Greyhound for Breakfast

by Kelman, James

  You think? what d’you mean you think?

  The boy yawned and got up from the chair. He walked to the oven and looked at it, then walked to the door: I’m away, he said.

  Heh you, you were supposed to be here half an hour ago to take that wean to the nursery.

  It wasnt my turn.

  Turn? what d’you mean turn? it’s no a question of turns.

  I took her last.

  Aw did you.

  Aye.

  Well where’s your bloody brother then?

  I dont know.

  Christ . . . He got up and followed him to the door, which could only be locked by turning a handle on the inside, unless a key was used on the outside. As the boy stepped downstairs he called: How you doing up there? that teacher, is she any good?

  The boy shrugged.

  Ach. He shook his head then shut and locked the door. He poured more tea into the cup. The tin of paint and associated articles. The whole house needed to be done up; wallpaper or paint, his wife didnt care which, just so long as it was new, that it was different from what it had been when they arrived.

  He collected the dirty dishes, the breakfast bowls and teaplates from last night’s supper. He put the plug in the sink and turned on the hot water tap, shoving his hand under the jet of water to feel the temperature change; it was still a novelty. He swallowed the dregs of the tea, lighted a cigarette, and stacked in the dishes.

  A vacuum cleaner started somewhere. Then the music drowned out its noise. He became aware of his feet tapping to the music. Normally he would have liked the songs, dancing music. The wife wouldnt be home till near 6 p.m., tired out; she worked as a cashier in a supermarket, nonstop the whole day. She hardly had the energy for anything. He glanced at the fridge, then checked that he had taken out the meat to defrost. A couple of days ago he had forgotten yet again – egg and chips as usual, the weans delighted of course. The wife just laughed.

  He made coffee upon finishing the dishes. But rather than sitting down to drink it he walked to the corner of the room and put the cup down on a dining chair which had old newspaper on its top, to keep it clear of paint splashes. He levered the lid off the tin, stroking the brush across the palm of his hand to check the bristles werent too stiff, then dipped it in and rapidly applied paint to wall. It streaked. He had forgotten to mix the fucking stuff.

  Twenty minutes later he was amazed at the area he had covered. That was the thing about painting; you could sit on your arse for most of the day and then scab in for two hours; when the wife came in she’d think you’d been hard at it since breakfast time. He noticed his brushstrokes were shifting periodically to the rhythm of the music. When the letter-box flapped he continued for a moment, then laid the brush carefully on the lid of the tin, on the newspaper covering the chair.

  Hi, grinned a well-dressed teenager. Gesturing at his pal he said: We’re in your area this morning – this is Ricky, I’m Pete.

  Eh, I’m actually doing a bit of painting just now.

  We’ll only take a moment of your time Mr McGoldrick.

  Aye, see I’ve left the lid off the tin and that.

  Yeh, the thing is Mr McGoldrick . . .

  His pal was smiling and nodding. They were both holding christian stuff, Mormons probably.

  Being honest, said McGoldrick, I dont really . . . I’m an atheist.

  O yeh – you mean you dont believe in God?

  Naw, no really, I prefer taking a back seat I mean, it’s all politics and that, eh, honest, I’ll need to get back to the painting.

  Yeh, but maybe if you could just spare Ricky and myself one moment of your time Mr McGoldrick, we might have a chat about that. You know it’s a big thing to say you dont believe in God I mean how can you know that just to come right out and – hey! it’s a big thing – right?

  McGoldrick shrugged, he made to close the door.

  Yeh, I appreciate you’re busy at this time of the day Mr McGoldrick but listen, maybe Ricky and myself can leave some of our literature with you – and you can read through it, go over it I mean, by yourself. We can call back in a day or so, when it’s more convenient and we can discuss things with you I mean it seems like a real big thing to me you know the way you can just come right out and say you dont believe in God like that I mean . . . hey! it’s a big thing, right?

  His pal had sorted out some leaflets and he passed them to McGoldrick.

  Thanks, he replied. He shut the door and locked it. He remained there, listening to their footsteps go up the stair. Then he suddenly shook his head. He had forgotten to mention Allende. He always meant to mention Allende to the bastards. Fuck it. He left the leaflets on the small table in the lobby.

  The coffee was stone cold as well. He filled the electric kettle. The music blasting; another of these good dancing numbers. Before returning to the paint he lighted a cigarette, stopping off at the bathroom on his way ben.

  Samaritans

  Heh what d’you make of this man I’m standing in the betting shop and this guy comes over. Heh john, he says, you got a smoke?

  A smoke . . .

  Aye, he says.

  So okay I mean you dont like to see a cunt without a smoke. Okay, I says, here.

  Ta.

  Puts it in his mouth while I’m clawing myself to find a match.

  Naw, he’s saying, I dont like going to the begging games . . .

  Fair enough, I says, I’ve been skint myself.

  Aw it’s no that, he says, I’m no skint.

  And out comes this gold lighter man and he flicks it and that and the flame, straight away, no bother. Puffs out the smoke. I’m waiting for the bank to open at half one, he says, I’ve got a cheque to cash.

  Good, I says, but I’m thinking well fuck you as well, that’s my last fag man I mean jesus christ almighty.

  Foreign language users

  A wise man resists playing cards with foreign language users. This is a maxim Mister Joseph Kerr should always have been well aware of. So how come he had succumbed to temptation yet again? Because he thought he would take them, that’s how. If you had discussed the point prior to play he would have nodded in a perfunctory fashion – that’s how much a part of him the maxim was. And yet he still succumbed. Of course. Gamblers are a strange breed. In fact, when he noticed his pockets were empty he frowned. That is exactly what he did, he frowned. Then he stared at the foreign language users who by this time had forgotten all about him. And the croupier was shuffling the deck for a new deal. And yes, she was also concealing her impatience in an unsubtle way, this croupier, and this unsubtlety was her method of displaying it, her impatience.

  Mister Joseph Kerr nudged the spectacles up his nose a wee bit, a nervous gesture. His chair moved noisily, causing the other players to glance at him.

  But what was he to do now? There was nothing he could do now. No, nothing to be done. It was something he just had to face. And yet these damn foreign language users had taken his money by devices one could scarcely describe as being other than less than fair, not to put too fine a point on things. And how in the name of all that’s holy could the fact that it was himself to blame be of any consolation?

  He scratched his ear and continued to stand there, by the chair, and then he sighed in an exaggerated manner but it was bitterly done, and he declared how things had gone too far for him now, that he had so to speak come to the end of his tether. The croupier merely looked at him in reply but this look might well have been a straightforward appeal for a new player.

  Mister Joseph Kerr shrugged. Then he stood to the side, making space for the new player who moved easily onto the seat. There was a pause. Mister Joseph Kerr had raised his eyebrows in a slightly mocking fashion. He smiled at the new player and touched him on the shoulder, saying how he should definitely pay heed to that which he knew so thoroughly beforehand. The new player glared at the hand on his shoulder. What’s the meaning of this? he murmured.

  In all probability he too was a foreign language user. Mister Joseph K
err nodded wearily. Maybe he was just bloody well growing old! Could that be it? He sighed as he strolled round the table, continuing on in the style of somebody heading to an exit. He entered the gents’ washroom and gazed at himself in the mirror. It was a poor show right enough, this tired face he saw; and something in it too as if, as if his eyes had perhaps clouded over, but his spectacles of course, having misted over. The thought how at least he was breathing, at least he was breathing, that was worth remembering.

  Let that be a lesson

  Between 12 and 1 o’clock every Sunday the boys met up the field and played football for the rest of the afternoon. They stopped for breaks whenever they felt like it; these they spent lying around smoking and chatting, unless it was raining, in which case they found shelter till it eased off enough to resume. Occasionally when somebody produced a pack of cards the game was forgotten about. Today was like that, plus the rain had become a downpour, looking as if it was on for the day. A few of the boys went home. Ten or so others gathered in the back close of a tenement to continue the cards. Then a man came down the stairs and told them to get to hell out of it. They went slowly, a couple of them staring back at the man till they were outside on the pavement. Matt then let it slip his house was vacant but insisted his maw and da had given him his last warning about bringing people in. He refused to even consider disobeying them. He kept on refusing till finally they offered him a bribe of 10 pence a skull. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘on condition the game stops whenever I say so.’

  They spoke in whispers when he led them upstairs and into his room. The bed was used as the card table, the boys crouching or kneeling roundabout it. The game alternated between brag, pontoon, banker and chase-the-ace. After a couple of hours just five players remained. Arthur had the bulk of the money and his only real rival was Jimmy. The other three were just hanging on by the skin of their teeth. Beside Matt there were Dougie and Eddie: Eddie kept dashing out the house and round the street to his own place where he was thieving money from his grandfather’s coat pockets, his mother’s purse, his big sister’s purse, his young brother’s secret bank. The last time he returned it was with a packet of ten cigarettes which he sold to Jimmy for 20 pence more than the retail price. Dougie had been in and out the game at different times since the start, but then he would find a coin from somewhere and buy his way back in. Matt himself had managed to survive by selling pieces on jam for 15 pence, cups of tea for 10. But the clock ticked on and he was beginning to show the strain. Every few minutes he jumped up and rushed ben the living room to look out the window. In fact it was really the bread worrying him the most. A couple of slices just were left and his da would be needing sandwiches for work tomorrow. It would be a total disaster if there was nothing there in the morning.

  Jimmy passed a fag to him. He took two deep draws on it, passed it on to Dougie. Eddie was shuffling cards and getting set to deal. ‘I want to change the game,’ he said.

  ‘No again,’ muttered Arthur.

  ‘Brag,’ said Matt.

  Arthur shrugged. Eddie dealt the cards and the others posted the kitty money. Matt lifted his cards and dropped them at once, there was a noise from outside: his hand went to his face and covered his eyes. Jimmy whispered, ‘Fucking hell man . . .’

  The front door was opened now and people in the lobby. Matt’s parents had friends with them. They could be heard walking down to the living-room then the door clicked shut. Matt glanced about at the others. ‘It’s alright,’ he said, ‘Sshh; just keep quiet.’ He got up and left the bedroom, closing the door behind himself. Minutes later he was back and he had a radio with him, he turned on some music. ‘I told them yous were in and we were listening to records. It’ll be alright if we keep it quiet . . .’ Matt added, ‘They’ve got a drink in them anyway.’

  He knelt down at his place and the game continued, each of the boys making sure the coins did not chink. But less than quarter of an hour later the door banged open and Matt’s da was glowering at them. ‘Right yous mob,’ he said, ‘Think we’re bloody daft or something!’

  Nobody moved.

  ‘Right!’ he said, jerking his thumb at the door.

  The other four got up onto their feet but Matt looked at the floor and stayed where he was.

  ‘You and all,’ cried his da.

  Arthur was nearest to the man, he was about an inch taller than him. ‘It was just for pennies we were playing Mister McDonald,’ he said.

  Matt’s da frowned at him: ‘Think I’m bloody daft?’

  ‘Honest.’

  Instead of replying Mister McDonald glared at his son. ‘I thought I told you I didnt want you hanging about with this yin?’

  Matt sniffed. His face went red.

  ‘Eh? I’m asking you a question.’ Mister McDonald jerked his thumb at Arthur and added, ‘Thinks he’s a flyman so he does!’

  ‘Naw he doesni.’

  ‘Aye he does.’ The man glanced from Arthur to Jimmy and the other two boys, then noticed Matt looking at him and he glared: ‘What’s up with your face?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’ll bloody nothing you.’

  ‘Da . . .’ muttered Matt.

  His father stared at him for a moment longer. Then he pulled the door fully open: ‘Okay, the lot of yous, ben the living-room!’

  ‘What?’ Matt frowned.

  ‘Ben the bloody living-room,’ roared his da. The four boys walked out into the lobby immediately and he beckoned Matt onto his feet and waved him out as well. He walked behind them, then stepped in front to open the living-room door. ‘In yous get,’ he said.

  The boys shuffled inside. Matt’s maw was sitting chatting with two other women on the settee and a man was sitting on one of the armchairs, glancing at a newspaper and sipping from a can of export beer. When Mister McDonald closed the door and herded the five into the centre of the room his wife whispered loudly, ‘In the name of God what’s he playing at now!’ And she laughed briefly then sipped at a glass of martini.

  Matt marched across to her: ‘Hey maw what’s up with him at all is he cracking up or something?’

  Missis McDonald laughed.

  ‘Is he bevied?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Oh uh! Imagine saying that about your daddy!’

  ‘It’s no bloody wonder the way you bring him up!’ called Mister McDonald; he winked at the other man and said, ‘Telling you Pat, she lets this boy get away with murder. Right enough, he’s her favourite!’

  The man grinned.

  Mister McDonald slapped his hands together and moved his shoulders, he winked: ‘Fancy a wee game of cards?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eh? No fancy it?’

  ‘A wee game of cards?’

  ‘Aye, fancy it?’

  ‘Ah well I’m partial to a wee game now and then, I must say.’

  Mister McDonald winked again: ‘That’s the way Pat that’s the way.’

  Missis McDonald said to the two women, ‘Are you listening to this!’

  ‘I’m trying no to!’ replied one, and she gave Pat a look.

  Pat held his hands palms upward and said, ‘Just a wee game hen . . .’

  ‘Tch!’ She shook her head and reached for a cigarette from an open packet on the coffee table.

  Matt gazed at Missis McDonald: ‘Maw is he going daft!’

  ‘Hh! I thought you knew that by this time!’

  Both men were smiling. Mister McDonald nodded to Pat and he stood up, then he indicated the chairs round the dining table and he said to the boys, ‘Okay lads, grab a pew.’

  ‘Naw,’ shouted Matt.

  ‘Shut up,’ replied his da.

  ‘Maw! Will you tell him!’

  ‘Hh!’ His mother raised her eyebrows and she glanced at the other two women: ‘Men are so bloody thick arent they!’

  ‘Maw . . .’

  Missis McDonald ignored him. She picked a cigarette out from the packet, got her lighter from the table. Matt turned from her. The two men were already seated and taking
loose change from their pockets and setting it down at the edge of the table. Some of the coins made a noise and Missis McDonald cried, ‘Would you at least have the sense to put down some bloody newspaper!’

  ‘Sorry,’ answered her husband, and winked at the other man: ‘Newspaper Pat, have we got such a commodity?’

  ‘Da . . .’

  ‘What is it son?’

  ‘Da, we’re no playing with you.’

  ‘Aye you are.’

  ‘Naw we’re no.’

  ‘Aw sit down and stop moaning . . .’ Mister McDonald winked at Pat: ‘I wonder who he takes after eh!’ He glanced round at Arthur: ‘Heh son will you pass that paper there!’

  The newspaper was on top of a glass display cabinet and Arthur got it quickly and handed it to the man.

  ‘Now sit down.’

  Arthur glanced swiftly at Matt but he sat down. Jimmy and the other two boys did likewise. ‘That’s better,’ said Mister McDonald, spreading pages of newspaper about the table. The other man had taken his cigarettes out and placed one in front of Mister McDonald; he looked at the boys as if about to offer them one as well, but he changed his mind and put the packet away into his side jacket pocket. Matt was still standing midway between the dining table and the settee. His father looked at him and said, ‘Where’s the cards then?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ cried Matt.

  ‘Hear that language?’ said his maw to the other women; the three of them laughed.

  Matt went striding out the room and crashed the door shut. Mister McDonald called to his wife, ‘That’s bloody ridiculous the way he’s acting! Eh?’ He glanced at Pat: ‘Imagine acting like that in front of visitors but? Eh? In our day? Can you imagine? You’d have got your bloody arse skelped.’ He called to his wife: ‘That boy, it’s a bloody good hiding he needs!’

  ‘Aye well why dont you do it then!’

  ‘Aye I’ve a good mind to.’

  ‘Good!’ She winked at the two women and lifted her glass of martini, reached for the bottle to top it up.

  Mister McDonald was lighting the cigarette given to him by Pat. He blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling, then said: ‘Okay. Cards.’