“Good John! Good!” says the old man approvingly. “So thee can change a light boolb?”
As if offering a gift he holds up the bulb in its rectangular cardboard wrapper, new from the shop. The student sees the old man’s hand has a thick bandage round it secured by a safety pin over the palm, but the fingers sticking out look sufficiently flexible.
“Anybody can change a light bulb,” says the student.
“Good John! Then thee’ll step roond the cooarner and change me boolb? I’ll pay thee, John! Nowt for nowt, I know the rooal, I’ve got a bob or two. Thee can spare a minute shooaly?”
The student ponders. He is going to the railway station an hour earlier than usual because a lecture has been unexpectedly cancelled. Trains which can take him home leave every half hour. Also, his parents have taught him to tell the truth and give help when folk ask for it. But he lives where everyone, even shopkeepers, are equally prosperous, or pretend to be, so by telling the truth and helping people he has made good friends without being inconvenienced. He is sure his parents would think it unwise to help beggars of the old man’s sort, though the old man is not, apparently, begging. The old man’s face staring hopefully up is brown and deeply lined by rough experiences, but the expression is the opposite of sinister.
“Change the bulb yourself,” suggests the student.
“Nooah, John, I knoo nothing aboot electricity. Shooaly thee can spare me a minute?”
The student admits he can and is led round a corner into a street between soot-blackened stone warehouses.
The old man’s home is more than a minute’s walk away though the student walks so fast that the old man only manages to keep a fraction ahead of him with quick wee skipping steps that are more like a dance than a walk. They turn a second corner into a street which seems part of a city bombed by powerful enemies. The ground on each side is mostly torn earth, weeds, rubble and rags. Some remaining tenements have windows broken, or boarded up, or blind with dirt. The student did not know there was such a street near his university. Behind the warehouse roofs he sees the summit of a glass and concrete tower. A window on the second floor from the top has a white rectangle in it, a poster facing inward which he fixed there a week ago. It advertises a students’ Christian society he belongs to and he tries to recall what he saw through the window when putting the poster up. He remembers a wide view of various buildings which did not interest him, he had preferred to look at the surrounding hills.
“Here it is John,” says the old man leading him into a tenement close, and he sees one upper window is unbroken and raised a little. Through the opening a hand is using a teapot to water marigolds in a window box, so the building is not wholly derelict, and when the old man leads him downstairs to the basement he sees it is not wholly abandoned by the local government. A gas lamp glows and hisses in a dirty passage with no other light. The student is fascinated. Before now he thought gas light belonged to the nineteenth century when Robert Louis Stevenson wrote about it. He sees too a dingy door with five or six keyholes. The old man stealthily turns a single Yale key in a hole he stoops to reach. Before pressing the door open he places a finger to his lips and whispers, “Be very quiet John! Me landlady is a woman and gets queeah ideas.”
The door opens on what seems a dusty cupboard. The old man steps in and with another key opens a door in the far wall. The student, amused and curious, goes through.
He enters a room with a window onto a sunken area between the tenement and street. A thick blind covers the window and at first the dark brown light through it lets the student see nothing but egg-boxes, the sort that hold half a dozen each. Piles of them cover a sideboard, add height to a wardrobe, form a pyramid on the corner of a table in the middle of the floor. Growing used to the poor light the student notices he stands under a web of wires radiating from a black mass in the centre of the ceiling. Wires go to a television set among the boxes on the sideboard, to an electric radiator on the floor, to a radio on the chair beside a bed, to something under a mound of coats on the bed which must be an electric blanket, to an electric hot-plate and an electric kettle on the table. After the old man has cautiously and quietly closed the the doors behind them the student says, “Have you no wall socket?” “Of coorse John, of coorse! Boot it gives off sparks and shocks and flames and things. Doant thee worry, I’m no fooal.”
“That light fixture is overloaded – a fire hazard. Your landlady could be prosecuted for it.”
“It would only oopset her John. Women are like that.”
The student decides to put in the bulb and leave quickly. He lays down his briefcase, climbs onto the tabletop and peers at the cluster of adaptor sockets hitched to the light wire. A low wattage bulb sticks sideways from it. He says, “I’ll see better if you raise the blind.”
“Oo nooo John! Lots of valuable stoof in heeah John, lots of bad people aboot. They’d brack in and steal me stoof if they could see in heeah!”
“Is the light switch on or off?”
“Not working, is it John?”
The student points to the wireless set and says, “Switch on that.”
The old man does. A loud blast of rock music happens. The old man jigs about to it. The student points to the light switch beside the door and yells, “NOW SWITCH THAT OFF.”
The old man hurries to do it. The music dies. The student unscrews the spent bulbs saying, “Give me the new one.” He hands down the old one, tears the cardboard wrap from the new, clicsks the new into the socket. The old man presses down the light switch and several things happen quickly. The light and music go on very bright and loud then die out at once. A door bangs then the door of their room is slammed open by someone dumpy, furious and female who shouts, “What the hell is going on here?” Near by a baby has started screaming.
“I’m changing a light bulb,” says the student calmly. His stance on the table gives him a feeling of power. The woman is smaller than her anger at first makes her seem. Her hips and breasts are matronly but her face childish, thin and desperate. She wears a nightgown, dressing-gown and slippers, every lock of her hair is twisted into a tight helmet of pink plastic rollers. She turns to the old man shouting, “I telt ye! I warned ye not to bring folk here! Remember what happened last time! I think you’re trying to kill me!”
In an embarrassed way the old man grins, shaking the light bulb beside his head as if listening to it. She turns back to the student saying, “Clear out. Clear out of here this instant and mend the bloody lights first. You’ve fused everything in this place.”
“Relax,” suggests the student.
“How can I relax? I’ve a yelling wean next door that cannae sleep with the light off Listen to it!”
“Where’s your fuse-box?”
“Behind the front door.”
“Any spare wire in it?”
“Aye. Mibby. I mean, I think so.”
“Then attend to your kid and I’ll attend to the fuses.”
She heaves a huge sigh and hurries out.
“Good John! Good!” whispers the old man, smiling and nodding encouragingly. The student says sternly, “Before I get down from here tell me which you want: light, heat or entertainment. You can’t have all three till your wallsocket is fixed.”
The old man looks astonished. After a while he mutters miserably, “Wouldna mind soon light, John.”
The student unplugs the wires from the adaptors, the adaptors from the light socket, clicks the light bulb into the socket, jumps to the floor and lifts his briefcase.
Though the doors are now open into the cupboard-like lobby it is very dark. Working mostly by touch the student opens the fuse box, discovers and pulls down the main switch, removes the fuses, also a small card wrapped round with wire. Laying them on the briefcase he carries it like a tray into the brightest room. This belongs to the woman. The window here is hidden by thin print curtains pinned together in the middle. There is an old wooden sink with one brass water tap below the window, a rusty heavy iron gas coo
ker beside it, an iron fire range, a recess holding a double bed beside the door, a rope slanting up from a wall-hook to the wheels of a pulley on the ceiling, wheels with spars between them on which hang some stained triangles of yellowish brown linen. There is a faint smell of lavatory. The woman sits near a table pushing backward and forward a carrycot pram with a baby in it. To the student this baby looks indecently small, red and wrinkled. Its wails have sunk to a fretful mewing which the woman soothes by saying softly, “Cool it Theresa, you’re fine. Shut up. Pipe down. Pull yourself together.”
The student lays his briefcase on the table and asks, “Have you a screwdriver?”
“I had but I lost it.”
“Have you a nailfile?”
“Naw.”
“Have you a tea-knife?”
“There’s knives in that drawer and hurry up. This one needs her sleep.”
There is a drawer at the end of the table. The student opens it and rummages through a mess of cutlery, saying, “Why can’t the kid sleep with the light off?”
“Nobody likes the dark.”
“Open the curtains, there’s sunlight outside.”
“This is a basement and I’ve had trouble enough with nosy parkers. Whenever anyone looks in here some rotten thing happens.”
“Like what, for instance? … I’ve found your screwdriver, by the way.”
He sits on the table edge and deftly loosens screws on the fuses. After a moment he says again, “Like what, for instance?”
“Well,” says the woman, almost unwillingly, “When the old boy in there burnt his hand the SS came to see him and …”
“SS?” says the student, puzzled.
“Social Security. Anyway they looked in here too and they cut my allowance right out. Just like that.”
“Why?”
“Nothing to do with you,” says the woman in a very low voice. He works away quietly. He notices that in the lengthening intervals betwen the baby’s cries she has begun glancing at him furtively. At last she says, “Where are you from?”
“Helensburgh.”
“One of the snobs, eh?”
“Not really.”
“A student?”
“First year physics. Not all of us are practical men with our hands. But I think … this is just about … right.”
He is on the way to the lobby with the fuses but stops and looks back at the briefcase.
“Ach leave it!” she says impatiently, “I’ll no’ steal your books.”
He wishes she had not read his mind but nods and enters the lobby.
The lights go on and the baby closes its eyes and mouth. The student returns for the case saying, “That will hold for a week or two but not much longer. Your wiring is no use at all, a real fire hazard. Get it seen to.”
“You really know about electricity!” she cries.
“A bit.”
“Could you sort my iron? It conked out three weeks ago and I really need it for drying the wean’s nappies. I mean, she’s got a rash.”
He glances at his wristwatch and is astonished to see that less than fifteen minutes have passed since he met the old man. He shrugs and nods. She says, “You’re a pal,” and lays the iron on the table. He pulls a chair up to it, sits down and begins unscrewing the plug. She goes to a mirror and starts removing her curlers. She says, “Sorry I yelled at ye in there.”
“It didn’t worry me.”
“You see I’ve had trouble with that auld bastard – excuse the language.”
“I’ve heard worse.”
“I suppose you think I’m … I suppose you think I’m a bad lot.”
“No. Why?”
“Living here. Like this.”
He glances around. The room strikes him as messier than it need be. The bed is unmade. Dirty plates, crumpled clothes lie on and partly under a dusty sideboard and two sagging armchairs. He says, “Maybe you can’t help it.”
“I can’t. That’s right.”
She lays down the last of her curlers, shakes her head and wanders nervously across the room. She shuts the door to the lobby saying, “Do you believe in God?”
“Of course.”
“So do I but he hasnae helped much.”
The student senses something queer in her manner but thinks the best way to handle queerness is not to attend to it. There is nothing wrong with the plug so he starts unscrewing the iron. She says, “Life can be hell sometimes, can’t it?”
“We have our ups and downs.”
She stands so near that her dressing-gown touches his cheek. He bends over the work, sure she is going to ask for money and determined to refuse it. She says in a small quick voice, “Have you the time for a short time?”
He is relieved by this simple question, glances at his wristwatch and says, “Ten to four.”
She moves away and sits in an armchair. He looks at her. She sucks her underlip like a small girl trying not to weep. Her mop of curly black hair reminds him of a girl he knew at school. She hugs her body tightly below her maternal breasts. This makes them more prominent. For the first time his voice has an uncertain note. He asks, “Did you … I mean, you did ask me for the time?”
“Right!” she says in a hard voice with a hard little smile and nod. He cannot stop looking at her breasts. She asks bitterly, “Is something wrong with me?”
“No but … but I need a … thing with a thin end. Like a needle.”
She stands and plucks thoughtfully at her lower lip. “Will a kirby do?”
“Eh?”
“A hairgrip.”
She takes one from the pocket of her gown, holds it out and walks toward him, her mouth and eyes wide open in a vacant frightened way. He stands to face her, reaching out his hand but not to take the grip. He does not exactly know what he wants to take for he is more sexually stupefied than sexually excited. A voice in his brain is asking, “What should I do first? What should I do first?”
At that moment the door of the room bangs open and a huge man steps in. He stands then announces in a hoarse Irish voice, “I’m interruptin yous.”
“No you’re not,” says the student, taking the kirby grip.
“He’s mending my iron,” says the woman disgustedly,
“And you’ve wakened the wean.”
She pulls the pram to the armchair, sits down and pushes it back and forward.
“I say I’m interruptin yous!” declares the Irishman. He shuts the door behind him, goes to the table and sits slowly down in a chair facing the student. The lavatory smell increases.
“Don’t mind me young fella!” he says, “Carry on with what you were doin.”
The student sits. His heart still beats fast from recent surprises but he sees the Irishman is not dangerous. The hugeness is all in his height. His face and hands are so thin and white that his weight seems mainly a matter of clothes. Four outer garments are almost buttonless and the student sees a plastic raincoat, black overcoat, corduroy jacket, tweed waistcoat, knitted cardigan and striped pyjama jacket. There are probably some shirts and vests under these for his chest looks far too broad for his very long narrow neck, which has a clean silk scarf wound round it. Nothing else he wears is clean, not even the woollen balaclava helmet with a flat cap on top, the rimless spectacles which give his gaunt face a clerical look. Despite these clothes he often shivers as if terribly cold. He removes the spectacles and wipes them on the end of the scarf muttering, “Don’t mind me, don’t mind me.”
“I don’t mind you,” says the student, busy with the iron,
“The old boy next door got me in to change a light bulb then she asked me to sort this.”
“He knows about electricity,” says the woman offhandedly. “Yes, there’s big futures in electricity,” says the Irishman. He takes a flat-sided bottle from the overcoat pocket, is about to swig from it but pauses, to say in an apologetic note, “You’ll not be offended if I offer you none? This stuff is right for the likes of me, in fact it’s indispensable. But it wouldn’t do fo
r a young fella who still had his health … Make the man a cup of tea, Dona!” he shouts at the woman, who obediently stands and fills a kettle at the sink.
The student now wants to leave as soon as possible. He concentrates on mending the connection while the Irishman drinks, coughs then says, “I trust I amn’t upsettin you? I’m a disgustin spectacle, that’s true. Well, I’ll leave in a minute.”
“You don’t disgust me,” says the student easily.
“Still, judgin by your clothes you don’t often sit in a room with a coupla cases like us.”
“It might interest you to know,” says the student after a pause, “That my grandfather was a riveter with Harland and Wolff.”
“Indeed! So you feel a degree of solidarity with the workin classes?”
The student thinks about this. People who speak for the working classes are supposed to be socialists and the student distrusts left-wing organizations. But his father once told him that most of the British working classes vote Conservative. At last he says, “I think I can say that.” “Good for you!” says the Irishman, raising a triumphant forefinger, “But you see, we are NOT workin class, we are… how can I put it … casualty class.”
“There’s no such thing,” says the student crisply.
“No?” says the Irishman, holding his bottle to the light. It is nearly empty. With a sigh he puts it down and says, “This used to be a workin classes district. Casualties lived here too, but the majority were decent labourers and tradesmen. Not people I always see eye to eye with, though the best of them were Irish like meself. One day the area is scheduled for redevelopment, somethin to do with a ring road or a college, I don’t rightly recall which. So the landlords stop repairing the properties and the workin classes shift to expensive homes in posh new housin schemes like Easterhouse, Castlemilk, Drumchapel. And now the entire area – the part not knocked down – is full of the unemployed and elderly, and moral casualties like me, and sentimental casualties like her.”
Every Short Story by Alasdair Gray 1951-2012 Page 34