Every Short Story by Alasdair Gray 1951-2012

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Every Short Story by Alasdair Gray 1951-2012 Page 35

by Gray, Alasdair


  He points at the woman beside the cooker who stands holding the handle of the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

  “Leave me out of this!” she tells him.

  “It’s her own fault, of course. Before she had the child she was earnin seven pounds ten a week in a Bridgeton lemonade factory.”

  “But can she not –” begins the student. The Irishman interrupts.

  “Exactly! Of course! I tell her that myself. ‘If you loved Theresa,’ I say, ‘Give her to the social workers. Have her adopted. Get rid of her and do both of yous a favour.’ She refuses to listen. She is one mass of utterly disreputable primitive instincts.”

  “For Christ’s sake hold your bloody tongue!” shouts the woman, and adds for the student’s benefit, “Excuse the language.”

  “We’d be lonely people if it wasn’t for my tongue, Dona,” says the Irishman quietly. The student, resting an elbow on the table and chin in the palm of a hand, finds the conversation interesting. He says “What sort of casualty is the old boy next door?”

  “Temporary. He is a trusted nightwatchman of many years standin and will be back on the job when the hand heals. Of course he’s nearly seventy and won’t last for ever. Besides, this buildin’s condemned, they’ll knock it down soon and we’ll all be hard put to it findin a place to stay. Why, I hear that even quite prosperous people have trouble gettin new houses.”

  “Well, my parents aren’t exactly prosperous, but when we moved to a new house last year we had to pay twice what it would have cost ten years ago.”

  “Exactly!” says the Irishman with a pleased air, “So you will understand that things are equally difficult for the like of us. Strange isn’t it, the vast improvements we’ve seen in recent years, new towns, more cars, more roadways, bigger buildins. Yet all the time the casualty class grows bigger too. Is there a connection, do you think?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  The woman puts the mugs of milky sweetened tea on the table saying, “Sorry there’s no biscuits.”

  “You’re a lovely girl, Dona,” says the Irishman. The woman goes to the pram and bends over it.

  “Just look at the way she moves! Isn’t she a lovely girl?”

  “She’s not bad,” says the student, glancing and sipping the tea.

  “Do you hear that, Dona?” cries the Irishman, “The gentleman thinks you’re not bad. When a laconic fellow like him says that about a woman it’s better than a whole cargo of compliments from the like of me.”

  The woman turns and shouts, “You’re a pimp! You’re a pimp!”

  “Well if I am,” he says strongly, “I’m the worst paid pimp in Glasgow.”

  They glare at each other. The student, afraid to hear more, devotes himself to the iron. The woman sits down in the armchair with arms folded and legs crossed. The Irishman again examines his bottle, sighs and sips tea instead.

  A moment later he addresses the student on a confiding note. “She doesn’t really think I’m that. I’m not a pimp. Pimpin is a middle-class occupation. A pimp is a sort of employer and I haven’t the dynamism, the qualities of get-up-and-go to employ a whole woman like Dona. My feelin is mainly fatherly, and she thinks she’s safer with a man around, an undemandin fella who doesn’t lose his temper and can be trusted with the baby when she needs out for a breath of air. I am alcoholic, you see, but am not, and have never been, a drunkard. Liver, lights, stomach, genitals, circulation, they’re crumblin, slow and sure. But the brain is in control. The brain will stay in one piece for another year at the least … What am I talkin about?”

  “Why you live with her.”

  “We need company, you see, and I’m the best she can find in the circumstances. But she deserves better and despite what she called me a moment ago there is no financial bond between us, none at all. And would you believe it, her social security money was cut off a week ago because someone decided she was cohabitin with me. Whatever that means.”

  The student has almost put the iron together again. He feels the Irishman stare at him as if expecting a response. He says crisply, “Bad luck.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell!” cries the Irishman enthusiastically, “Bad luck! That is what a Frenchman would call le mot juste. Education has certainly given you a way with words young fella.”

  The student smiles slightly. He is too wise to be upset by the mockery of unimportant people. The Irishman says, “I am in danger of borin you. Tell me this, have you a girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Goin steady?”

  “Nearly a year.”

  “But you live with your parents?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who does the girl live with?”

  “Let’s not talk about her, eh?”

  “You are a gentleman sir, and I apologize for my intrusion. It’s just I have a theory, you see, that a lotta nonsense is talked nowadays about what they call permissiveness. If you read the papers, sir, you’d think those in their teens are indulgin in all sorts of startlin practices. Now I believe that most young people are just as respectable, and cautious, and unadventurous, and miserable as we were in my own young day. Here a minute!”

  He leans toward the student and beckons. The student cocks an ear toward him. He murmurs into it, “Dona there – hardly seventeen – been to bed with a young fella nearly twice in her life and that was almost a year ago. And little good it did her. So when I came in and saw the pair of you – well, I misunderstood the position entirely and for a moment I felt … hopeful, you might say. I like her. I like her. And she needs a bit of healthy appreciation from someone in her own age group. She’s a fine strong girl you see. She needs …”

  His voice has grown louder.

  “Money!” shouts the woman, “Money for food and rent!” “Oh Dona, you need an awful lot more than that!” says the Irishman reproachfully, “Don’t be put off by her rough tongue, sir. That is a temporary consequence of superficial economic tensions – she’s afraid of bein chucked out into the street. Solve these tensions and you’ll find her the most docile creature imaginable. You’ll be able,” he whispers, “Well,” says the student rising to his feet, “I think I’ve fixed it. Where’s your wall socket?” he asks the woman. She points to one beside the fire-range.

  He carries the iron to it but pauses before plugging in. “Does this give off shocks and sparks and flames and things?” he asks with a slight smile. She shakes her head. “Just testing,” he says, and plugs it in, and stands for a while without looking at her.

  “How much do you need?” he asks suddenly.

  “Six pounds,” she says in a low voice, not looking at him.

  “That’s not a lot,” says the student, “Can the old boy next door not help? I mean, if you lose this place so will he.” “He’s already paid me three weeks in advance. And I still need six pounds.”

  “Not a bad owld fella,” mutters the Irishman, and drinks the last of his bottle.

  “Well,” says the student, bringing out his wallet, removing two pounds, showing them and laying them on the mantelpiece, “At the moment this is all I can spare. Sorry.” “Thanks,” says the woman stonily, “I’ll get the rest somehow.”

  “Good,” says the student. He touches the iron lightly, says “It’s working,” switches it off and unplugs it. The woman sighs and says, “Thanks mister.”

  Then she smiles as if putting worry behind her and suddenly she looks like any young woman thanking a friend for a bit of help. The student is glad things are ending well. He picks up his case.

  “You’re surely not leavin?” cries the Irishman, shivering.

  “Goodbye,” says the student to the woman.

  “But you’ll be back? It’s a lonely life for her here by herself all day – she’ll be glad to see you anytime –”

  “Will you shut up?” says the student. The Irishman does.

  “Cheerio. You’ve been a pal,” says the woman in an ordinary friendly way, and looking at her now without embarrassment the student is s
tartled by her likeness to the schoolgirl he once knew, and by how attractive she is. He hesitates, nods and steps into the lobby.

  And is confronted by the old man smiling and nodding and whispering, “Good John you did it! Catch this John! Catch this!”

  He thrusts two tenpenny pieces toward the student’s face. “What’s that for?” asks the student staring.

  “Thee mooney John! Thee changed me boolb. Nowt for nowt, that’s the rooal ye ken!”

  The old man drops the coins into the student’s blazer pocket and skips back into his room, slamming the door. The student makes to open it but hears the lock snibbed. He starts knocking and shouting, “Open up! This won’t do! It’s silly! I don’t need …”

  He hesitates, then speaks in a voice which is even louder. “Listen, I’ll come back tomorrow and look at your wall socket! In the afternoon, say about two-thirty! Don’t forget, two-thirty I’ll be here. Remember that.”

  He looks back to make sure the kitchen door is still open. He opens the front door, stares amazed at the gas lamp (it seems years since he last saw it) then runs upstairs. He also runs along the streets to the station, not because he is late for a train (the whole episode took less than forty minutes) but to use some of the great power he feels inside him. He also feels the world is a more exciting place than he realized, and will allow him delicious experiences he secretly dreams of but had never expected to make realities.

  In the kitchen the woman and the Irishman, who have heard him of course, sit for a long time as still as if they had heard nothing. The woman is Donalda Ingles twenty-two years before she meets June.

  MR LANG AND MS TAIN

  OUTSIDE the film industry most modern bosses distrust entourages. They like to see their underlings one at a time, or round a table where they sit at the top holding agendas to control proceedings. When Tom gets his own business he enjoys having people nearby who depend on his wishes and must not intrude on him. With his heels on his desktop, his heavy muscular body tilted back in a solidly crafted swivel chair, he talks loudly over the phone in the presence of one actual and one potential employee. “We despatched exactly what you asked for, Mr Cockport,” he says. “Our correspondence shows it. The only item missing is your original order form which I will have to hand when the last of our filing cabinets arrive. But why not consult your own records? You’ll see the problem is not mine but yours. Good day.”

  He puts the phone down, yawns, stretches and asks “Anything else, Ted?”

  “The storage racks in the loading bay,” says his undermanager, “The head joiner wants overtime.”

  “The hell he does! Send him in.” The undermanager leaves. Tom tells a young woman standing near the door, “Not long now Miss er …”

  The head joiner enters and Tom puts his feet on the floor. The two men talk truculently. Tom is aggressive, the joiner obstinate. A verbal bargain is struck and the joiner leaves. Tom phones his undermanager and says, “I’ve sorted out the joiner, Ted. He’ll finish the job at the agreed price and he’ll finish it this week. He thinks that next week he’ll be putting up shelves in the basement, but find another firm for that job will you? We can’t trust this lot.”

  Tom puts the receiver down and says, “I’ve been a bad lad leaving you standing here all this time though I must say you stand well Miss er …?”

  “Tain,” says the woman.

  “June Tain,” agrees Tom, nodding at a letter on his desk. “The agency has told me all about you. You’ve had experience as a receptionist, I see, but in a receptionist experience counts a lot less than appearance so let’s have a look at you.”

  He looks at her.

  Ms Tain has subdued her appearance in a charcoal grey suit and sweater, low-heeled shoes, no jewellery. Her dark brown copious hair is fixed in a bun on the nape of her neck. She wears just enough cosmetic to make her pale skin look ordinary. She cannot subdue her finely shaped figure and face which strike some people as romantically Spanish, some as classically Greek. Her expression is gloomy and patient.

  “You look well and you stand well,” says Tom cheerily, “How do you walk?”

  She stares at him, not understanding.

  “Walk for me, June!” he explains. After a moment she strolls across to the window and looks out at a street with the high wall and cranes of a dockyard on the other side. “Top marks for walking,” says Tom cheerfully, “Now it says here you’ve done some book-keeping.”

  “Not much and only for my last employer,” says Ms Tain, turning round and looking worried, “He was a dentist.”

  “Well that might be useful to us. You see receptionists always have time on their hands,” says Tom and summons in a neat middle-aged woman in black.

  “Tell me about Marian, Mrs Campbell. Why does she always seem to be polishing her nails? Is she lazy?”

  Mrs Campbell says that her assistant book-keeper is not lazy but has only enough work to occupy her two or three hours a day. The work is a simple record of invoices and receipts, nothing needing concentration. A receptionist in a business like their’s should easily manage it between dealing with phone calls and the occasional visitor. Ms Tain agrees to try.

  “Wonderful!” says Tom, “I need coffee. This is not the coffee break but coffees all round, Mrs Campbell. How do you take yours, June?”

  Ms Tain takes hers black with one spoonful of sugar and asks if she can sit down.

  “You were free to sit where you liked the moment you came through that door,” says Tom magnanimously.

  Mrs Campbell enters a small adjacent kitchen and Ms Tain, looking gloomier, sits on a low easy chair beside a low table. Tom lights a cigarette and says, “Cheer up June, I’ve only one more hurdle to put you across and that’s a matter of overtime. We pay twice the usual rate for it, there isn’t a lot of it but it’s erratic.”

  After a moment Ms Tain says, “If you could give me a day’s notice …”

  “Sometimes. Usually not.”

  “If I had some warning …”

  “Can’t guarantee it. How do you like the decor?”

  He flaps his hand toward the walls. Each is occupied by a green dragon on a scarlet ground or scarlet dragon on a green ground. Doorways to the kitchen and a cloakroom-washroom have curtains of coloured glass beads. The lights are disguised as Chinese lanterns. A corner of Ms Tain’s mouth twists in a small smile. She says, “Very colourful.”

  Tom grins and says, “You think it’s ghastly. Admit it.”

  She smiles symmetrically and admits it.

  “It’s like me!” says Tom happily, “Rich-looking, loud, vulgar and you can’t ignore it, right?”

  Ms Tain smiles and agrees.

  “I always wanted an office like this,” says Tom, “You should have seen our last premises. A dirty little shop with two back rooms and a basement you couldnae swing a cat in. Now, suddenly, boom, we’ve arrived, we’re expanding, even big firms buy equipment through me. Know how that happened?”

  “A Scottish Industries Development grant?” suggests Ms Tain. For a moment Tom is taken aback.

  “Well, yes, we got help from them,” he admits, “but the real reason is that firms can order from me at short notice and I deliver on the dot. They can phone me at twenty-five past five on Friday, ask for thirty gross two-point-two tungtanium needle bits and the consignment will be on their doorstep on Monday morning.”

  He looks at an ebony statuette beside his telephone. It represents an ancient man with flowing robes, very long whiskers and a sly grin which from some angles makes him look like a buffoon. Tom places an affectionate hand on the bald bulbous head saying, “This old chap is the Chinese god of wealth. I sometimes burn a joss stick in front of him.”

  “Mr Lang, it will be difficult for me to work overtime without some notice,” says Ms Tain in a distressed voice. “You got a kid?” asks Tom, looking at her hard.

  “You have nothing at all to do with my private life!” she tells him sharply. He grins approvingly and says, “Quite right! Qui
te right! But ten minutes warning is all I can promise you – enough time to make a few phone calls.” Ms Tain stares at the floor, sighs and murmurs, “Alright.”

  Mrs Campbell returns with coffee.

  “Meet June Tain, our new receptionist,” says Tom, receiving a mug from her.

  “Glad you’re joining us,” says Mrs Campbell, setting the two other mugs on a low table by Ms Tain, who thanks her. Mrs Campbell also sits on a low chair facing the desk.

  “So when can you start?” asks Tom.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “That’s the spirit!” says Tom, and sips coffee, and leans comfortably back, “Better make it Monday though. Mrs Campbell, put the bullet into Marian for Monday will you? I personally will see to Alice. Alice, our leetle receptionist. It wasnae her refusal to do overtime that decided me to get rid of her. I can forgive a girl a lot if she’s decorative. But Alice is fat. I came in yesterday, looked at her and said to myself, “No! No, that is not the image I want to greet the customers of Lang Precision Ltd.”

  Suddenly Mrs Campbell and Ms Tain start speaking at the same time. Both stop, glance at each other, Ms Tain nods, meaning you first. Mrs Campbell says, “Mr Lang, just now Marian takes over from the receptionist during lunch and coffee breaks. Who will take over from Miss Tain? There’s only me or the typist.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” says Ms Tain quickly swallowing some coffee then standing up. “I’m not taking this job.” Both women look at Tom who frowns slightly, pondering a response consistent with dignity. At last he asks on a note of vague curiosity, “Why?”

  Ms Tain, giving him a sudden lovely smile, says “Personal reasons,” and walks out of the room.

  A moment later he strides after her down the corridor calling, “June! Wait a minute June!”

  She keeps walking.

  He says, “Please Miss Tain! Please stop and hear me a moment!”

  She keeps walking. He walks beside her and says quietly, “Listen! I need a receptionist and you need a job.”

 

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