That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories

by James Kelman

  Although just now was quiet. Robert was the only one there. It was a joke Tracy made. The stalls he liked, naybody else used except him; he was the only one. But it wasnay true. He wished it was. He flipped fast through the spines of the album covers and found a Jerry Lee Lewis from the rock and roll days. Very unusual. But the price for fuck sake. Twelve quid. Ye kidding! He lifted it out the sleeve. No bad condition. But twelve quid was a take-on. He wouldnay have bothered even looking except he didnay recognise a couple of numbers. The vinyl surface was covered in smudges, whatever it was, auld fucking snotters man it was disgusting. He stuck it back in the sleeve.

  The lassie behind the stall looked like she was texting but she wasnay, she was watching Robert. She was, she was staring at him. What did she think he was goni drap the fucking record? Or knock it? That was it! She thought he was trying to knock the record! He took his time reading the cover just to annoy her. Because she was annoying him. She fucking was, she was watching him. Nay question about that.

  He shoved the record back in the sleeve, stuck it back in the pile. If she didnay want a customer he wasnay goni burden her. She was young too. No even forty, at a guess. A crabbit bastard but ye could tell it by looking. They said it was auld folk were crabbit but it wasnay it was the fucking young yins. Grow up hen: ye felt like saying it to her, except what would she have done? sent for the polis. She had probably took a picture of him. So what, he was back flipping through the records then there it was, Ernest Tubb Alive at Billy Bobs. He grabbed at it nearly dropping the damn thing trying to dig out the record. He slowed down.

  Alive at Billy Bobs.

  He lifted out the record. It wasnay Ernest Tubb it was Mario Lanza. Mario Lanza. The lassie was hovering. It’s Mario Lanza, he said, look! And he showed her the record. She hardly looked at it. What’s wrong? she said.

  I’m showing ye what’s wrong, the bloody record is wrong.

  She stared at him like it was his fault. What else did he expect inside these auld album sleeves anyway? How come he was buying such shite in the first place? It was obvious she had nay respect for what she was selling except it made money. He pointed at the price sticker: Eight quid!

  The lassie shrugged.

  I mean okay Ernest Tubb but no Mario Lanza. Mario Lanza’s an opera singer.

  So?

  So it’s a mistake. It’s in the wrong record sleeve. He showed her the record label then the record sleeve which had a drawing of Ernest Tubb wearing a white stetson hat and one of these Texas suits with the curved pockets, the wee string tie and the leather boots. She looked at it as if she had never seen anything like it in her life before. Robert frowned. Okay if it wasnay cool but the guy’s singing was good and he had a brilliant band, aye the best musicians, and cheery as fuck man waltzing across Texas, cheery stuff, good stuff, walking the floor over you. That’s who should be singing on the actual record, he said, Ernest Tubb. No Mario Lanza. Know what I mean, O Sole Mio, Show me the road to old Sorrento! Robert smiled, showing her the record cover.

  Well if ye dont want to buy it dont buy it.

  Pardon?

  Dont buy it, said the lassie, folding her arms and raising her eyebrows.

  I’m just saying it’s the wrong record for this record sleeve.

  Huhhhh. Give me it ower.

  Robert paused a moment. He held the record out to her and she near grabbed it out his hand. She looked to the side then up in the air. What was she doing that for? Drawing attention to Robert for the benefit of the guy that owned the stall. Robert saw him now, he was sitting with his back to the wall reading the Sunday Mail. Probably her da. Robert hadnay been for several months but he recognised him.

  So ye dont want it? she said.

  Robert shrugged. See for yerself. The record is opera and the cover says country. One’s opera one’s opry.

  She didnay hear him, she didnay listen, she didnay bother to read the fucking labels, the notes on the record, the record sleeve, fuck all, she just bent below the table to stick it away someplace. When she straightened up the phone was back in her hand and she was scrolling, and she did this wee double-take like surprised to see him. Who’s kidding who. What was the problem but? He felt like asking, he didnay. Obviously she had taken a dislike to him. That happens and there isnay a thing ye can do about it. People hate yer guts and they dont even know ye. Miss Girny was like that. Unless she just hated everybody. Probably she did. Probably she thought he was a time-waster. Mair browsing than buying. If she had asked the energetic cunt on the chair he would have told her different. Fair enough he was a browser but so what? Maist people are the same. Tell ye what, he said, I’ll carry on looking through the albums. Maybe I can find the Mario Lanza cover and the Ernest Tubb record will be inside the sleeve.

  Beg pardon?

  What I mean, if I find them. I’ll look for them, if I find them I can swop them round.

  She didnay know what he was talking about. It was just stupid, she didnay know. She didnay care, she just didnay fucking care. She just stared at him. Imagine Tracy, Tracy would have slapped her face. She didnay even listen. Ye telt her stuff and she didnay listen. Opera was history. Who listened to it nowadays? Yer maw. Yer granny. Robert might have bought it for his granny. She played the piano and was good at it. All the auld songs. He would have been her cup of tea, Mario Lanza. Oh he is lovely-looking. That would have been the auld yin. Oh he’s a fine figure of a man. A matinee-idol type of guy till he put on the weight. All that spaghetti. O Sole Mio right enough. Ye felt sorry for him, auld Mario, he died young. Probably they had opera at the Grand Ole Opry, back when they first built it. Cowboys and the wild west. It made sense. Probably in the auld days that was how it started, opera came first then opry. People all went to hear it. That was what they did for enjoyment, and ye’ve got to have some of that. Otherwise it’s an Alfie situation, what’s it all about?

  Miss Girny was standing farther along now. Out of earshot. In case he asked her a question. Next time she would send for the polis. Once upon a time folk would have been helpful. Naw they wouldnay. That was sentimental shite. Whoever took a pride in their job? Nay cunt. What was there to take a pride in? Probably she hated the job. Maist people did. Ye were just exploited. Working a fucking Sunday too ye couldnay blame her. She wasnay that auld either. Take away the girny face and she wasnay a bad-looking lassie; lovely pair of tits, what ye would say attractive. Ye just had to watch it with her da there, the fat cunt on the chair, if ye were a young guy and ye fancied her. Ye looked the wrong way and he would be there in a flash. Big bastard. Lazy but, reading the paper with his cup of tea, ye would dance rings round him, just fucking pick him off, jab jab bump ya cunt; sitting there and his lassie doing the work.

  Robert had a boy. A lassie would have been nice. He had one now anyway, a granddaughter. That was the best, she was good; aye keeping Robert right, telling him stuff. She took after Tracy. Kids were great; they cheered ye up. It was just what’s out there, that was the worry. That was always the worry. Any lassie at all. Boys too. Is there anything sickens ye mair, a child killer? Murdering evil bastards. It’s just yer luck too because what can ye do? Ye cannay keep them in the house day after day and ye cannay go out and watch them. Every week there was a story about some kid getting taken away and then they find them in a field. A fucking nightmare. Robert would have cut off their fucking tadger man no fucking danger and some of them would have been grateful, paedophile bastards, it wasnay me it was my sex-drive. It doesnay even itself out either, if it happens to ye. People say it does but it doesnay. Some things are beyond the pale. Murders and killings in yer family. Who gets over that? Nay cunt. Afflictions too, ye can be born with afflictions, major ones. What is fair about that? There is nothing fair about that. Ye feel sorry for folk but there is nothing ye can do. There’s nay balance, nay rhyme nay fucking reason. Fuck religion, who gives a fuck about that. It’s just how it is for folk. Naybody escapes. Even the lassie there, ye felt like gieing her a cuddle. Except she would have belted
ye one. Miss Girny, well named.

  Another guy had appeared and was thumbing through the CDs. How long had he been here? Cunts flit in and out. Near where he stood was the place they stacked the orange and green. Name yer poison. Sectarian shite. Nowadays they called it ‘specialist’ and tried to lump it in with country, blues and jazz. The lassie hovered about. It was him she was interested in, this other guy. A few years younger than Robert by the looks of it. She thought it would be him spending the dough. She thought wrong. He was flipping too fast through the CDs. Naybody could read information that quick. Two minutes it would take him to reach the vinyl; instead of half an hour. He would never even see the vinyl, no at that speed, the state of the actual records. Some of them were scratched to fuck, covered in grease. Mind you a good wipe would do it; for some of them anyway, that was all ye needed. Eh excuse me, called Robert. Can I see that record again?

  She turned to him.

  The one I was looking at!

  She stepped a pace and reached under the table, drew the record out the sleeve and held it to him. The actual record! By itself. The actual fucking vinyl, Mario Lanza, and she was waiting for the fucking money! What was she expecting him to take the record without a record sleeve? Fucking unbelievable. He pointed at the £8 sticker. Eight quid! he said. And it’s no got a sleeve. Mario Lanza. It’s no even Mario Lanza I want. Eight quid jesus christ a record without a sleeve!

  Pardon?

  It’s no even got a sleeve!

  Sleeve?

  The thing you put the record in.

  Ye mean the cover?

  I dont mean the cover I mean the sleeve; ye call it a sleeve. It’s a record sleeve. Robert shrugged. Okay a cover, call it a cover.

  The big guy on the chair was looking ower at him. Robert called to him: Ye cannay charge me for an album cover if it’s no got one.

  It has got one, called the lassie. He said he didnay want it.

  Robert sighed. Because it’s the wrong one. It’s the wrong one, the bloody thingwi, what-dye-call-it, Ernest Tubb, that is the name on the cover, that is like . . . Then ye look inside, ye see the record christ almighty it’s a different one; Mario Lanza, I mean . . . !

  The way the lassie was staring at him.

  How come even he was talking to her! And her fingers, ye saw her fingers, the way she was holding the record. It was just fucking, it was just, ye couldnay believe it! Not by the tips or the edges, no even trying to keep the thing clean. Not even making the effort, she wasnay. Her actual fingers were right on the fucking grooves and whatever was on her fingers, that make-up she was wearing and what not, mascara. That stuff leaves a sticky residue. Her fingers would have been full of it so then wedging into the grooves on the record like fucking superglue and then the needle itself, the actual needle, it would damage the actual fucking needle. That was obvious! Without fail it would damage the needle. When ye think about the cost of needles. Ye have to order them online too, fucking Amazon then from America or some fucking place, Germany or Hong Kong. Robert’s boy ordered the last couple for him and when the package came the label was someplace else. Her nails too jesus christ her nails, ye couldnay believe her nails. Unbelievable. She shouldnay have been allowed to handle vinyl records at all. Once she had her mitts on them, ye would have been as well scraping the surface with a cast-iron chisel.

  Do you want it or no? she said.

  Robert gazed at her. The big guy on the chair was kidding on he was reading his paper but he was all ears for the answer. She held the record out to him. Robert gestured at the boxes under the table. Why dont ye check for a Mario Lanza record sleeve; ye’ll probably find it’s got the Ernest Tubb record inside, so then ye can switch them.

  Look, do ye want it?

  I do want it I’m only – what I’m saying

  Then she shut her eyes, she shut her eyes and shut up Robert; that was him. Her doing that stopped him. He was talking and she came in and stopped him. It was amazing she would do that. All he did was ask a question, he only just

  It didnay matter. It didnay matter. What did it matter, it didnay.

  The other customer was watching, him browsing the CDs, taking it all in. Kidding on he wasnay but he was, he fucking heard everything, he fucking made sure he did.

  She was about to put the record away again. Robert said, I want that. I just eh . . . He sniffed. Eight pound but know what I mean, it isnay a fair price, no if it’s no got a sleeve.

  Robert glanced at the big guy. I’m goni take it, he said, I just feel like I should get a record sleeve with it. He pointed at the Ernest Tubb album cover lying at the edge of the table. I’ll just take that one there.

  But that’s the wrong one ye says it was the wrong one!

  Robert sniffed. I’ll take it but, it’s better than nothing.

  The lassie frowned at Robert, she lifted the Ernest Tubb album cover and raised it up to read the liner notes.

  He said: I’m only wanting it to protect the record. But I mean eight quid . . . !

  She stopped reading the notes. The big guy on the chair had gied her a wave. She handed him the record and the album cover. He looked them over then looked at Robert, he sniffed. He read the sleeve notes and looked at Robert again. Seven, he said.

  Robert shrugged and passed the lassie a tenner. She had these snappy blonde curls. Robert aye liked them. He had a girlfriend once, if ye put yer finger in them, twisting, it was kind of nice. Miss Girny had them. She was no a bad-looking lassie at all. It was just the way she acted, it put ye off.

  Opera with nay sleeve and Ernest Tubb with nay record. Seven quid. Dick Turpin didnay have a look in. He checked the vinyl for scratches. It wasnay bad considering. Mario Lanza. Tracy would like it. Take me back to old Sorrento. No so much opera as Italian traditional. Country music didnay interest her. Except if it was religious, she quite liked that, the auld hymns.

  Yer change!

  Thanks dear.

  The ‘dear’ was sarcasm. She missed it but, it was too deep for her.

  What touched her? That is what ye wondered. What touches you hen? Did she even have a guy? Just a young woman too, it made ye sad.

  Look twice at a woman. What do ye see? It didnay matter how tough they were, a man would batter her. A tough lassie like her, so what? Maist any guy. Maybe no any guy but maist. Probably she wondered about him. She would know his clothes; he wasnay just some stupid auld cunt. So what he was aulder? He was fit, he took care of himself. He liked a beer, so what? a couple wasnay a problem. Okay he liked a smoke but a half ounce lasted him. She would see that if she looked. Some folk didnay, they looked at ye but no properly. They saw the auld guy but no beneath the surface.

  She was waiting for him to take the £3 change. The coins chinked when she put them into his hand. Her fingers were cold; and white, awful white. Sometimes ye see fingers like that, so so white. Where does the blood go? That was Robert’s feet. He went for a walk and came hame and his feet were freezing. When he took off his socks to see them they were pure white. Nay fucking blood, the blood had vamoosed; where was the blood? gone. What if it went white all the way up? And yer fingers too, white all the way down; frae yer shoodirs, yer neck. Ye would be fucking deid! Nay blood in yer body, how could ye live! Ye couldnay.

  Robert smiled. Never mind, he had the cover. It was the cover he wanted and he had fucking got it. Alive at Billy Bobs. What a brilliant title. He had never seen it before. Never even heard of it! Maybe it was a one-off. That happened. Live shows at some wee venue in Holland or Denmark and some mad fan taped it, then it was never remastered. Probably worth a fortune on eBay. Except no without the record, if ye didnay have the record. Ach well. Although even without the record it was a snip. One of these days he could find it. Who knows? Ye browse the secondhand record stalls long enough and ye might, then too with charity shops and boot sales.

  He should have said to Miss Girny how if she kept an eye open for the Mario Lanza cover she might find the Ernie Tubb record inside. He should have said it but h
e didnay. Even talking to her was a problem. It was. Any woman at all, just about. Tracy! fucking hell man scratch yer eyes out soon as look at ye! Saying hullo to a lassie man it was a fucking nightmare. That was a question for the granddaughter. How come us auld cunts are the problem?

  Then ye looked twice at the lassie. She might have been tough but she was just a skinny wee thing. She reminded Robert of ones he saw in Spain, local women; they were all wee and skinny; good-looking lassies but just so wee, so wee. Robert done a bit of training there once. Him and five other boys. The trainer took them for a week, auld Andra, a great auld guy, fucking great auld guy. Malaga, running up and down the beach, using the local gym. That was brilliant, putting on a show for the locals, sparring a round, just boys, fucking brilliant man, the big breakfasts! Spanish – what was that? sausages, all spicy and bacon; blood puddings, eggs, piles of toast. Piles of this, piles of that. Then steaks; steaks and steaks. Fucking feed! Ho! Then ye turned a corner and saw the locals, skinny wee people. That was the politics. That side of it. The auld guys went on about it, the Civil War and all that, the fascists and Britain supporting them. I’m only goni train mister no support Franco. His da was as bad, when Robert joined up – the fucking army! Jesus christ!

  The big guy on the chair glanced ower at him on his way out. Robert was going to say something but didnt. He felt like a smoke. He felt like a seat too. He saw one but it was beside the military medal stall. A few guys hung about there chatting. There was a market for war memorabilia. It wasnay Robert’s cup of tea. Ye want my medals? Here, stick them up yer fucking arse. That was Robert. He took out the polybag and shoved in the album.