You’ll have to wait till I collect my things, she answered; I’ll meet you at the door.
The guy with my two quid in his breast pocket was standing pretending not to have noticed me there hanging about with my bag. She came along carrying an enormous suitcase. Jesus, must be emigrating or something.
Pardon?
Your suitcase – looks like it contains the life possessions.
O. I was staying with friends over the week. Just got back this evening. She pointed at my effort.
I nodded: Deceiving bag this. Takes everything, all of the chattels. Good buy. Got it in a sale a couple of years back. Strong stuff it’s made out of.
I held the door open and we went upstairs. The rain still drizzling down. I could not think of where to go for allnight snackbars. There is one, she said, not too far.
Suitcase – it looks heavy. I’ll take a hold of it for you, eh?
No, I can manage.
What a surprise.
Pardon?
Nothing . . . I was just . . . I’m starving. While since I ate anything.
While she was walking she looked straight ahead, and always somehow half a pace in front or behind me. Buildings and basements and the rest of it: none of this interested her whatsoever. On she went. A place near Charlotte Street. I ordered the grub. No words spoken during the eating. I made to get another two cups of tea but she said: No – not for me.
There were other people in the snackbar, many were chatting and she must have been aware of this in relation to herself and the situation because she began glancing at the door.
Well, I said.
I better be going home.
I know that. Nothing else of course. I wasnt worrying about that.
We’re not supposed to be out late, she said.
Late by Christ it must be near – Ach, doesnt matter.
Outside the snackbar she was set to go off alone. Half turning to me she said: Thanks.
No bother. Hang on and I’ll get you home. And dont worry. I’m not . . .
Honestly, she said, I’ll make it all right on my own. I dont live far from here. Bye.
Too much for me. Absolute nonsense. Far too much. Plate of chips and a cup of tea I mean that was precisely the case and nothing else involved. Same as the walking home, passes the time. I’m not, Jesus, ach.
But I’m only round the corner, she said.
Fuck all to do with me where you are. I’m not doing anything. Just hanging about till it all begins this morning. Still dark as well, you’re best taking no chances – never know who’s around.
She shrugged: Alright then, thanks.
Back along in the direction of the British Museum till she halted outside of a place, the place where she lived. It’s run by nuns, she said. I must go in.
Aye.
At the top of the short flight of stairs she half turned but without actually seeing me. She said: Bye.
Aye.
When she closed the door after her the light went on in the hall. I hung about waiting for a time. Nothing whatsoever happened. The light went out. But no other light came on upstairs. Maybe she lived at the back of the building or in the basement. More than quarter of an hour I stood there until eventually I caught myself in the act of taking up position on the second bottom step. I walked off. Returned to St Pancras Station where I sat on the bench. No sight of the old woman. Nobody about; nothing at all. The rain had gone off. Maybe for good. I checked my money. The situation was not fine. I concentrated on working out a move for morning. And already there were signs of it; a vague alteration in the light and that odd sense of warmth the night can have for me was fast leaving.
Double or clear plus a tenner
Aside from the constant drone it was quiet in this section of the factory. In the smoke-area a group of men sat round a wooden table; a game of Solo was in progress. Although only four players could be directly involved the rest of the men gave it their utmost attention, each being positioned so that he could watch the cards of at least one of the four. The game was played quietly but laughter occurred, controlled, barely audible beyond the smoke-area. One of the players was a man by the id of Albert who smoked a pipe and had the habit of doffing and donning his bunnet all the time. While he was tapping a fresh shot of tobacco into the pipe bowl he was told to get a move on. It was his shout. He nodded to the youth sitting next to him who then lifted the cards and rapidly sorted through them, eventually saying: A bundle Albert, you’re going for nine.
Albert grinned, exhaling smoke from the corner of his mouth he took the cards. So I’m to win nine am I, he said.
You’re a certainty. Cant get beat.
Albert laughed at the other three players. You mob better be listening to this apprentice of mine.
He was answered by jeers, the game continued. About an hour later the sound of somebody whistling was heard and the Solo stopped abruptly; newspapers covered the cards and the men began chatting together, sitting back on their seats. The foreman entered, dressed in a white dustcoat he was holding a cardboard box from which he distributed the wage envelopes. While he did so he half smiled, Missed yous again eh. Ach well, one of these days, one of these days . . . As he turned to leave somebody asked if he had heard any news. Not a word, he shook his head. No even a whisper.
Without waiting for further comment the foreman left. The men examined the contents of the envelopes or thrust them unopened into their pockets. The conversation became general. Then a man who had been playing Solo rose to his feet, went a couple of paces and paused. It’s no use kidding yourselves on, he said, if that order isnt in by now it’ll never be fucking in.
The men were looking at him.
Redundancies, he continued; there’s definitely going to be redundancies. So yous better get used to the idea.
Ach we knew it was coming, muttered Albert.
The man glanced at him: That’s as maybe but they should’ve given us notice. Formal. It’s no as if they’ve told us anything. All we’re doing is guessing, and we shouldnt have to be fucking guessing.
They might no know for sure but, remarked somebody.
The man looked at him then left the smoke-area, shaking his head. A short silence followed. A small man spat on the floor and stroked it carefully with the heel of his boot. Another was lifting the newspapers from the cards on the table. He said, Come on, we’ll finish the game.
One of the spectators quickly volunteered to take the place of the man who had mentioned redundancies, but the other spectators were no longer as attentive as before; within ten minutes the game ended. Some of those who had gone drifted back to the table. Albert and another player got up to make space for them and the former grunted, Yous and your fucking pontoons . . . He returned the pipe to his mouth and raised his bunnet.
The men still seated were grinning as they stacked columns of coins in front of them. Somebody was already shuffling the cards and he dealt one to each person to resolve who was to become the first banker. At the outset the stakes were restricted to a maximum of 50 pence but the banker would hold the initiative in this; later the figure was raised to £1 and eventually limits were scrapped altogether. The deal was being held by Albert’s apprentice. He had called the older man across and asked him to assist in posting the bets.
Collecting in the fucking money you mean. Albert grinned briefly. When the apprentice did not reply he went on to say, I hate this game – the sight of all the cash flying about goes to my head.
A player snorted, You’re just scared to open your wages ya cunt ye.
A few people laughed.
Albert glared at the player: You trying to say I’m feart of the wife or something? aye well you’re fucking right I am. Bringing out a box of matches he relighted his pipe and muttered, I’ll enjoy taking in your dough anyway ya cunt.
The player chuckled. When he finished shuffling for the first round of his deal the apprentice got the previous banker to cut the cards then gazed round the table and said, Will yous space your
selves out a bit?
Christ, said somebody; always the fucking same when he gets the deal – we’ve got to arrange ourself out for his convenience.
Aye you’re fucking right, replied the apprentice. I like to see what yous’re doing with the cards.
That’s my boy, grinned Albert.
The cards were dealt.
At 7.30 a.m. Albert, in company with other non players, had gone off to the washroom to clean up in preparation for clocking out. Some dayshift workers had already clocked in, two of them sitting in at pontoons although not having received their wages yet their stakes were minimal. The bank had been won and lost many times during the game. It had returned to the apprentice. And when a man told them it was 7.40 a.m. only he and two nightshift workers were left at the table. Lighting another cigarette he waited for them to evaluate the strength of their first cards and make their bets. One of them laid £15 down and the man who had told them the time said: Jesus Christ.
The apprentice won that bet and the rest. A round later and someone called to say that the nightshift were waiting to clock out. He paused with the cards and glanced at the men. The one who had bet the £15 did not react but the other jumped up, grabbed his money and headed off to the washroom. See yous on Monday, he cried.
What d’you think? the apprentice asked the other man. Time we were moving?
Make the next yin the last.
He shrugged and dealt the cards. Moments later the dayshift chargehand came striding into the smoke-area and raising his arm he jerked the thumb of his right hand: Okay, out.
Last hand, muttered the man.
Last hand nothing. Come on, you’ll get me fucking arrested.
The dayshift players had moved back from the table when their chargehand entered. Now when he saw the size of the bet between the two he shook his head, it was amounting to £40 this time. I dont believe this, he said, yous pair must be off your fucking head.
Surely we can finish it? said the apprentice.
No.
The other man glanced at him.
Stick your money out of sight, replied the chargehand and he left at once. Each retrieved his £20. The cards were still lying on the table. Deal them, the man whispered. And when he had received his two he asked for a twist, got a face card and was burst. He threw them down: Dirty bastard.
The apprentice took in the money without saying anything, and moved out from behind the table. The nightshift men had left the factory, Sitting on a bench he took off the boots and put on his shoes. The man was doing the same. Eventually he glanced at the apprentice: What about one last yin?
Waste of time man your luck’s right out. Anyway, I’m still waiting for the score.
You’re getting your score, dont worry.
I’m no worrying. He made to rise from the bench.
Last hand eh?
No point.
What d’you mean no point? the fucking money I’ve lost the night.
The apprentice shook his head; he dropped the cigarette he had been smoking and ground it on the floor.
Okay, the man continued, just a cut. One cut – double or clear . . . He stopped. A dayshift apprentice – younger than the card player by a couple of years – had come into the smoke-area at a rush, his face was red and he was out of breath. Christ, he said, yous two still here!
No, we’re in the street. The man did not look at him.
The chargie’s standing down at the gaffer’s office.
He’ll no say anything.
Aye he will – you dont know what he’s like.
Course I fucking know what he’s like, the man muttered. Then he added: Double or clear, eh? I mean surely you’ll give me the chance of getting my dough back?
Fuck sake.
The dayshift apprentice had sat down on the bench to change shoes. He was taking note of the conversation. Eventually the man reached to collect the deck of cards and he passed them, he said: It’s still your bank.
Ach, the apprentice nodded and took the cards. Double or clear then.
Plus a tenner, replied the man. Fifty to you if you win, okay?
The apprentice looked at him, he shuffled the cards rapidly and offered them to be cut. The man cut a low card and lost. He closed his eyes and did not speak. From the bench the other apprentice said: Was that for £50? Jesus Christ Almighty.
The two of them had their jerkins on as they walked down the length of the section and round to the clock-out. Throughout the area the machines were now in operation. A workman was bent over the flat part of one, wiping the metal with a paraffin soaked rag. He laughed: Did yous sleep in?
They ignored him. They did not look in the direction of the gaffer’s office where the chargehand was standing; they carried on and out by the window of the timekeeper’s office. Once onto the pavement of the street they halted. The man made as if to speak but sniffed instead, and remained silent. A group of women and children of school age were coming towards them. When they had gone by he said, I’ve no got the full fifty.
Fuck sake, I knew it.
I thought I did have, honest. I must’ve lost more than I thought.
Ach . . . The apprentice turned away but they stayed on the pavement for several seconds; he then took out his cigarettes and handed one to the man who brought out a lighter.
Okay if I owe you it?
The full fifty you mean?
The man nodded slightly, exhaling smoke.
Aye . . . the apprentice shrugged and they headed off in opposite directions.
A notebook to do with America
When he came out of the pub the snow was still falling, he paused to fix the bunnet properly on his head then crossed the large patch of waste ground to the building. It was the remnant of a tenement; much of the rest was lying around in disordered heaps. The close had been sealed off with a sheet of corrugated iron but the nails were removed from three of its sides and the man got in quite easily. He struck a match. The debris wasnt too bad. He lighted a cigarette before walking to the foot of the stair.
On the first floor each of the flats had had its door taken off. He passed quickly up to the second and chapped the only flat which had one. He chapped again. An interior door creaked, steps along the lobby floor, and soon an elderly woman peered at him. She would be about 10 years older than the man. She invited him in and he replied with a nod. Stepping over a big pile of laundry he followed her ben to the front room where two candles were flickering at opposite ends on the mantelpiece. She was indicating a dining chair: on it were a spectacle case and a notebook, and a grey soft hat and a maroon scarf; on the floor underneath stood a pair of brown shoes. The woman sat down on another dining chair which was set to one side of the fireplace. Not a bad fire was burning.
He glanced about for another chair. He stood by the mantelpiece. After several moments he sniffed and took out his cigarettes, handed her one, struck the match. Eventually he exhaled and said, No, I dont come down that much at all these days. Once or twice a week maybe. Too far. Too far to come for a pint. Miles away I’m living now. And these buses! Hell of a dear, bloody scandalous.
He sniffed again, rubbed his hands together briskly; he took the cigarette from his mouth and studied it. Aye, he said, hell of a dear. I still like to come back but . . . have a pint, see the old faces and that. Two buses though, one into town, then another I’ve got to get from there to here. Murder, the time it takes, you wouldnt credit it.
She had inhaled on her cigarette, tugged her coat round her shoulders, she exhaled into the fire and watched the two smokes mingle. Then she glanced at him to say: Will you be going to America?
What?
He said you would be.
Christ sake Mrs. He sniffed. How can I go to America? I cant go to America. He turned away from her and walked to the window where he gazed at the pub. It was a flat roofed kind of affair. Though outwardly modern the 19th century brickwork at the rear would reveal it to have been the ground floor of an ordinary three storey tenement until recently
. A customer was entering. The bright light from inside showed a confusion of footprints in the snow at the doorway. Rubbing his hands again the man returned to stand by the mantelpiece. Freezing, he said, that fire . . . When she didnt reply he added: Will I get some wood or what?
He thought you would be going to America.
Aye . . . the man nodded.
He was wanting to go himself.
I know.
He would’ve.
The man made no answer but when she repeated the statement he muttered, No he wouldnt have, not now, he was too old, too old Mrs. That’s how he asked me.
Aye but you’re not going. She shook her head slightly, stared into the fire.
Christ sake it’s no use talking about it like that, that was just talk; that was just talk. He just liked to talk to me about it down in the pub. Ach. Reaching into an interior pocket he brought out a halfbottle of whisky and uncapped it; he offered it to her before slugging a mouthful.
I waited for you, he said you’d come.
Aye.
He’s ben in the kitchen. She leaned forwards to drop a portion of saliva onto the fireplace, picked a shred of tobacco from her lower lip. I covered him up.
The man nodded. A few moments later he said, Aye.
I’m making tea, she muttered. She rose from the chair and collected a saucepan and milkbottle of water from somewhere behind, and got tea from a packet on the mantelpiece. While she prepared the things she was saying, I had to lift him myself onto the table you know, it was a job.
He sighed. Christ sake Mrs . . . I wish you’d waited for me to come. When she finished the preparation he said, I’ll away and see him.
No candles burned in the kitchen but it wasnt long before he could distinguish the body quite well; it was set properly on the table, entirely covered by a blanket. There was a pile of newspapers over at the gap where the sink used to be. He walked over to look out the window. The pub was not visible from this side of this building. He raised his bunnet and wiped his brow; he went back to the table and cleared his throat as if getting ready to speak but instead he lifted the blanket and looked at the face. An old face, years older than the woman probably. He continued looking until a length of ash fell from his cigarette. He blew quickly to scatter it, id the blanket into its former place.
Not Not While the Giro Page 15
