That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories

by James Kelman

  Timmy clutched the hands of either child. They glanced at his face and were reassured by his steady gaze. They leaned forward and smiled across to each other. In this way the younger children clutching to their hands also were reassured and so too the remaining pair who were not yet of school age and trusted only siblings, while wee Maggie grinned, clutching Timmy’s ears. Adults were not trustworthy beings. They knew it. An adult may have been surprised by the knowledge, not so children. Once upon a time he too had known it. He must have forgotten along the way.

  So many questions. Even turning the page. He did not want the children to jump. Where might they land? He could go with them only so far. Beyond there he could not venture.

  The children tensed. Certain cloud formations had appeared on the immediate horizon and among them surely the one, surely the one was among them! They stared out from the heights, gripping onto each other. Occasionally one glanced to Timmy who was one of them; he was; he too had tensed, he too stared to the horizon; making his own preparation, thoughts racing through his mind, if the land was there what land might it be? Could one return from such a land? What if the children went to see, spent too long and were doomed as a result? It was too late by then. None might climb down. The cloud would slip away. Clouds did not return. Beyond a moment they did not exist. One had to be aboard to be there.

  This was the sigh. It escaped. The boarding point would exist for one fraction of a moment. The world of adults. Ahead lay danger. They were being guided toward that. How could this be!

  Timmy too, even him, he could not understand what was happening. Timmy was unable to understand. By now he had acquired the necessary knowledge yet even so, even so. The boy was lost! What was to happen? He was shaking his head. The younger children watched him with an obvious bewilderment. Who would be left with them?

  Questions upon questions. The children waiting. The man had to look away. It was not to be borne.

  OUT THERE

  I had to do something new. My way of operating was not so old yet I seemed to have forgotten how to do anything else. I didnay like that. My eyes kept closing too. I was not requiring to sleep, not thinking about sleep at all. Although it was in sleep the thoughts came. I didnay want these thoughts but I got them. And I could not care less if I was caught in the act. I had given up worrying about this months ago, several months ago, last year at least.

  Mental preoccupations, I couldnay afford them either. Waves of sleep but I would not allow them to engulf me. Waves of sleep.

  I looked for my diary.

  It was round somewhere, roundabout – where?

  Reflections.

  My diary, reflections. Also the usual aches; how come these aches all round my right ear itching and fiddling footering scratching and oh jesus the back side of the head; right side, and just aching, oh fuck. Finding myself in the same old situation was less than helpful. I needed something new and to hell with it.

  But in a new form? No, I didnay think so. I didnt think at all, I didnt, just that, no, not such that I couldnay handle it, and readily, reserving my energy for the struggle itself, not the conditions toward it, setting them for what lay ahead, that was the danger, constant temptation similar to giving up, the concession to it oh god I could no longer just be here, and

  just being here.

  Although I would be walking into the new place soon. I would be arriving there. So I would keep on. I would. This is not proper decision-making, only a function, continuing as a person.

  I knew more was demanded. So what? I knew myself inside out. To be upright, the one deep breath, opening the eyelids to greeting the day. Extant, that was what I looked for, having become, become it: extanticity.

  But the temptation oh god and to make it as a question: Why do my eyes close? No, I do not believe it; I do not accept it. All the time they were closing. So what? That is nothing, that is bloody nothing.

  I wasnay supposed to sleep. I knew that I could, if I lay down and the scene had been set but how, how, colder, to sleep.

  I didnt want even to be doing that, and if it was cold – colder, okay, then my eyes

  GOD LOOKS

  DOWN

  I was living these many stories above ground level which is sea level. I knew that I was, that it would remain so. Here then the river, and this river flows to the sea. And the sea.

  This is the torture.

  I would have looked out upon this river. I would not enjoy seeing it. In earlier days I did and its existence offered hope, offered escape; that possibility. It was then my belief that were I to jump from the ledge I would miss my landing. It could not be guaranteed that I would land in the water. I would land in the earth. Solid earth. This river is a thin line burning through the earth, the landscape which is the earth.

  Contradictions are a distraction. I was not allowed to talk. To think there is only so much. It may be the best one can do. I accept this. I did not always. On another occasion another may prove better, prove ‘the’ better. Ways we progress, continue, unto. Another truth: truth is given as a relative entity. Take from the fascists. For each one of us the truth. Some saw the river and considered the jump. The sea. The ledge. To miss the water. In earlier days I was with them. They hide it. We too. We hide from it. In hiding from truth, we hide from ourselves, concealing truth from oneself, hiding from ourself. I could not stomach the cowardice which was my own.

  Our assumption that truth is best is a proposition; perhaps a proposal: if so to whom? Am I talking to you or to someone else? I have not the belly, am nauseated; intellectualisations. I get many such. What to do with them. If propositions, proposals, to whom do I propose, do I make the proposition? If it is you, if I am talking to you, then surely it must be you. If these ‘intellectualisations’ arise within me they are not only of me.

  And if I frame these sentences in a question to you and another person is posited. Who might it be? I do not have ‘a person’. It must be you, you must ‘have’ the person, where ‘have’ means ‘to know’. Others have. They have ‘friends and loved ones.’ But I do not. I do not have those.

  Those persons. Who are those persons? If there are such persons. They must resemble someone. Whom do they resemble?

  I was in the other room and people were far below and suddenly these were persons. This was my summation.

  My chair at the window, this window, where rays and beams cannot enter. Across the valley below the motor cars, trucks, buses, vans and vans and motor cars, buses, trucks and vans non-stop and forever and ever forever. And I would land on one were the wind to carry me. But here the wind is cornered. This is the rear. The river flows to the side of the building and cannot be seen here. If I dived outward, the cornered wind, how could it carry me, it couldnt carry me unless maybe if I were to catch, to be caught within it, the rush of it holding me within, becoming part of the force thrust round and round the walls.

  The other side for some the finest most graceful high dive, bypassing way above the surroundings, the walled surrounding

  ‘If ’ qualifier.

  The radio played and I was listening to it, a political talk. The guests talking of matters current, current affair matters; tripping the language. The anxiety. I was hearing neighbours, these are neighbours. I wished for other than other, whomsoever they might be, if I were to have others, these others,

  if God allowed it. God might allow it, His decision, effected by His wish. Between my area and immediate others was the wall. I saw only from the window, shoulders and heads, angled lines, slanting light. These lines were arms, legs and even bodies though bodies might have been points, so that these figures – human beings – were composed of mathematical marks and one might have set them in motion, into motion. God looks down. Or not?

  God cannot ‘look’ and only can know. God only can know. All that He may know is known only by Him. The Godly context. Progression, in itself.

  Look from the window: figures are moving. They appear stationary but are moving, these are moving. I was
looking too, I was seeing the figures. Older metaphors making use of the insect do work here where we see a stain, blob or blemish and upon closer examination we see that this is no blob, no stain, this mass of points where each is in motion, and each its ownself true to itself, tiny wee structures living matter. This is truth and truth of its ownself, each one a person, each a truth. I saw that, I saw it from my window. This is a proposition, so formulated as to one other person, it required this other, this one person who may look. A proposition formulated by my ownself and proposed to another. Perhaps it is you. Only perhaps. Only allow it, allow the perhaps, of the person who is other than yourself so that you, you and I and I and I, here we are doors clanging, if they come for myself they come also for you but we are the one.

  BACK IN THAT

  TOWN

  for

  Mia Carter

  I had things on my mind this day and took no chances on the road so wound up a couple of hours over, and too late. They would have the truck loaded tomorrow morning, as early as I cared to make it, but no sooner than that. I didnt mind the overnight as long as they contacted the contractor. I wasnt long enough in the business for that sort of communication. It smacked of decision-making. That was to risk human error. Business operatives deleted all such potential. I was prone to it. The bastards would have deleted me. They had done in previous how shall we say it, sorties.

  That is like working nowadays, going into battle. A brief glance at my track record, my Life record, my Life. Oh man, I got weary. Which state was I in anyhow.

  Okay.

  I had a wash on the premises. They wouldnt let me use the shower. They said they didnt have one. I did not believe them. I was a smelly bastard. Three days’ sweat, and nobody sweats like an overweight trucker. So they say. I changed my clothes. Was I overweight? Yeah. The weather was good. I set off walking. A long walk but a big town. I used to know it pretty damn well. Locals termed it a city. Nowadays it was in the doldrums, according to the information I got over breakfast this morning, a distance down the road.

  I enjoyed walking. I did so little of it. I was like a cowboy or a biker. Get a man walking. The body isnt geared towards it. Let me crawl, let me crawl! When did human beings get up off their all fours? A million years? In these parts it was six thousand, no more no less. If the Lord didnt rest up on the seventh day we would have another thousand. That is no joke, just what we call a faith-fact. This long walk reminded me forcibly. Churches. Places of worship. The tallest sturdiest buildings. Built to endure. In towns like these there seems a church to every six people.

  Two miles later I was still walking. Buses passed. I knew nothing about buses any more. In this town, yes, I used to, but that was years ago. In a past life I worked in this town. Back then it suited me. I thought then if Life proved too difficult elsewhere maybe I could return.

  And so on.

  Okay. Sentimentality. But the sense of a past belonging was true enough. Whatever, here I was. The truck took over one’s Life. Good for people like myself; difficult relationships and all that, like the rest of the planet. Weary sigh.

  What is a failure? One who doesnt succeed in what one intends. One who doesnt survive by doing what one wants to be doing. Okay. I enjoyed a certain way of living. I just didnt earn money doing it, that was the issue. But that is not to say it couldnt happen one day. One day! This driving crap was temporary. Temporary! he screamed.

  Yeah, of course.

  But it was possible a couple of guys from my own day were still around, and if they were? If they were what? Most of them were crawling brown-nose fuckers who always took no for an answer, of the three-bags-full persuasion, yessir nosir.

  The landscape was not so familiar where now I was walking. Higher buildings, glass and metal flashing in the sun. How many years was it for christ sake it seemed like a century!

  Things had changed so drastically. The buildings is what I noticed. New money. New money in old hands. New people too.

  But there was money in the past. Dont fool yourself.

  A couple of street names were familiar but not the streets themselves. The new buildings made them unrecognisable. Man it was busy busy busy. Office-worker clothes dominated. Folk all out their little offices having a five-minute smoke break in front of their buildings; white shirts and blouses, smart skirts and trousers, arms folded and shivering – no! trembling, on the breath of freedom. The cusp man!

  Let me back to the truck!

  Jees I was one arrogant bastard! I had become so. Patronising. My world was on the verge of collapse. Maybe it had already and I was in denial. The night before I left my wife had cornered me with the old ultimatum.

  Maybe I would write a song. Notepad in pocket, sturdy pencil. Gone to pot. What a title! Losing my wife and losing my children and if I didnt act fast I would lose my fucking teeth. I set aside a week to pay the bastard. Dentists. Truly, I was ripe for conversion.

  Okay.

  This trudging would have been good for the walking muscles, the legs and so on. I stayed along the central artery, crossing many streets and one river, into crowds of people. Nobody would know me. It was too unlikely. So many years gone by. I used to be young; bushy-tailed. Now here I was. Broken dreams? Forty-four years of age. That is not old. But it is certainly not young, it is not young. My old man was a grandfather at the same age. I needed to phone him and my mother, she would know how he was. Keep an eye on the kids, check it out with the wife. Ah fuck, problems.

  Okay. No, nobody would know me in this damn town. Not any longer. A pity, some fond memories.

  But where were they going these crowds of people? They were going somewhere. Saturday afternoon in the spring, some event or other; and looking smart too, dressed for an occasion. Plenty people, families, children. Children are currency, emergency fodder. I waited on the corner to get my bearings. Parkview Road. Yeah, I remember that one. Parkview? what was that? that was something for sure.

  All this walking, I could have done with a rest. I leaned my shoulder against a streetlamp. In other circumstances I would have washed my feet. Somebody could have offered to wash them for me. Hereabouts they took the Good Word in the old fashion. Oh but the feet ached. At least massaged the toes, sat for a minute and taken off the boots. Jesus.

  But the atmosphere was fine, it was fine. A couple of bars were doing business, guys on the outside at the smoking places, sipping coffee, coffee and brandy, a glass of iced water: old-time civilization. This is how people should be at weekends; out there sharing their lives. I didnt see many tourists. Indigenous all sorts. At the next corner a guy appeared right at my side walking. That situation where one of you moves on quickly or slows down? If you dont you are walking together. I slowed a little but he maintained the same pace as me. I glanced at him. He held my gaze a moment: a desperation, whispered fast and urgent: I got a sister will suck you off for twenty.

  What, what was that?

  Agitated and nervy, not able to talk and a worry if he was holding; knife or a gun, something. Not slurred speech or like that, but the desperation. I dont like seeing the desperation, a particular kind. When you do you walk away, just walk away. No, I said in a quiet reasonable manner, not wanting to upset him, me not being local either. Fuck. I didnt want to upset anybody. How would a resident have handled this? How did he know I wasnt one?

  He didnt. Maybe nowadays this was normal. You approach strangers downtown Saturday afternoon and try to sell them your young sister. He was still walking beside me, taking my ‘no’ as a negotiation, whispering urgently: Twenty, only twenty; my little sister man.

  I shook my head now not wanting to talk any more but keeping walking all the time walking.

  Twenty is fair, he said and now the irritation was there in him and that spelled danger. I walked on faster. He kept upsides me. I slowed he slowed, slowed right down, yeah, him too. And he was restraining himself, grabbing for my wrist, he managed not to lay a finger on it. I said: Hey man . . .

  His head jerked sideways,
he squinted at me, he was focusing.

  I stepped away from him. Calm down, I said. I stopped walking for a moment. I was annoyed; not so much angry, which was probably better for me. He saw that too, staring at me as if working out who I was. When I resumed walking he matched strides with me again and said: My young sister man, you got to pay for her. He shook his head at me in a weird kind of affronted style, as if I had rejected his baby sister in a marriage proposal.

  Look, I said, I’m not interested. I told you already.

  That agitation was back in him again and he reached suddenly for my wrist.

  This was danger. I pulled away from him. He knew he shouldnt have done it. I kept walking, keeping on. This place too, hidden dangers, maybe not so hidden. A place for transients, like passing through. People like me. The bus station wasnt too far from here, if they still had one, and the old market where I was thinking maybe for something to eat. No time to look for it now. I was ignoring him but on he came. She is my young sister, what do you think man you take her for nothing! You dont take her for nothing. He stepped alongside now and into my face, beyond negotiation now, as if a relationship existed between us. I would start hearing sad tales about his starving children. You have to pay, he said.

  No I dont, I dont have to pay nothing.

  I have a brother, he said and was looking about now when he spoke.

  What do you think I’m a tourist man, fuck off, I said.

  He stared, not knowing what I was talking about, hardly listening. It didnt matter what I was saying he was planning a move. Across the street a crowd had gathered for a guy standing up on a chair, he was hectoring them with religious messages and I saw that the street had changed, had become an open market whose stalls featured arts and crafts kind of cultural stuff, bric-a-brac