Not Not While the Giro

by Kelman, James

  I’m away now Uncle Archie.

  What’s up Danny boy?

  Nothing. I’m just away home . . . He turned to go then said loudly: But I’ll no tell my mother.

  He pushed out through the men. He had to get out. Uncle Archie called after him but on he strode sidestepping his way beyond the crowded bar area.

  Twenty minutes before the train would leave. In the waiting room he sat by the door and watched for any sign of his uncle. It was quite quiet in the station, considering there had been a game during the afternoon. He found an empty section in a compartment of the train, closed the door and all of the windows, and opened the cigarette packet. The automatic doors shut. He stared back the way until the train had entered a bend in the track then stretched out, reaching his feet over onto the seat opposite. He closed his eyes. But had to open them immediately. He sat up straight, he dropped the cigarette on the floor and then lifted it up and opened the window to throw it out; he shut the window and sat down, resting his head on the back of the seat, he gazed at the floor. The train crashed on beneath the first bridge.

  The chief thing about this game

  McGraty had to wait outside the door for a while. Then the foreman called him in and explained the job he was putting him to work on. He took him to the machine and left him with the man there. Show him the ropes Tony, he added.

  Tony glanced at McGraty. I thought they were sending a young fellow. I dont mean you’re old or nothing.

  McGraty shrugged.

  Just stand and watch for the time being. And I might as well tell you, these shoes you’re wearing, they’re fucking hopeless. And the safety helmet. Surprised he allowed you in here without one.

  Tony had picked up a pair of enormous heavy-duty clamps while he was speaking. He positioned himself at a point to the side of the machine. Over the top McGraty could see the head of another man bobbing about now and again.

  A banging noise. Tony had crouched, staring into the machine. Slowly a copper bar of some 6 feet in length and 8 inches square issued out from between rollers. It was white hot. Tony caught the end of it in the clamps once enough of the copper bar was showing and he allowed it to come forwards until it appeared set to clatter to the floor. But it stopped at the edge with his weight balancing it from the protruding end. He lowered this end onto a small metal trolley he manoeuvred into position with his right foot. He moved backwards so that the bar came off the rollers and dropped. Still with the clamps on the end he pushed it forwards into a different part of the machine and soon the bar disappeared through other rollers. Stepping back and to his left a pace Tony wiped his brow with his sleeve. The copper bar now issued from a different pair of rollers; it was much longer and narrower, and a great deal less hot than before. He pushed it into another place; he exchanged his clamps for a lighter pair, and wiped his brow. He glanced at McGraty. The process was repeated. He glanced at McGraty who nodded.

  The banging noise. Tony crouched nearer the machine, and turned his back to it with the clamps poised slightly above. He muttered, Watch this bit.

  McGraty also crouched a little.

  There was a gap the size of a mouse-hole about a foot above the metal plated floor. Suddenly a wire thrust its way out and was caught by Tony who had immediately begun trotting to the rhythm of its movement in the direction of a sort of kerb twelve yards off. The wire still issued from the rollers. Upon reaching the kerb he thrust the wire straight into a narrow tunnel through it, and jumped over the kerb with the momentum of his trot. The tunnel was angled so that the wire was coming out directly across to where another man was standing at a smaller machine some thirty yards away.

  Tony had returned. He was smoking a cigarette. Barely glancing at McGraty he asked if he had ever done any work on a roller before. McGraty shook his head: I was in the building game.

  Tony frowned.

  I never said I had on the form. McGraty shrugged, They told me there was six weeks probation so it can be learned.

  Aye . . . He put the cigarette in his mouth and collected the heavy-duty clamps. I’ll let you have a go before tea-break. Where’s your gloves by the way?

  Gloves?

  Jesus Christ.

  They never said anything about it.

  You cant expect to work the clamps without the fucking things. Tony shook his head and strode round the machine, out of sight; he came back with the man who worked the copper bar from the other side and motioned McGraty over. He said: Tell him what you’ve just told me. About the gloves and that.

  McGraty shrugged.

  And the helmet, tell him about the safety helmet.

  They never said fuck all about it either. And the boots, nothing about them.

  Aye you’ll have to buy them, said the other man, cause they dont supply them. Get them out the First Aid room. They cost a few quid right enough, but it gets deducted every week, it’s no too bad. And the boots’re okay, eh Tony?

  Aye, no bad.

  Wear them to the fucking dancing if you like, grinned the man.

  McGraty also smiled, and he took a half smoked cigarette from behind his ear and struck a match for it.

  Okay, said Tony, time for another yin.

  McGraty had frowned and taken the cigarette out of his mouth, he studied it: Tastes like sugar or something.

  Tony had not heard, and the other man was already out of sight behind the machine. An overhead crane was arriving with another copper bar which was white hot, straight out of the furnace at the bottom end of the factory floor. McGraty took another drag on the cigarette then stubbed it out.

  After tea-break Tony came with a pair of old gloves he had found; the stitching was out in places. He shrugged. All I could find. Sort it out with the gaffer when you see him next.

  McGraty pulled them on without replying. He lifted the heavy-duty clamps and stood exactly where Tony had earlier. The banging. The copper bar showed. He got the clamps round its end and dragged it out to its other end. He stood for a moment, then Tony kicked the metal trolley towards him. He nodded, manoeuvring the trolley into position with his right foot and the copper bar dropped to it, the clamps fell out of his hands and the copper bar clattered onto the trolley, turning it over and bouncing once. McGraty and Tony had jumped clear. Tony looked at him. What did you let it drop for?

  My fingers were fucking burning. Fucking gloves. McGraty shook his head.

  Tony was walking out from the area, he cupped his hand round his mouth and shouted: Heh Shug, Shug. A lift. Heh.

  Seconds later the overhead crane began moving, it made a rattling noise across the ceiling and the driver let the big hook down when it arrived. Using the clamps Tony got one end of the copper bar off the floor and kicked the hook round it. The crane raised it to sufficient height for the trolley to be pushed beneath, then the hook was withdrawn and the crane rattled back down to the furnace. Tony nodded to McGraty who stepped forwards and took the clamps, fixing them round the tip of the copper bar but as he was pushing it closer to the machine the toe of his right shoe nudged it and burst into flames. He screamed as he jumped back. He stubbed and scraped the shoe on the floor until the flames went out. Tony doused the smouldering part with water from a milk bottle. I told you about boots, he muttered.

  The man from behind the machine was standing watching, he smiled and walked forwards saying, Fun and games eh!

  Tony made no answer but passed him and called on the cranedriver to return. When the copper bar was back on the trolley the other man said, No use, too fucking cold.

  Aw christ. Tony shook his head and lit a fresh cigarette.

  Dont worry, said the man, we’ve got a learner remember. Just dock it off the timesheet.

  Aye. Tony instructed the cranedriver and soon the copper bar was being returned to the furnace.

  McGraty was leaning against the wall at the rear of the machine. The other man grinned: Hot in here eh? Come on, we’ll have a fucking bevy . . . He waved him to follow. Round on his own side he brought a thick brown bottl
e out of a small metal cupboard and after swigging a mouthful handed it to Tony who also swigged from it before handing it to McGraty. Tony said: Just take a sip, it’s concentrated stuff, replaces the sweat or some fucking thing.

  Good with vodka, said the other. Bring in a bottle the morrow and we’ll give it a buzz.

  McGraty half smiled; he smelled it. Lime. He nodded and sipped some, passed it back to the other man and pointed to his cigarette: This tastes like sugar.

  Aye. Tony nodded, Well, ready for another crack at it?

  McGraty looked at him.

  The overhead crane was withdrawing a new copper bar from the furnace. The other man said, You’ll be alright as long as you dont panic, that’s the chief thing about this game.

  I didnt fucking panic.

  Fair enough. You’re still best to dive right in but. Otherwise it can start building up in you.

  Tony nodded. And the other man continued, I’ve seen a new guy do what you do and then no try it till later. By that time he was fucked, the nerve gone and that; you’re best to give it a go the now instead of hanging about just thinking.

  Aye, said Tony.

  McGraty exhaled smoke, he shook his head. Naw, no me, no till I get the right gear.

  The other two men exchanged glances. Tony muttered, Well you better go and tell the gaffer.

  Just now?

  Aye. Tony shrugged. No point standing watching me all day if you’re no even going to attempt the thing.

  If I had the right gear I would.

  You better tell the gaffer.

  Fine, suits me.

  A woman was in the office; she had a bundle of papers under one arm and she was waiting for the gaffer to sign a form. McGraty stayed outside until she left. He chapped the door. He chapped again and entered immediately. The gaffer gazed up at him from his chair behind a desk. My shoes, said McGraty, they’re hopeless. Look what happened to this yin . . . and he displayed the burnt toe. I need steel toe-caps.

  The gaffer nodded.

  Same with the gloves. Look at this . . . McGraty showed the burst seams: No good, these bars are red hot. I dont know how that guy, Tony – I dont know how he manages just with his hands. I mean christ sake, even with these . . . And the bloody heat, it’s murder polis so it is.

  The gaffer nodded. The First Aid. You get all the gloves and that down there. The boots too.

  I’ve got boots in the house.

  Have you?

  Aye.

  Well. Fine. Okay then . . . The gaffer glanced at a printed piece of paper before him.

  Will I go to the First Aid or what?

  For the gloves?

  Aye. And the safety helmet, the guy told me I needed one.

  Oh christ aye, aye. You’ve got to keep it on too. At all times. Mind and tell the rest of them to stick to that. Hell of a important. The fucking Safety Officer does his nut if he catches anybody without it. Naw, you’ll have to mind and wear it, at all times.

  McGraty nodded.

  At the dinner-break he left the other men and went along to the canteen, finding a space beside a group from a different factory section. He took out his sandwiches, he had bought a cup of tea at the counter. One of the men began talking to him for a spell. Later he borrowed a Daily Record and when the man noticed he was reading the racing section he indicated a boy across at another table. The young yin, said the man, he carries a line to the betting shop if you’re interested.

  Good . . . McGraty nodded and resumed the study. When he was leaving he stopped by the table and scribbled the ids of his horses on the back of an empty cigarette packet, and gave the boy 55 pence with it. It’s a comedy bet son, you want me to write it for you?

  The boy shrugged.

  McGraty returned him the pencil.

  I’ll bring you the copy at the break later, whereabouts you working?

  That machine with all the rollers.

  What . . . The boy moved his chair out and looked down at McGraty’s shoes, he grinned and called to the others at the table. Heh, it’s the new guy from the roller!

  The others got up to see McGraty’s shoe. He smiled, Some fucking job eh?

  They were amused. McGraty scratched his head.

  A copper bar had just been delivered. McGraty was standing near the wall, watching Tony prepare to receive it through the rollers. The cranedriver shouted on him. When he walked beyond the machine the man said: Is it you’s got the good start to your line?

  What?

  I heard you’d a good start to your line?

  Me?

  So I heard, 10’s and 16’s, your first two.

  Is that right?

  Aye, as far as I hear . . . The cranedriver pressed a button and his machine moved off, back down towards the furnace. McGraty gazed after it for a moment. From behind the roller the other man called, You’ve knocked it off eh?

  McGraty shrugged, I’ll believe it when I see it.

  Ah they’ll no con you. It’ll be gen.

  You sure?

  Aye . . . The man stopped when the banging noise was heard. McGraty returned to the other side of the roller in time to see Tony thrusting the bar back inside. He took out a cigarette, he chuckled quietly, briefly; he flipped the match away and exhaled smoke, he watched Tony moving to the next position.

  Remember Young Cecil

  Young Cecil is medium sized and retired. For years he has been undisputed champion of our hall. Nowadays that is not saying much. This pitch has fallen from grace lately. John Moir who runs the place has started letting some of the punters rent a table Friday and Saturday nights to play Pontoons, and as an old head pointed out the other day: that is it for any place, never mind Porter’s.

  In Young Cecil’s day it had one of the best reputations in Glasgow. Not for its decoration or the rest of it. But for all round ability Porter’s regulars took some beating. Back in these days we won the ‘City’ eight years running with Young Cecil Number 1 and Wee Danny backing up at Number 2. You could have picked any four from ten to make up the rest of the team. Between the two of them they took the lot three years running; snooker singles and doubles, and billiards the same. You never saw that done very often.

  To let you know just how good we were, John Moir’s big brother Tam could not even get into the team except if we were short though John Moir would look at you as if you were daft if you said it out loud. He used to make out Tam, Young Cecil and Wee Danny were the big three. Nonsense. One or two of us had to put a stop to that. We would have done it a hell of a lot sooner if Wee Danny was still living because Young Cecil has a habit of not talking. All he does is smile. And that not very often either. I have seen Frankie Sweeney’s boy come all the way down here just to say hello; and what does Young Cecil do but give him a nod and at the most a how’s it going without even a id nor nothing. But that was always his way and Frankie Sweeney’s boy still drops in once or twice yet. The big noises remember Cecil. And some of the young ones. Tam! – never mind John Moir – Young Cecil could have gave Tam forty and potting only yellows still won looking round. How far.

  Nowadays he can hardly be annoyed even saying hello. But he was never ignorant. Always the same.

  I mind the first time we clapped eyes on him. Years ago it was. In those days he used to play up the Y.M., but we knew about him. A hall’s regulars kind of keep themselves to themselves and yet we had still heard of this young fellow that could handle a stick. And with a first id like Cecil nobody needed to know what his last one was. Wee Danny was the Number 1 at the time. It is not so good as all that being Number 1 cause you have got to hand out big starts otherwise you are lucky to get playing, never mind for a few bob – though there are always the one or two who do not bother about losing a couple of bob just so long as they get a game with you.

  Wee Danny was about twenty seven or thirty in those days but no more than that. Well, this afternoon we were hanging around. None of us had a coin – at least not for playing with. During the week it was. One or two of us were knockin
g them about on Table 3, which has always been the table in Porter’s. Even John Moir would not dream of letting anyone mess about on that one. There were maybe three other tables in use at the time but it was only mugs playing. Most of us were just chatting or studying form and sometimes one would carry a line up to Micky at the top of the street. And then the door opened and in comes this young fellow. He walks up and stands beside us for a wee while. Then: Anybody fancy a game? he says.

  We all looks at one another but at Wee Danny in particular and then we bursts out laughing. None of you want a game then? he says.

  Old Porter himself was running the place in those days. He was just leaning his elbows on the counter in his wee cubby-hole and sucking on that falling-to-bits pipe of his. But he was all eyes in case of bother.

  For a couple of bob? says the young fellow.

  Well we all stopped laughing right away. I do not think Wee Danny had been laughing at all; he was just sitting up on the ledge dangling his feet. It went quiet for a minute then Hector Parker steps forward and says that he would give the young fellow a game. Hector was playing 4 stick at that time and hitting not a bad ball. But the young fellow just looks him up and down. Hector was a big fat kind of fellow. No, says the young yin. And he looks round at the rest of us. But before he can open his mouth Wee Danny is off the ledge and smartly across.

  You Young Cecil from the Y.M.?

  Aye, says the young fellow.

  Well I’m Danny Thompson. How much you wanting to play for?

  Fiver.

  Very good. Wee Danny turns and shouts: William . . .

  Old Porter ducks beneath the counter right away and comes up with Danny’s jar. He used to keep his money in a jam-jar in those days. And he had a good few quid in there at times. Right enough sometimes he had nothing.