Not Not While the Giro

by Kelman, James

  He enjoyed the wander, stopping off here and there for a smoke or a chat with particular people he was friendly with. Back in the storeroom he brewed a fresh pot of tea and sat down to continue his lunchbreak. He only ate two of the sandwiches.

  Later on in the night a gaffer phoned him with another requisition. He phoned back after when again there was no reply. Eventually he came round in person, to discover the storeman lying on the floor in a coma. He had the storeman rushed off to hospital at once.

  For a fortnight the storeman remained in this coma. They took out all of his blood and filled him up with other blood. They said that a rat, or rats, had urinated on his sandwiches and thus had his entire blood system been poisoned.

  The storeman said he could remember a slight dampness about the sandwiches he had eaten, but that they had definitely not been soggy. He reckoned the warmth of his office may have dried them out a bit. He said when he left them lying on the box he must have forgotten to close the parcel properly. But he was only gone moments. He could not understand it at all. After his period of convalescence they transferred him to a permanent job on the dayshift, across in the machineshop.

  The block

  The body landed at my feet. A short man with stumpy legs. He was staring up at me but though so wide open those eyes were seeing things from which I was excluded, not only excluded from but irrelevant to; things to which I was nonexistent. He had no knowledge of me, had never had occasion to be aware of me. He did not see me although I was staring at him through his eyeballs. I was possibly seeking some sort of reflection. What the hell was he seeing with his eyelids so widely parted. He was seeing nothing. Blood issued from his mouth. He was dead. A dead man on the pavement beneath me – with stumpy legs; a short man with a longish body. I felt his pulse: there was no pulse. I wasnt feeling his pulse at all. I was grasping the wrist of a short man. No longer a wrist. I was grasping an extension, the extension to the left of a block of matter. This block of matter was a man’s body several moments earlier. Unless he had been dead on leaving the window upstairs, in which case a block of matter landed at my feet and I could scarcely even be referred to in connection with ‘it’, with a block of matter describable as ‘it’ – never mind being nonexistent of, or to. And two policemen had arrived. O Jesus, said one, is he dead?

  I was looking at them. The other policeman had knelt to examine the block and was saying: No pulse. Dead. No doubt about it poor bastard. What happened? he addressed me.

  A block of matter landed at my feet.

  What was that?

  The block of matter, it was a man’s body previous to impact unless of course he was out the game prior to that, in which case, in which case a block of matter landed at my feet.

  What happened?

  This, I said and gestured at the block. This; it was suddenly by my feet. I stared into the objects that had formerly been eyes before doing as you did, I grasped the left extension there to . . . see.

  What?

  The pulse. You were saying there was no pulse, but in a sense – well, right enough I suppose you were quite correct to say there was no pulse. I had grasped what I took to be a wrist to find I was grasping the left extension of a block of matter. Just before you arrived. I found that what was a man’s body was in fact a block and

  . . . do you live around here?

  What, aye, yes. Along the road a bit.

  Did you see him falling?

  An impossibility.

  He was here when you got here?

  No. He may have been. He might well have been alive, it I mean. No – he . . . unless of course the . . . I had taken it for granted that it landed when I arrived but it might possibly . . . no, definitely not. I heard the thump. The impact. Of the impact.

  Jesus Christ.

  The other policeman glanced at him and then at me: What’s your id?

  McLeish, Michael. I live along the road a bit.

  Where exactly?

  Number 3.

  And where might you be going at this time of the morning?

  Work, I’m going to work. I’m a milkman.

  The other policeman began rifling through the garments covering the block. And he brought out a wallet and peered into its contents. Robert McKillop, he said, I think his id’s Robert McKillop. I better go up to his house Geordie, you stay here with . . . He indicated me in a vaguely surreptitious manner.

  I’m going to my work, I said.

  Whereabouts?

  Partick.

  The milk depot?

  Aye, yes.

  I know it well. But you better just wait here a minute.

  The policeman idd Geordie leaned against the tenement wall while his mate walked into the close. When he had reappeared he said, Mrs McKillop’s upset – I’ll stay with her meantime Geordie, you better report right away.

  What about this yin here? I mean we know where he works and that.

  Aye . . . the other one nodded at me: On your way. You’ll be hearing from us shortly.

  At the milk depot I was involved in the stacking of crates of milk onto my lorry. One of the crates fell. Broken glass and milk sloshing about on the floor. The gaffer swore at me. You ya useless bastard: he shouted. Get your lorry loaded and get out of my sight.

  I wiped my hands and handed in my notice. Right now, I said, I’m leaving right now.

  What d’you mean you’re leaving! Get that fucking wagon loaded and get on your way.

  No, I’m not here now. I’m no longer . . . I cannot be said to be here as a driver of milk lorries any more. I’ve handed in my notice and wiped my hands of the whole carry on. Morning.

  I walked to the exit. The gaffer coming after me. McArra the checkerman had stopped singing and was gazing at us from behind a row of crates but I could see the cavity between his lips. The gaffer’s hand had grasped my elbow. Listen McLeish, he was saying. You’ve got a job to do. A week’s notice you have to give. Dont think you can just say you’re leaving and then walk out the fucking door.

  I am not here now. I am presently walking out the fucking door.

  Stop when I’m talking to you!

  No. A block of matter landed at my feet an hour ago. I have to be elsewhere. I have to be going now to be elsewhere. Morning.

  Fuck you then. Aye, and dont ever show your face back in this depot again. McArra you’re a witness to this! he’s walking off the job.

  Cheerio McArra. I called: I am, to be going.

  Cheerio McLeish, said the checkerman.

  Outside in the street I had to stop. This was not an ordinary kind of carry on. I had to lean against the wall. I closed my eyelids but it was worse. Spinning into a hundred miles of a distance, this speck. Speck. This big cavity I was inside of and also enclosing and when the eyelids had opened something had been presupposed by something. Thank Christ for that, I said, for that, the something.

  Are you alright son?

  Me . . . I . . . I was . . . I glanced to the side and there was this middle-aged woman standing in a dark coloured raincoat, in a pair of white shoes; a striped headscarf wrapped about her head. And a big pair of glasses, spectacles. She was squinting at me. Dizzy, I said to her, a bit dizzy Mrs – I’m no a drunk man or anything.

  O I didnt think you were son I didnt think you were, else I wouldnt’ve stopped. I’m out for my messages.

  I looked at her. I said: Too early for messages, no shops open for another couple of hours.

  Aye son. But I cant do without a drop of milk in my tea and there was none left when I looked in the cupboard, so here I am. I sometimes get a pint of milk straight from the depot if I’m up early. And I couldnt sleep last night.

  First thing this morning you could’ve called me a milk man, I said while easing myself up from the wall.

  O aye.

  I nodded.

  Will you manage alright now?

  Aye, thanks, cheerio Mrs.

  Cheerio son.

  I was home in my room. A tremendous thumping. I was lying face do
wn on the bed. The thumping was happening to the door. McLeish. McLeish. Michael McLeish! A voice calling the id of me from outside of my room. And this tremendous thumping for the door and calling me by id McLeish! Jesus God.

  Right you are, I shouted. And I pulled the pillow out from under my chin and pulled it down on the top of the back of my head. The thumping had stopped. I closed my eyelids. I got up after a second of that and opened the door.

  We went to the depot, said one, but you’d left by then.

  The second policeman was looking at my eyes. I shut the lids on him. I opened my mouth and said something to which neither answered. I repeated it but still no reply.

  I told your gaffer what’d happened earlier on, said one. He said to tell you to give him a ring and things would be okay. No wonder you were upset. I told him that, the gaffer. Can we come in?

  Can we come in? the other said.

  Aye.

  Can we come in a minute Michael? said the other.

  I opened the door wider and returned to bed. They were standing at the foot of it with their hats in their hands. Then they were lighting cigarettes. A smoke, asked one. Want a smoke?

  Aye. I’m not getting things out properly. I’m just not getting out it all the way. The block as well . . . it wasnt really the block.

  Here . . . The other handed me an already burning cigarette.

  I had it in my mouth. I was smoking. Fine as the smoke was entering my insides. The manner in which smoke enters an empty milk bottle and curls round the inner walls almost making this kind of shinnying noise while it is doing the curling. The other was saying: Nice place this. You’ve got some good pictures on the wall. I like that one there with the big circles. Is it an original?

  Aye, yes. I painted it. I painted it in paint, the ordinary paint. Dulux I mean – that emulsion stuff.

  Christ that’s really good. I didnt know you were a painter.

  It is good right enough, the other said.

  Fingers. I used my pinkies; right and left for the adjacents. You know that way of touching the emulsion. That was what I was doing with the . . . I was . . . and the milk bottle, the milk bottle I suppose.

  But dont let it get you down because the gaffer definitely did say you were to get in touch with him and it would be okay, about the job and that.

  Aye, the other said. The thing is we’ll need to go to the station. Our serjeant wants to hear how it happened with Mr McKillop this morning. How you saw it yourself – witnessed it Michael. We can get a refreshment down there, tea or coffee. Okay? – just shove on your clothes and we’ll get going.

  In the back seat of the patrol car one of them said: I’m not kidding but that painting of yours Michael, it was really good. Were the rest of them yours as well?

  Aye, yes. I was doing painting. I was painting a lot sometimes. On the broo and that, before I started this job. In a sense though . . .

  The policeman was looking at me, between my eyes; onto the bridge of my nose. I closed the eyelids: reddish grey. I could guess what would be going on. The whole of it. The description. A block of matter wasnt it. It would be no good for them – the serjeant, the details of it, the thump of impact. What I was doing and the rest of it. Jesus God. I was painting a lot sometimes, I said to him.

  What’s up?

  Nothing. I’m just not getting the things, a hold . . . sploshing about.

  It had to upset you – dont worry about that.

  Not just the block but. Not just the block that I was . . . Ach.

  I stopped and I was shaking my head. The words werent coming. Nothing at all to come and why the words were never. They cannot come by themselves. They can come by themselves. Without, not without. The anything. They can do it but only with it, the anything. What the fuck is the anything; that something. A particular set of things maybe.

  Open the window a bit, the other said. Give him a breath of fresh air. Gets hell of a stuffy in here. And refreshments when we get there.

  A wee room inside the station I was walked into. A policeman and a serjeant following. I was to sit at a table with the serjeant to be facing me. And he saying: I just want you to tell me what it was happened earlier on. In your own words Mr McLeish.

  A block of matter, it was at my feet. I was . . . I glanced at the serjeant to add, I couldnt be said to be there in a sense. A thump of impact and the block of matter.

  A block of matter, he replied after a moment. Yes I know what you’re meaning about that. Mr McKillop was dead and so you didnt see him that way; you just saw him as a kind of shape – is that right, is that what you’re meaning?

  You could – I mean I could, be said to – no. No, I was walking and the thump, the block.

  You were walking to work?

  Aye, yes.

  And the next thing, wham? the body lands at your feet?

  No. In a sense though you . . . No, though; I was walking, thump, the block of matter. And yet – he was a short man, stumpy legs, longish body. And less then – less than, less than immediately a block of matter. Eyes. The objects that had been eyes. Jesus no. Not had been eyes at all. They were never eyes. Never ever had been eyes for the block. McKillop’s eyes those objects had been part of. Part of the eyes. And I looked into them and they were not eyes. Just bits – bits of the block.

  Look son I’m sorry, I know you’re . . . The serjeant was glancing at the policeman. And his eyes!

  Your gaze is quizzical: I said.

  Ho. Quizzical is it!

  Aye, yes.

  And what is my gaze now then?

  He was looking at me then I was looking out at him. He began looking at the policeman. Without words, both talking away. I said, It doesnt matter anyhow.

  What doesnt matter?

  Nothing, the anything.

  The serjeant stood up: I’ll be back in a minute. He went out and came back in again carrying 3 cartons of tea and a folder under his arm. Tea Mr McLeish, he said, breaking and entering 1968, 69. But you said nothing about that though eh!

  I grasped the carton of tea.

  So, he continued while being seated. Out walking at the crack of dawn and wham, a block called McKillop lands at your feet.

  That’ll do, I said.

  What’ll do?

  The serjeant was staring at my nose. I could have put an index finger inside. He was speaking to me. It’s okay son breaking and entering has nothing to do with it, I just thought I’d mention it. We’re not thinking you were doing anything apart from going to your work. A bit early right enough but that’s when milk men go about. Mrs McKillop told us her end and you’re fine.

  Serjeant?

  What?

  Nothing.

  After a moment he nodded: Away you go home. It’s our job to know you were done in 68 69. A boy then but and I can see you’ve changed. A long time ago and Geordie tells me you’ve a steady job now driving the milk lorries and you’ve a good hobby into the bargain so – you’re fine. And I dont think we’ll need to see you again. But if we do I’ll send somebody round. Number 3 it is eh? Aye, right you are. The serjeant stood up again and said to the policeman: Let him finish his tea.

  Okay serj.

  Fine. Cheerio then son, he said to me.

  Jim dandy

  So grateful to awaken to morning, even seeing the state of the dump. Very early as usual after a drink the night before. Such an erection, the immediate need to urinate. Nothing at all in the house bar a scrimp of cheese whose wrapping paper alone turns me off. And black coffee it has to be. Huddled in front of the electric fire, the uncomfortable heat, my trouser cuffs hanging then burning my skin when I sit back. On the second smoke with the same coffee I feel better though it is possible she will die in childbirth and I to rear the kid by myself.

  The newsagent has me stay for tea which we sip munching chocolate biscuits, she wanting to find out the latest information. But how will I manage to earn a living. How is it to be done. The child being taken away from me. Or me having to give it away.


  Back upstairs with the morning paper and for some reason I brush my teeth and follow with a smooth shave – the Visiting. And I dress like that, then later have a bath in the public washhouse. And consider a haircut.

  She is so pleased to see me: Looking so spruce. Proud of me in front of the other women. They see me as a man against their own. Maybe they dont. I nod to certain among them I recognise and also to the man three beds along who wants a boy definitely, if possible. Being told about the state of the dump cheers her up. She really wants to come home, I want that so much I dont speak. Neither of us thinks of returning a trio. On the bus home I think of that. And later I wander round to her mother’s with the news and borrow two quid and my dinner. And a couple of pints with my father-in-law. She’s a good lassie, he says to me, a bit like her maw in some ways but no too bad son. Always had her eye on you you know, even when yous were weans together. Aye, and me going to be a granpa as well.

  Me a father.

  Aye. Jesus Christ. Hey Bertie, stick us a couple of Castellas eh. Aye and listen son, dont let her maw upset you. She likes you well enough.

  I know that.

  Aye. Aye, well. All the best son, cheers . . . And he gives me a fiver when we split, pushing it into the top pocket of my jacket, embarrassed. Claps me on the shoulder. He likes me okay and I like him and the mother-in-law is alright. He knows that because me and his daughter share the same bed sex has to happen. Maybe he regrets all the dirty jokes with his workmates or something.

  Back at the hospital nothing is doing. The feeling that they were all enjoying the female banter before us crowd showed up. The looks from the staff. I am too sensitive. They arent really men haters. If you see what they have to see and so on. My aggression just. I shake her hand to leave but she gets me awake by demanding a kiss, it brings us together. Her smell. She hates to see me walking out of the place and when I get to the door I glimpse her, small there, watching me go. Fuck it. The protective male. Is what sickens the nurses maybe. Apart from me. It is just a fact. I cannot change, all that much.