Every Short Story by Alasdair Gray 1951-2012

by Gray, Alasdair

  Don’t be fooled by that one. Tell him everything costs more in London, especially the bedsits.

  “Perfectly true, which is why London wages are higher too. But not everywhere. If you decide to come to London contact me first. And now I’ll drive you home.”

  He does not try to touch on his way to the car or inside it, and stays in his seat on arriving. Not inviting himself in, he sits with hand on wheel smiling sideways. Think of saying thank you, good night, but instead ask him in. The loving is surprisingly good. He seems shy at first, not embarrassingly shy but charmingly shy, responds vigorously to hints, pleasuring first a long time with fingers and then with tongue, murmuring, “With this instrument I also make my money.”

  He pulls a condom on later saying, “I’m thinking of your health. You don’t know where I’ve been.” Feel safe with him. Have known nobody make love as long as he does. Say so. He says, “We share a talent for this. Let’s do it again soon.”

  Yes do it again soon.

  Of course his money smooths things. The second night starts with a meal in the Shandon Buttery costing more than a (not his) weekly wage, on the third night another ditto at One Devonshire Gardens, fourth night ditto in Central Hotel after the disco. Dislike these meals, excepting the starters and sweets. The main course is always too fancy, too sauced, too spiced. Never say so. And all the time he is kind, polite, funny, telling stories about people whose faces are seen, names and voices are heard on the news. His stories could never be told on the news, make giggle they are so stupid, blush they are so dirty, madden with rage they are so unfair like the Duke of Westminster and asbestosis. He seems to stand outside the dark tank of an aquarium full of weird cruel filthy comic fish, shining a light onto each in turn, explaining with humour but also with a touch of regret how greedy and wasteful they are. He never explains how he knows them so well, never talks about himself, but always about them, the others. Maybe he learned about them as he learned about Mum, Dad, the boss, by asking their daughters and employees. If asked about himself he gives a crisp reply in words that sound definite but say nothing definite. Ask where he lives.

  “London, half the year, but which half is problematic. I go where the firm needs me: Scotland just now.”

  Ask where he is staying in Glasgow.

  “I’m a guest of people who called in my firm. It’s one of the ways I learn things, so I run away to you whenever I can.”

  Ask about Systems Analysis.

  “We unstick thing in businesses where things have got stuck. We also advise on mergers and acquisitions. It’s all perfectly honest and above board. We’re a registered company. Look us up in the directory if you don’t believe me.”

  Ask what he does.

  “At present I work mainly with newspapers – not for them, with them, because papers involve advertising, hence marketing. All very complicated.”

  Sigh, hating to be treated as an idiot. Ask if he works in accountancy, computer programming or time management.

  “Yes, these are all part of it, but what I do best (and with considerable aplomb) is kick bums.”

  Ask if that means he sacks people. He chuckles and says, “Of course not, this is England! – I beg your pardon, Britain. Above a certain income level nobody gets sacked in Britain. My kicking simply shifts the bums to where they don’t block things. If you want the details you should take a course in business management at London University, where I’ll end up as a visiting lecturer if I’m not careful. My work pays a lot more than yours does, but in the long run is just as disgustingly boring. Perhaps more so.”

  Yet he is never short-tempered or depressed, always gentle, considerate, amusing, apologetic, letting no harshness or dulness appear, though it must exist. All folk have a nasty side which usually appears at the second or third meeting, if not the first. His appears on the fourth.

  He calls at the bedsit between seven and eight and says with his usual humorous apologetic smile, “That dress won’t do, I’m afraid.”

  Ask why.

  “It looks cheap – doesn’t suit you. Wear what you wore at the wedding. I insist.”

  Angry and cheapened, find no words to say no.

  While undressing, redressing he sits watching closely. Know you are exciting him. Grow slightly excited. Before dressing is finished he stands and comes to you, makes love at once fast. Don’t enjoy it much. He sighs and says, “That was our best time yet, I suppose you noticed?”

  Agree. Finish dressing. Resignedly display yourself.

  “Perfect! You suit the Cinderella look. Let’s be different tonight. Where would you go for fun if you didn’t know me? A disco?”

  Take him to a disco where he dances a bit stiffly but well, considering his age. Like it that others (especially Tall Jenny) see him twisting before, around, beside in that well-cut suit, perfect shirt, tie flapping, fine blond hair flapping, and still the modest amused little smile.

  “I’m whacked – need to stand still for a bit. But you’re young – please go on dancing. I’m not a jealous type, I’ll enjoy watching you dance.”

  Smile at him, pleased. Dance with a handsome gay in biker leathers. This is more fun as gay is better dancer and now have the pleasure of two partners, this Hunky Harry and him watching. Suddenly see him dancing nearby with Tall Jenny, most obviously attractive woman in the room. Are a little hurt but don’t show it. Smile at them, twice, though they seem not to see. Never mind. Please go on dancing. Thanks mister, I will.

  And suddenly enjoy it! For being with him (only notice this now) is a strain when not loving. Can never forget he is posh English, knows more about everything, is keeping a lot back so must think himself superior. Dance with boys who like dancing, like life without feeling superior. Have no shortage of partners, hooray for the ordinary! But while drinking a lime juice with a girl friend at the bar see him talking to Hunky Harry and laughing in a way that makes him look ordinary too, and much nicer. Stare at him, wanting him. He notices, stops laughing, comes over with his usual little smile and says, “Time to leave.”

  Are delighted. Truly delighted. Feared had lost him.

  But both are quiet in the car as he drives to the Central Hotel, so something is wrong. Both are quiet because he is quiet, for it is always he who directs the talk or deals it out. Is he angry? Have done nothing wrong, unless it was wrong enjoying dancing with someone else. He is probably tired. Nearly midnight, now. Surprised the Central is still open.

  Without a nod to the doorman he leads up broad shallow carpeted stairs to a lounge empty but for an elderly American-looking couple in a far corner. He tells a waiter, “This place seems quiet enough. Could you serve us a meal here?”

  “Certainly sir, I’ll fetch a menu.”

  “No need. This young lady wants nothing but a goodly selection of sandwiches and I will have **********.” (French words.)

  “I’m afraid the last is not available sir. The menu will show you what we can provide just now. We have …”

  “Get me the manager.”

  “The manager is not available sir.”

  “Don’t pretend to be stupid. You know I want whoever is in bloody charge here just now.”

  He has not lost his temper, has not raised his voice, but it has grown so distinct that the Americans look alarmed. The waiter leaves and returns with another man in a black dinner-suit who says, “I’m sorry sir but the situation is this: the day chef retires at 10.45 and the night chef …”

  “I did not come here for instruction in the mysteries of hotel management, I came because this used to be a good hotel, I happen to be hungry, and have a taste for **********, whose ingredients are now dormant in your kitchen. I mean to pay what it costs to have them expertly prepared. There is nothing to discuss. I am not going to explain, plead or bully you, so please don’t use those tactics on me. Understood?”

  He has not lost his temper. He looks at the headwaiter or under-manager or whoever this man is with a fixed halfsmile containing no amusement or apology. The h
eadwaiter or under-manager, his face paler than it was, says after a pause, “You are not a resident here sir?”

  “No, nor ever likely to be. I promise this is the last time you will see me here, so do the wise thing and send up what I order?”

  He says this softly, cooingly, teasingly, smiling almost sleepily as if at a joke the man before him is bound to share. The man before him, looking very pale, suddenly nods and walks away.

  “One moment!” cries the Englishman – the headwaiter or under-manager turns – “I will have a bottle of ********** along with it.”

  Keep silent, though he watches sideways now. Was all that done to impress? Are chilled, embarrassed, disgusted, only glad the Americans have stopped staring, are leaving. Sigh. He looks away. A long silence happens. He murmurs as if to himself, “Sometimes one has to be firm.”

  The barman pulls down a grille over the bar, locks it and leaves. He murmurs, “They’ll probably take hours, just to be awkward.”

  The waiter brings the selection of sandwiches. Have no appetite but nibble half of one, then leave it. Later, from boredom, slowly finish it and then all the rest. Eventually the waiter serves him with a plate containing slips of meat half sunk in reddish gravy with a sweet heavy sickly smell. He looks hard at it, murmurs, “I don’t think they’ve spat in it,” and eats. After some forkfuls he says, “Yum yum. Well worth waiting for.”

  Are driven home, arrive about one thirty a.m. bored, tired, disliking him. In the silence when he stops the car and smiles sideways you want not to invite him in tonight but are about to do it as usual when he says, “Listen, I’m sorry about tonight. It started the best yet but ended badly. Nobody was to blame. Perhaps we need a rest from each other. Anyway, tomorrow night I have to see people, and the night after. Suppose we meet the night after that? You choose where.”

  Suggest lounge of the Grosvenor.

  “Fine! Half seven, then.”

  Go upstairs yawning and wondering (without much pain) if tomorrow night he will bed Tall Jenny or Hunky Harry, since obviously he can get anyone, anything he wants. Only wish had called off tomorrow before he did. But next day these ideas become a torment, why? Why care for someone so dislikeable? But he has usually been loving, gentle, pleasant, why dislike him? Is it bad to call out a hotel chef late at night if you pay the hotel enough to compensate for the extra trouble? When the bill came he glanced at it, grimaced slightly, wrote a cheque and gave it to the waiter without looking at him. And the waiter, glancing at it, became less stiff and expressionless, said, “Thank you very much sir,” in a low voice, so he had been well tipped. One dull night after three lovely exciting nights is not bad, though he is far too obsessed with ragged jeans.

  So here in the Grosvenor, ten minutes early, are dressed in a different high-heeled Cinderella way because that excites him, so slightly excited and hopeful too. Buy a lime juice, and for him a Macallan, the first thing you have ever bought him. Sit facing the door, whisky on table beside your lime juice and wait. And wait. And wait.

  He arrives at half past eight, not smiling, and sits beside you muttering, “Detained. Unavoidable.”

  He sips the whisky, pulls a face, says, “What is this?”

  Tell him.

  “Are you sure?”

  Tell him that was what you ordered.

  “They’ve watered it.”

  Silence. Tell him something funny the boss did today. He nods twice and sighs. Silence. Ask him how his own work is going.

  “Rottenly.”

  Say you are sorry.

  “A woman of few words.”

  Ask why things have gone rottenly.

  “I am sick of your unending probing into my personal affairs. If you have not already noticed I dislike that trait in women you are not just stupid, you are a cretin. A cretin may be good for three nights fucking in a filthy hole like Glasgow but three nights is the limit. Remember that.”

  He has not lost his temper. He stands and goes out, leaving the whisky almost untasted.

  INTERNAL MEMORANDUM

  TO : LUMLEY

  FROM : LESLEY

  The following will seem bad-tempered and in fact is. It says what I meant to raise at yesterday’s meeting but my only chance came at the end when Phimister said, “Is there any further business?” and Henry Pitt (looking at me out of the corner of his eye) said, “No, I think that’s everything,” and suddenly I felt too tired. I seem the only manager in this firm who is allowed – indeed expected – to complain about practical everyday details. When I start doing it our directors exchange little smiles, stop listening and retreat into private dreamlands. They think everyday practical details are not their business but the business of Mulgrew the buildings manager and Tramworth the accountant. Nobody, not even Mulgrew, denies that what I ask to be done ought to be done, but only he and Tramworth can authorize it so it is never done. I have raised items on this list at meetings from last month to years ago. You joined us less than two months ago so the first and longest item on the list may strike you as an accident. I assure you that something of the sort happens every winter.

  1 Heat. Monday was bloody cold. I asked Mulgrew to do something about this. He agreed to turn up the thermostat a little but not much because part of upstairs was already warm – the part where he and Tramworth have their office. Soon after 10 a.m. I noticed it was cold. When this happens I know others are freezing, so tried to find Mulgrew with the usual results. He had gone to the Sauchiehall Street depot, but when I phoned there he had just left it and nobody knew where he was supposed to be. By this time people on my floor were asking me to do something about the cold and I actually met people from upstairs who were touring the building in search of heat. I phoned Mulgrew’s office again and got Tramworth. He suggested I tell people to work harder or jump up and down in order to stay warm. I refrained from telling him this should be his job as it was his staff who were touring the building and on whose behalf I was trying to contact Mulgrew. I suppose people ask help from me instead of their own managers because I do not treat everyone with complaints as if they are troublemakers. Mulgrew appeared around lunch time. Either Tramworth did not tell him the problem or he ignored it. I caught him before he left the building a second time. He did go to the thermostat then and discovered it had been turned down from 30 to 16 degrees before he turned it up. Since only he can have turned it down how he made this mistake escapes me. During the afternoon the place slowly warmed. People were and are annoyed about this because:

  (a) The discomfort stops them working properly, making them feel useless as well as frozen.

  (b) Heating is decided by people who are outside the building, or cocooned in an office when in it.

  (c) This has been going on for years.

  2 The route to the emergency exit is as badly blocked as ever. Mulgrew is our fire safety officer as well as buildings manager, so draws an extra salary to stop that kind of thing happening. He can stop it by ordering new storage racks. I wish he was less friendly with the local fire precautions inspector. Mulgrew always knows when a thorough inspection will happen so the inspector never sees the usual state of the place. Sometimes, (like today), the inspector calls in without warning, but in that case (like today) he never looks at the emergency exit. God help us if we have a fire when a thorough inspection has not been scheduled.

  3 The top tread of the stairs is still as loose as when Mrs Macleod tripped and fell down them. You may remember the doctor said she was lucky not to have broken her back. Senior management seem to think a handwritten warning notice has solved the problem for the foreseeable future, but one day we might have a short-sighted visitor. The other treads also need attention.

  4 Nothing has been done about the window behind Helen Scrimgeour’s desk. Its dangerous state was first reported a year ago.

  5 Handrail on the spiral staircase is loose.

  6 Radiators in the ladies’ loo are not turned on.

  7 Heatscreens. (Outstanding for two years.)

  8 A lig
ht in the loading bay. (Outstanding for more than two years.)

  Of course you know the reasons for the above. The directors’ offices are in the George Square depot, so they are glad to spend as little as possible on maintaining and keeping comfortable a building never noticed by the general public. Yet most of the firm’s employees work in this dirty old building, which houses the most profitable part of their business. Can Phimister and Henry Pitt not see that every hundred pounds saved on heating means that a hundred people do two thirds of the work they would normally do?

  I realize this letter is not fair to you, Lumley. The directors and senior management have put you here to protect them from this kind of information. It embarrasses them to hear about staff problems from the mouths of the staff, they do not want to know about our problems at all. We are learning to handle the new computer which, properly used, should make us more efficient. While learning we must go on handling orders and dispatches in the old way, which makes us even less efficient. Since the directors and senior management know nothing about computers they thought everything would at once improve, not get worse, as soon as they bought one, so now they are trying to avoid paying for anything else. But why does Henry Pitt insist on handling all incoming mail and send every tiny complaint straight to my staff after marking it top priority – attend to this at once? They spend hours making sure that a garage in Stromness or Brighton gets a single free replacement while factories in the Midlands are kept waiting, though they have ordered 500 and paid for them in advance. Henry Pitt’s grandfather founded this firm, he is a major shareholder and has been with it all his life, but his only management experience is with our depots. He should send all orders and complaints straight to me and Mrs Mcleod, who’ve been working here for fifteen years so know the priorities. The staff here sometimes feel that the directors and senior management are conspiring to STOP us doing the work they employ us to do. The idea is insane but that is what we sometimes feel, though they have probably just lost interest in us.