be concentrating unduly. He must have heard me speak.

  The reference was freedom. I saw it as a possibility, as substance. When I was a student, many years ago, I lived my life taking freedom for granted, intellectual freedom. Enmeshed in that assumption is the concept ‘progress’. Students assume progress as a natural state. A false assumption. Nor, if it does exist, need it be chronological or should I say linear, geometrical rather than algebraic, in keeping with the digital thingwi, revolution.

  Vodka and water.

  Once a widower always a widower. If one’s wife was one’s first, one’s first love. Not just a relationship, a marriage, complete with child, finished. One wee girl. It was nice having a wee girl.

  It was a pleasant drink aside from anything. In the past I used cola which had become too sweet so then lemon, bitter lemon, stressing the bitter. A vodka and lemon please, bitter. Vodka and orange, bitter orange. Gin and bitter orange. Gin and lemon of course. But not gin and water. Why! And of course Spanish brandy and water, I had a fondness for Spanish brandy, if only to annoy the purists.

  Drinks that do not stain the breath; which does not refer to the Spanish although it too renders one too eh well now how to say it, pissed.

  Life is strange. Context is all. Without context where would we be? Where would the world be? This question is the most real. One might consider much. But, howsomever. Then when the context is human, a personned-entity, another person, i.e. not oneself. When another intellectual being, repository of humanned data, has become the context. Love is indicated.

  How does one define love? Anne is not at all in the image of my first wife and yet and yet, needless to state, I, well, perhaps, ah, perhaps, indeed, may I love her, do I love her? do I do I – a song by Blossom Dearie, oh Anne do I love you, do I do I.

  essence of woman

  Language turns a man inside out. The world through Anne-tinted spectacles; today William is wearing his Anne-tints.

  Having said all of that, ignoring reports and briefcases, if not for university I would not have read and appreciated Monsieur Sartre. I did appreciate Sartre. People condemn universities. Not me.

  I was so looking forward to seeing her. I had failed to appreciate how much. If she was not going to turn up, and let us face it

  Why was she not here? She was not here. She was not coming. Ha ha.

  I was not a man for the one-liner. I enjoyed proper jokes. More jape than joke, and japer than joker. I performed japes. Allez oop. Just sign there madam.

  Yet when it came to it, thinking about how much time I gave to her, to thoughts of her. Not all that much. I thought about everything else. But she was never faraway, lurked within, inside of the brain old gel, she was at the root, her presence determining negative space. Mine was the most healthy negative space one could discover: so much so it was the opposite of negativity where negativity is an unpositive element. Anne was the direct opposite and inside my head she was like that. My head had been full of vile bitterness, a composition of bitterness and anger. And rage, irritation and frustration and bloody hurt sensitivity, hurt sensitivity, too much even to think about; such that it drove a man to distraction. Soon she would enter the bar. She would place her hand upon my brow. In a former life she was a healer. Upon the brows of the ill and dying, and they did heal. She has retained this ability through various transmigratory peregrinations. Peregrinations, a damn fine word. I would to construct a monument to my love, this woman of the balm. Vodka and water. I gestured with the glass as in a quiet salute to the dearly departed, the yet-to-arrive.

  A barworker was gazing across. I nodded to him but my nod was not acknowledged.

  I was an interloper.

  People’s lives are sacred.

  Through the side window the street lights blinked. It was early December yet still warm. I liked the north of England and Lancashire in particular. Jokes abounded but I found it okay. It was not dull and it was not dreary. Ever stepped down from Wigan Central and not enjoyed a large brandy in the bar of the Station Hotel? or am I thinking of Rochdale? The old Station Bar had gone of course, like community fellowship, the days of which too had gone, yea. One crosses the road to the licensed grocer as once we termed the mini-market, a half bottle and a couple of cans for the rest of the trip home, perchance one avoids the more obvious error, madly dashing back up the stairs into the station and stumbling onto the slow train to Fleetwood, or Blackpool, or where was I when the conductor came calling? Never mind sir.

  It was two and a half hours since the text. Anne was most overdue, let us say – albeit her life, her life was complicated.

  Other than Anne and my first wife I have had five women as serious presences in my own life, excluding my paternal grandmother with whom I had an early bond. My ex-second wife, my present partner, my elderly mother, my daughter and Joan Richmond with whom I had a lengthy affair some years ago. It struck me that these six women, in fact seven – eight including my grandmother – shared characteristics yet nevertheless were so different

  In fact it was eight women. Dear god!

  This was predictable.

  Eight women.

  My daughter did not count, being of myself. I was attracted to aspects of myself. Yet at the same time we two were so different! How could we be so different and at the same time be aspects of the one?

  Shared characteristics and traits. Such a cliché to say that I loved most all but I did, nevertheless, I did. I do not hesitate to use the word, ‘love’, for what is love? The indefinable, he said with a cheery grin. But Joan Richmond? I could not have loved Joan. Joan was just

  I set down the new vodka and water, what was left of it, very little.

  My ex-second wife was generous.

  My god almighty sometimes it took her ages, bloody ages, we are talking ages. If somebody said to me are you coming and I said yes I would be there in two minutes, but that did not work with one’s spouse. Nor did it work with Anne. If she said two minutes it was two damn days by the time she took care of everything so I had to advance her notice beyond reasonable limits. But of course. What was wrong with that? People cannot be expected to drop everything. Especially women; which is no sexist joke. I do not like sexist jokes. Women require greater segments of space and time.

  Hell’s bells.

  The shifty-looking smoker had returned to his seat a
nd the door opening again. Whoopee. I was onto my feet and to her, grinning like a madman, taking her by the elbow. Anne Anne Anne.

  Sorry I’m late, she said.

  Oh god, dont worry dont worry. I was laughing now and trying to put the reins on it. I showed her to where I was sitting, assuming she would sit on the chair next to me but she pulled back another, to sit facing me. I waited for her to talk. It was important to do so. She looked so great. She did! She glanced about the room. Same old place, I said.

  She grinned.

  Oh jees. You are looking wonderful my dear, my god you are, you are, you truly are.

  Anne whispered but too low and I couldnt hear. I asked her to please whisper it louder, more loudly.

  I couldnt get away, she said quietly, self-consciously. She gazed to the bar and added, You look tired.

  I am. I’m going nuts into the bargain: g & t?

  Thanks.

  Imagine forgetting the damn drink!

  I ordered another vodka and water for myself, a packet of crisps and a packet of nuts. I was looking forward to the night, looking forward to a meal. Where would we go? I hoped she would opt for Indian food. She preferred Chinese or Italian. I preferred Mexican or Indian. Grub needed bite. One for the notebook that. I smiled and shook my head. Grub needs bite, I said to the barworker who didnt reply but smiled vaguely which is always fine by me; if I get somebody to smile then half the battle be o’er, I shall get them to buy, for ’tis my job, the modus operandi.

  Anne was signalling to me; munch munch. She was wanting a packet of crisps!

  Allez oop. I abracadabrad at the bar where lay the bag of crisps side by side with the nuts. The barworker smiled honestly while handing me my change. Thank you most kindly, I said.

  Anne ate her crisps in a mechanical way. But it was interesting. I was chomping a nut. Nuts for me and crisps for her. Aha! Hey! I said, a wee test.

  She chuckled, and it stopped me in my tracks. I had been about to say something but her chuckle, her chuckle. You’re laughing at me, I said.

  Wee test . . . ! She shook her head, smiling.

  My Scotteesh voice señorita eet knock you for seex? Seriously, I said and I snatched the packet of crisps out her hand. Without looking at the packet, what flavour’s the crisps?

  What do you mean?

  Nothing, I’m just asking.

  Could you repeat it?

  What flavour’s the crisps?

  Aah . . . Anne frowned for a moment then studied me. I know it’s a trick.

  It’s not, I said.

  Mm. She frowned again. Is flavours a noun or a verb?

  Pardon . . .

  Is flavours a noun or a verb? she asked.

  I looked at her. She was smiling at me. Anne smiled at me. Her hand was to her mouth, and she reached for my hand and held it, she studied it, turning it palm up, examining it for personality indicators or signs of the future. When do you go away? she said.

  Tomorrow evening.

  Are you working tomorrow?

  I’ve got to be.

  She nodded, she now was holding my hand with both of hers; both of her hands, she kind of cradled mine. My hand. What was I? just a damn man.

  That’s why you’re here, she said.

  I couldnt reply. I was the best part of I think what is thunderstruck because this is what I was and felt like crying and felt as if I could cry right there. The whole of life was too good to be true and I was the luckiest man in the whole world and that is the God’s truth, the one God the only God, so help me my Lord, the one bright star in the dismal night sky. She was the only only thing. She pushed aside the crisps and studied her drink. She raised her head to look at me but only for a moment.

  What’s wrong? I said.

  She smiled but kept her head lowered. You are always so sharp, she said.

  I saw the worry in her. My hand went to hers, rested on it. It was above her nose where the worry was, in line with her eyebrows. I wanted to stroke there, easing it, the burden there. I glanced at the empty seat beside me. Come round here, I said, please. Come round here: sit beside me. She shook her head and continued studying my hand, which I made to withdraw, it was strange to me at this moment. I shifted on the seat, edgily, although there was nothing wrong. If anyone had asked me, nothing.

  HUMAN

  RESOURCES

  TRACT 2: OUR

  HOPE IN

  PLAYING THE

  RULES

  The Crime has Occurred.

  A crime is a criminal act. We should not have committed the act. If we had not committed the act the crime would not have occurred. We did it. Thus we committed the crime. We cannot ‘take it back’ as some will suggest. Colleagues think it possible, it is not possible. Actions cannot be undone. We can regret the performance of such an action if it is we who performed such. The deed, however, is done and none travels back in time. We might wish to withdraw the action but that is impossible. Actions may not be withdrawn.

  Of our guilt none may know. Not in this world. This is a remarkable feature. We should pause and take proper cognisance of it. Some will ponder the causal relationship. Might we have effected the end result? At all costs it will be known that no consequence shall be suffered. The action we have performed will be known by others. It may or may not be considered a ‘crime’. Whether or not the action accords to the term ‘crime’ is a judgement in itself and outwith our scope. Should this prove the case it will be recognised as our decision, acknowledged as our decision, respected as our decision.

  Others will not judge for us. This will not happen unless so allowed. Whether or not people agree with us is of a certain significance but without bearing, unless so allowed.

  We may believe ourselves guilty of having committed an action that we should not have committed. We know that in the judgement of other people our action was no crime. But this is not enough for us. We know that we committed a wrongful action and further may believe ourselves guilty of a crime (see para 1). Our quest begins from there and will reveal inconsistencies. Nothing is more certain. In petty detail truths are revealed. Our more risible judgements will have derived from sentimental generalisations.

  If we remain in guilt we cannot be with God and may not enter His province. The process of absolution begins with our acknowledgement of guilt. We confess our guilt. It is only through this confession of guilt that our guilt becomes known. In order that we may be absolved our guilt must be known. We confess our guilt to God. This is achieved through direct communication by prayer and other spiritual methods. The magnitude of God’s greatness is forever beyond our ken and cannot be a concern.

  In many religions there are human mediators who assist us in our quest for absolution. If we are uncertain how to go about matters then the mediators will advise and guide us. A list of those is readily available. They are thought more knowledgeable than ourselves. They are to have received training in the ways and means that direct communication with God may be obtained. The ultimate end is the ultimate mystery. Mediators are taught this most difficult of roles; that which appears to approximate to an acquisition of the will to win the attention of God.

  Confessing the crime in theological terms is an important solution and we should not hesitate to embrace such. Our preference is towards these religions into which most of us are born, that place humankind close to the heart of the universe. The heart of the universe is God and His is a beating heart. The centre of the universe is the province of God. God is primary and ultimate dispenser of justice. This alone is our foundation.

  Yes we committed the crime. Our examiners may be notified.

  THE TWITCH

  She was staring the question: What was I doing? what did I think I was doing? I just looked at the floor, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My hands were out of my trouser pockets and I put them back in again. I was frowning, I knew I was frowning; she had criticised me for it often enough. Now the telephone was in my hand. How come? And I was going to dial somebody. How come
to that too? If she was opposed to it. She was, really and truly she didnt want me to dial the number. Put it away, put it away. That was in my head. Fuck that. I did not put it away. I was not remotely interested and was happy and content just standing there. Till kingdom come. I believe I thought that. I shall stand here forever. I did think it! There is a statue. What statue? Where? A mega larger-than-life figure, the size of a huge tenement building, faces the setting sun.

  Thy kingdom.

  The twitch in my left eye, above my left eye, the lid of this, nerves jumping. It had started again. What was that twitching? I didnt like that twitching. Maybe she would see it. I hoped she would. I went online about it. Nothing. This was my question:

  When I scratch my right side temple the curved bit at the ear makes an echo.

  Is it her fault? And if it worsens, forcing me to continue what I am doing, what then?

  And *robtoforeau* replied. He is strong. One hour later he replied as he does, he does it for most every post, each and every, he is like tentacles tentacles:

  What are you doing wrong?

  I doing wrong.

  I winced but that was a smile wince, that was like ironic ironic ironic. He said the things and they were the right things. I needed the phone in my hand now now, but she wasnt allowing it, she was not allowing it and I cannot beat it cannot beat it how can I be expected to, I cannot cannot beat it. I was not about to speak. Even if I didnt not want to, if I would. I went to the window instead, strolling across. Her thinking I was acting cool but I was not acting cool, acting nothing, not cool not anything, not acting anything, only me myself being myself, being me; only me, it was me being me.

  I was not sure what else; or to say if I did speak. She would speak first. She would have to, always she did. What I was doing is what she would want to know, what I thought I was doing. That was her question and I thought it shocking. It was. To me it was. I had my back to her feeling it so strongly, the hostility of her stare. She hated me. So much. If your woman hates

  imagine

  like for *robtoforeau*,

  I see now that my woman hates, that she hates, that it may be me, it might be, if it is me, if she could hate me, despising, if she could be despising and I, if I