by James Kelman
Probably I would inform her but if not so what, whose business is it. In the long run definitely. In the long run, however, everybody is there and one is not, you, you are not. By you I refer to oneself, me, to hell with it. We all know this. My youngest child knew this, third of my three, at three years of age; yes, she did. I saw it in her. The girl would learn about suits of armour, forms of irony, levels of ambiguity, in other words self-deceit: for so she will come to perceive of it and recognise that in me. In me she knows the concept may exist but if not there was a practical reality. Dad.
Yes I saw it in her. She escaped her mummy into my arms. Then she escaped me. She did. She began by escaping my embrace. Same as mummy oh mummy. Horrible to see and countenance: can one bring oneself to that point? One cannot. I cannot. But I, he said, am going mad.
Three, three, of three.
My youngest was not so much escaping other people as seeking solitude. She appreciates and respects solitude. At three and a third years of age – as happens again at the age of fifteen – most people enter a further and rather interesting stage in life, the realisation of the existence of other intellects. I refer to its effect on one’s emotional development. How to be with others. To recognise the pain of another, the hurt. Prior to then children do not comprehend. That incomprehension; we note it in them. There are those who never achieve this stage.
Then of course how to be in the world. The child resists this too. It is forced upon her, as deceit is forced upon the rest of us.
When everybody is there and you are not. I think of that with pleasure. One attempts honesty. At least that. Even as a young man I went into rooms on my own and stayed there for interminably long periods. Mine own company was required. Not so much company; company was not what I wanted, not even my own. I was locked for a period, up and into, and thought to become a better human being. It did nay happen. Mental chaos sums up that experience. There is nothing about it I want to remember. Any memories I have are negative, which under-states the reality. It is nearly wiped from my brain, this secret part of my earlier time on the planet. I maintained the secret. The mother of my children knew nothing of it. I am eleven years older than my wife and shall carry the secret to my death-bed.
One day I might inform the weans. The youngest especially. I have come to favour her. She remains in a state of innocence that might last the rest of her days or so I believe, or appear to believe. What a fool I am. I wonder if I relax with her. It would be to her sister and brother I make my first confession.
There is more than one way to live one’s life and I chose wrongly. There is a heroic element to this, but where and what might that be! I cannay find it. Except in the long run, it remains a to b, always, a then b, a then b. I wonder if there exists a language where the first letter of life is ‘a’ and ‘b’ the first letter of death? The composition of the concept ‘and’ is what exists between. There is a language pertaining to the algebraic that somehow achieves
quaternion
Lest one falls to the ground in the throes of death. Where I stay we say ‘drapped deid’, as in ‘the poor cunt drapped deid’. I prefer ‘drapt’ deid.
I could not get away from death for long. Even if I wanted.
The short rejoinder is that I did not. Nor did I want to die in a condition of intellectual dishonesty. Even at my advanced age. I would like to have said, Above All! Yes, complete with the capital letters and the mighty exclamation mark. Above all else I wished for
What? Not truth. I could not describe it as truth, the object of the wish. A life that was true.
When I became a parent I realised that the days of my own life were numbered. That was common sense. Not for them it wasnt. My life was a joke to them. My wife and childs did not so much conspire against me as enter a type of solidarity that excluded me. They told me to fucking ‘stop fucking moaning’. They said it to cheer me up. Or so they liked to think. My wife advised me of it. According to her they were well-intentioned, assuming I wished to live forever and familiar jibes would help smooth the path – the path to immortality presumably.
Even if it didnt, that the act of trying might.
Not for me. For other folk it might have worked. For myself but, forms of ‘cheering me up’ acted as a depressant and served merely to aggravate stressful situations. I could have done without it. We live our lives. Along the way we discovered that it wasnay a question of ownership. If I had said, Shut the fuck up it is my life: if I had said that, it would have made it appear as though ‘life was mine’.
Except of course life is mine. A statement deserving at least two exclamation marks. But I was always a sensitive soul, and liked to underplay the hand.
But oh oh oh. ‘Life belongs to me.’ What an absurd load of pish. Cowardice masquerading as sensitivity. That one’s weans believe such refuse shows merely the extent to which the propaganda chiefs have won. And we, as the adult generation, have lost.
Why could I not get talking to my offspring? Why are such barriers erected? Who in God’s name is responsible? It isnay me anyway. They put up these barriers. People do. How come they never listen? They never listened to me. I exclude my youngest. At three years of age she listened, it was the other two didnay. They never listened. Never. Why was that? Their stupid little jokes, ripostes. How come? One asks: How come?
Because they had been programmed.
We enter life full of goodwill. We do. There are no grounds for cynicism here. In good faith we begin. I give that to my child(s).
The propaganda chiefs have destroyed the ability to learn. I know what I would have done: lined them up and shot them down.
When my colleagues spoke to me they uttered excrement ingested from television. Some fascist celebrity off a reality programme spouting the worst sorts of rightwing nonsense in that general spirit of smug ignorance that infuses the British Broadcasting Corporation. They listened to them and their lickspittles, washed-up entrepreneurs, DJs and rockstars, retired football players. They took their information from such sources. They knew nothing of politics and didnay want to know. At least not from me, nor from anyone like me. They listened to nonsense, regurgitated nonsense, then regurgitated the regurgitations, like licking up somebody’s bile, spitting it into a cup and trying to use it to construct a picture. Even if it works it is the wrong colour, too similar in density, the catarrhal and spittle strings and it breaks one’s heart, it breaks one’s heart. They were deceived by these rightwing arguments and paid no heed when I called them fascist. They assumed my use of the word ‘fascist’ was the same as theirs, which amounts to ‘killjoy’. Hitler was a killjoy. Nowadays the person who breaks up the party is called ‘fascist’.
When my youngest gets older she will move towards their line of thinking. I should be mad to expect more given that she is her mother’s girl. She is a fighter yet daughter to myself. As she moves towards their line of thought she will at last recognise my lies for what they are.
I wouldnay have wanted her any other way, nor her siblings. Of course not. I have lectured people for years. I should have kept my trap shut. They didnay listen, didnay hear, and eventually I came to realise – after I discovered I did not care – that life is short and maybe even too short which is altogether a concept or detail I have had to learn on pain of becoming a grandfather, scheduled eight years hence, on my reckoning. At twelve years of age my first child bears the most extraordinary resemblance to my father who begat myself at the age of twenty years, and whose elder grandson, my eldest child would no doubt conceive his own first child at that same age, eight years hence
and came to realise, to conclude the proposition, that I preferred the way they thought to the way I thought, and the reality amounted to nothing anyway, I cared nothing for reality, being unable to live with their mother except in a state of bemusement structured on the realisation that she married a fool, an absolute and irredeemable fool, that gem of a woman.
She was the one they would emulate. Surely to God! Definitely not me, I didn
ay want it to be me. I was never a good example; not for children. And my ideas werenay worth a brass farthing which has as much of a relation to my life as a plugged nickel. One sighs, but must continue. There are ways of being, honest ways of being, ways of being honest, ways of living our life, lives, the space in between mine and yours, this is truth, a balancing act, like all clichés. And one wonders why one sighs, sighed, while the one in between, my second child
THAT WAS A
SHIVER
for
Tom Leonard
It happened on the Sunday him and Tracy were down the Barrows. Originally they were going a walk but there were things she needed and they hadnay been for ages. They split up when they got there. She couldnay shop with him around, so she said. It suited him anyway; it was a rare day, the sun beating down. Robert set off looking at this and that, no bothering. Maybe he would buy something maybe he wouldnay. It was relaxing. Really he was just passing the time till they met for lunch. If he did buy something it would have to be quite good else why bother? Even if he liked something he didnay always buy it; no if it didnay fit in his pockets. That annoyed her. No so much annoyed as irritated. But ye like it so why are ye not buying it?
Cannay be bothered.
Dont give us that, it’s because it doesnay fit in yer pocket.
Exactly.
God!
That was what pockets were for but to carry stuff. Women carried stuff, men didnay. No if they didnay have to. Ye needed the fists free. What if something happened? Ye had to be ready. His granddaughter said to carry a rucksack so then he would be okay. A good idea. She was a bright lassie. Maybe he would, a rucksack, ye just shoved it on yer back. Today it was a polybag in the jacket pocket. Tracy made him bring it in case he saw something. She felt better shopping if she thought he was shopping too. So he kidded on he was. Although he did buy stuff occasionally. Auld vinyl maybe, a CD. He still bought music; especially vinyl. He was into country, a wee bit of blues, a bit of jazz. Mainly it was country but. One site he visited described what he liked as ‘specialist’; ‘Specialist Country’. It made Robert smile. At the same time it was right enough. A lot of it ye only found on vinyl; it wasnay available elsewhere, unless some wee snippet on YouTube. Apart from that what was there? No much.
He liked wandering about. Tracy didnay want him trailing eftir her. She was good at shopping, smelled a bargain at a hundred paces: take aim, fire. She aye bought stuff. At the same time she needed it. If she didnay need it she didnay buy it. It wouldnay have bothered him if she did. Whatever; he would carry it. If she let him. Some stuff she didnay. Oh you’ll just bash it. That was cakes and vases, antique vases. She liked these telly programmes where folk tried to make a few quid ‘buying wisely’. What does that mean, ‘buying wisely’? Did she make any dough? No that he noticed. Never mind if it kept her happy. Except ye couldnay get near the computer for her checking out silver fish forks from the 18th Century.
Flowers too, she wouldnay let him carry flowers. He could hold them if he was standing still but no to walk. Flowers, seeds and plants; she liked all that. Their ayn garden was tiny. It wasnay theirs officially. They just had a ground-floor flat. There were six families up the close; three one side, three the other; and two gardens out the front. Tracy stuck a fence round theirs. It wasnay to lock out the two upstairs families, she did it to stop the boys playing fitba outside the window. If folk want to come in they can come in, she said, but not for football. She was thinking about the summer and aw that, a glass of wine with the neighbours in the evening sun.
It didnay bother Robert that much, being honest, he wasnay brought up with gardens. Tracy made it a joke. Oh dont talk about gardens, he hates them. Naw he didnay. He just didnay care about them. Oh you’ve got a phobia. Phobia fuck all. She called it soil, he called it dirt.
He would be under it soon enough. Unless he got cremated. He quite fancied that, the ashes scattered. Except he couldnay think of a place he wanted to go. Resting for all eternity, it was a pleasant thought. The ferry to Arran; they could toss the ashes ower the side. Right in the middle of the water, open the tin and shake it loose, let the wind carry them. Speed bonny boat. He aye liked Arran.
Mind you ye could just fucking save time, wrap them in a freezer bag and toss them off the Jamaica Street Bridge; watch them chug their way down the Clyde. There go the ashes. Ye would be on a cloud, a wee whisky in one hand. Then the stars at night, the Atlantic. With his luck they would get caught on the current and wind up in Orange Lodge Province, King James and all his rebels; shudder shudder, even thinking about it made ye claustrophobic.
The slow boat to New York but imagine, floating across the Atlantic. He didnay want Canada. Too cauld. Nova Scotia! Oh christ naw. Out the fucking frying pan.
A garden phobia. Maybe she was right. It was aye tenement flats with him. He was born in one and would die in one. Unless he drapt down in the street. Or coming up the steps at the front close. Or down the steps. Weans left toys and ye had to watch ye didnay trip ower the cunts.
Mind yer language!
It was the toys he was talking about.
She liked auld cutlery as well. Good stuff but, high quality. If it didnay have the makers’ marks she wasnay interested. An auld Polish woman ran the stall she liked. Tracy chatted to her. The auld days in Poland; the Communists and the Second World War, the Holocaust. But that was her with another bunch of forks. The kitchen drawers were jammed full. It became an issue after a meal because doing the dishes, the fucking cutlery drawer wouldnay close. He counted the teaspoons once. Thirty-two! What was that a joke? Thirty-two fucking teaspoons! So then she had plastic containers for the excess. So what were they keeping it all for? The boy didnay care. Him and his wife had their ayn stuff.
Och it didnay matter anyway. Who gives a fuck. Live and let live. Tracy done what she wanted. He was happy with that. She was another human being. The Barrows was a for instance. Gie her her head and off she went, ye never saw her again.
He didnay mind browsing. Good seeing the tools. Amazing the number ye got secondhand. Did people even have tools nowadays? How come there were so many? Ye looked at them and thought about the guys that used them. When did they die? at a fair age or was it young? Was it an accident? Robert had worked in all different jobs right throughout his life and there were aye accidents. In the fucking army as well; some admitted some denied, all covered up; they were all accidents too, even the intentional ones. Then if ye boxed a cunt. Robert boxed. It wasnay a game. Guys got killed boxing. People forgot that. Yer fists were weapons; they were classed as that if ye fought, like if ye were a boxer. Tools were weapons too depending how ye used them. Cunts took hammers to the dancing in case of problems. A fucking stanley knife could slice off a cheek. A wood chisel; the damage ye could do with that, a wood chisel! fuck sake.
Ye saw tools down the Barrows ye couldnay work out what they were for. Then ye thought about it: all these different jobs down through the years. Tools for every last one of them. Some ye had never seen before, for jobs that didnay even exist. No in Scotland anyway. Maybe in places like Africa or Asia, South America. Ye saw them on the antique telly programmes. Antique experts like tools. Nay tools nay antiques. Nay tools they would be out a job. These upper-class cunts, where would they be? On the fucking broo same as the rest of us.
After tools came music. And cables too, he liked cables, connecting leads and all that stuff. It came in handy. It meant too if ye saw an auld computer or hi-fi separate, like an actual auld-style deck or whatever, just whatever. Ye never knew until ye found something then saw what it was for.
In the auld days down the Barrows Robert aye started at the first close past Pearson’s corner. Until they knocked down the building. But there was another close he liked, that one round the lane and across the wee backcourt. Dragon Pass the auld folk called it except it wasnay ‘dragon’ it was ‘dragoon’, from when the King’s dragoon guard came to quell the weavers – quell or kill, the bastards, they fucking shot them d
ead, ordinary working-class guys. On the first floor they had the deli where they done a nice breakfast. The dealers all used it so ye knew it was cheap. One time him and Tracy were in for a coffee and some cunt tried to sell them a rabbit. No for a pet for a pot of fucking soup. Make a stew out it, the guy says, just haud its ears. I’ll haud your fucking ears, says Tracy.
Up the stair and roundabout, up the stair and roundabout. Then up ye went and roundabout again till that was you. All sorts of stuff. This was where she found the boy the Christmas train set whenever the hell that was, thirty year ago. A fucking beauty it was. All the bits and pieces: levers, signal boxes, split rails and wee bridges; farmyard animals, wee cows and sheep. It must have came from a rich house, there was hardly a scratch on it. Wealthy cunts, they dont play with the toys. They get the Manservant to do it for them. Play with the train-set, there’s a good fellow. Attennnshun.
Tools, music, stamps and watches, plus militaria; medals and Nazi helmets. What ye call a male preserve, for the ones that didnay know any better. It was a smack in the mouth these cunts needed. Soldiers meant fuck all to them; it was only their medals, what was their medals? was it scarce? the DSM and Iron Crosses, Victoria Crosses? Whose medals were they? Oh a guy that got killed. Oh was it an Officer? Naw, just a guy. Aw that’s a shame. Did they gie him a medal for gallantry? Naw, just for all the campaigns he did; North Africa, Borneo, Iraq and Afghanistan, window of the world, join the army and ye might see through it.
One stall was especially good for vinyl. Except their fucking prices man. Jesus christ: ye would have thought it was platinum gold discs they were selling. Charlie Pride and Kitty Wells, Loretta Lynn, George Jones and that auld cowboy bloke everybody looks for whose name Robert could never remember. Everybody wants them but ten quid an album! Who dreamt up these prices? Did they ever sell a record? Sometimes ye wonder. After the CDs came in ye would have thought vinyl sales would plummet but they didnay. Then when CDs were on their way out back came the vinyl, with a fucking vengeance. Folk get sick of downloading. They need to hold something. You go to secondhand shops nowadays, they’re full of fucking teenagers. Oh look at that the Everly Brothers! Is that a Beatles original! Oh who is that Elvis? Naw, Hank Williams. Pardon? Ha ha. So that bumped up the price. Fifteen quid a pop, are ye fucking kidding?