Not Not While the Giro

by Kelman, James

  He shut the door behind him.

  Aye . . . he sighed. Some minutes passed. He took out the halfbottle and after offering her it he sipped some himself. When the bubbles were forming and bursting in the saucepan he sniffed and touched the peak of his bunnet. I think I’ll just go down the road, he said.

  Are you taking the notebook?

  Eh aye, he sniffed again, if you dont mind.

  The woman nodded and he got the notebook. He shook his head when she indicated the other items and went away soon after.

  The hitchhiker

  It was a terrible night. From where we were passing the loch lay hidden in the mist and drenching rain. We followed the bend leading round and down towards the village. Each of us held an empty cardboard box above his head. The barman had given them to us, but though they were saturated they were definitely better than nothing. We had been trudging in silence. When we arrived at the bridge over the burn Chas said, There’s your hitchhiker.

  I glanced up, saw her standing by the gate into one of the small cottages. She appeared to be hesitating. But she went on in, and chapped at the door. A light came on and a youngish woman answered, she shook her head, pointed along the road. The three of us had passed beyond the gate. About 30 yards on I turned to look back, in time to see her entering the path up to the door of another cottage. A man answered and shut the door immediately. The girl was standing there staring up at the window above the door; the porchlight was switched off. Two huge rucksacks strapped onto her back and about her shoulders and when she was walking from the cottage she seemed bent under their weight. Young lassie like that, muttered Sammy. She shouldnt be walking the streets on a night like this.

  Aye, said Chas, but she doesnt look as if she’s got anywhere to go. It’s a while since we saw her.

  I nodded. I thought she’d have had a lift by this time. Soaked as well, I said. Look at her.

  She’s no the only one that’s soaked, replied Sammy. Come on, let’s move.

  Wait a minute, Christ sake.

  The girl had noticed us watching her, she quickened her pace in the opposite direction. Sammy said: She’s feart.

  What?

  He grinned at me, indicating the cardboard boxes. The three of us standing gaping at her! what d’you expect son? Sammy paused: If she was my lassie . . . Naw, she shouldnt be out on a night like this.

  Not her fault she cant get a lift.

  Single lassies shoudnt go hitching on their tod.

  Sammy’s right, grinned Chas. No with bastards like us going about.

  Come on yous pair . . . Sammy was already walking away: Catch pneumonia hanging about in weather like this.

  Just a minute, wait till we see what happens.

  He paused, glowering at me and grunting unintelligibly. Meanwhile the girl was in chapping on the door of the next cottage. The person who answered gestured along the road in our direction; but once the door had closed she gazed at us in a defiant way and carried on in the opposite direction.

  Dirty bastards, I shook my head, not letting her in.

  Chas laughed: I’d let her in in a minute.

  Away you ya manky swine ye, cried Sammy. His eyebrows rose when he added, Still – she’s got a nice wee arse on her.

  These specs of yours must have Xray lenses to see through that anorak she’s wearing.

  Sammy grinned: Once you reach my age son . . .

  Bet you she’s a foreigner, said Chas.

  A certainty, I nodded.

  The girl had just about disappeared into the mist. She crossed over the bridge and I could no longer distinguish her. And a moment later the older man was saying: Right then I’m off.

  Chas agreed, Might as well.

  The pair of them continued on. I strode after them. Heh Sammy, can the lassie stay the night with us?

  Dont be daft son.

  How no?

  No room.

  There is, just about.

  Nonsense.

  Christ sake Sammy how would you like to be kipping in a ditch on a night like this, eh? fuck sake, no joke man I’m telling you.

  God love us son; sharing a caravan with the three of us! you kidding? Anyhow, the lassie herself ’d never wear it.

  I’ll go and tell her it’ll be okay but. I mean she can have my bunk, I’ll kip on the floor.

  Chas was grinning. Sammy shook his head, he muttered: Goodsafuckingmaritans, I dont know what it is with yous at all.

  Ach come on.

  Sammy grunted: What d’you say Chas?

  Nothing to do with me, he grinned.

  Good on you Chas, I said.

  Ah! Sammy shook his head: The lassie’ll never wear it.

  We’ll see.

  I passed him the carry-out of beer I had been holding and ran back and across the bridge but when I saw her I slowed down. She had stopped to shrug the rucksacks up more firmly on her shoulders. A few paces on and she stopped again. I caught up to her and said, Hello, but she ignored me. She continued walking.

  Hello.

  She halted. To see me she twisted her body to the side, she was raging. Glaring at me.

  Have you no place to stay? I said.

  She hoisted the rucksacks up and turned away, going as fast as she could. I went after her. She was really angry. Before I got my mouth open she stopped and yelled: What.

  Have you not got a place for the night?

  Pardon . . . She glanced along the road as she said this but there was nobody else in sight. Never anybody in sight in this place, right out in the middle of the wilds it was.

  Dont worry. It’s okay. You need a place for the night. A house, a place out the rain – eh?

  What?

  A place to stay the night?

  You know?

  Hotel, there’s a hotel.

  Yes yes yes hotel, hotel. She shrugged: It is too much. She looked at me directly and said, Please – I go.

  Listen a minute; you can come back to our place. I have place.

  I . . . do not understand.

  You can come to our place, it’s okay, a caravan. Better than hanging about here getting soaked.

  She pointed at my chest: You stay?

  Aye, yes, I stay. Caravan.

  No! And off she trudged.

  I went after her. Listen it’s okay, no bother – it’s not just me. Two friends, the three of us, it’s not . . . I mean it’s okay, it’ll be alright, honest.

  She turned on me, raging. What a face. She cried: 1 2 3 . . . And tapped the numbers out on her fingers. 1 2 3, she cried. All man and me.

  She tapped 1 finger to her temple and went on her way without hesitation. At the lane which led up to the more modern cottages used by the forestry workers she paused for an instant, then continued along it and out of sight.

  Inside the caravan Chas had opened a can of lager for me while I was finishing drying my hair. Both he and Sammy were already under the blankets but they were sitting up, sipping lager and smoking. The rain battered the sides and the roof and the windows of the caravan.

  Chas was saying: Did you manage to get through to her but?

  Get through to her! Course I didnt get fucking through to her – thought I was going to rape her or something.

  Hell of a blow to your ego son, eh! Sammy grinned.

  Fuck my ego. Tell you one thing, I’ll never sleep the night.

  Aye you will, said Chas. You get used to it.

  You never get used to it. Never mind but, Sammy chuckled, you can have a chug when we’re asleep . . . He laid the can of beer on the floor next to his bunk and wiped his lips with his wrist; he took another cigarette from his packet and lighted it from the dowp-end of the one he had been smoking. He was still chuckling as he said: Mind fine when I was down in Doncaster . . .

  Fuck Doncaster.

  Chas laughed. Never mind him Sammy – let’s hear it.

  Naw, better no. Sammy smiled, Wouldnt be fair to the boy.

  When I had dried my feet I walked into the kitchenette to hang up
the towel. The top section of the window was open. I closed it. If anything the rain seemed to be getting heavier. And back in the main area Chas said: She’ll be swimming out there.

  Thanks, I said.

  Thanks! Sammy snorted, You’d think it was him swimming!

  I drank a mouthful of lager, sat down at the foot of my bunk, and lifted the cigarette one of them had left for me. Chas tossed me the matches. A few moments passed before Sammy muttered: Aye, just a pity you never thought to tell her about next door.

  I looked at him.

  The sparks, he said, they’re not here tonight. Had to go back down to Glasgow for some reason.

  What?

  I’m no sure, I think they needed a bit of cable or something.

  Jesus Christ! How in the id of fuck could you no’ve told me already ya stupid auld . . . I was grabbing my socks and my boots.

  Sammy had begun laughing. I forgot son honest, I forgot, I forgot, honest.

  Chas was also laughing. The two of them, sitting spluttering over their lager. Fine pair of mates yous are, I told them. Eh! Fuck sake, never’ve signed on by Christ if I’d known about yous two bastarn comedians. Aye, no wonder they keep dumping yous out in the wilds to work.

  Will you listen to this boy? Sammy was chortling.

  And Chas yelling: Aye, and me about to lend him my duffel coat as well.

  Keeping to the grass verge at the side of the track I walked quickly along from the small group of caravans. The centre of the track was bogging. It was always bogging. Even during the short heatwave of the previous week it was bogging. Plastered in animal shit. Cows and sheep and hens, even a couple of skinny goats, they all trooped down here from the flearidden farm a couple of fields away. By the time I got to the road my boots and the bottoms of my jeans were in a hell of a mess. I headed along to the village. Village by Christ – half a dozen cottages and a general store cum post office and the bastards called it a village. Not even a boozer. You had to trek another couple of miles further on to a hotel if you wanted a pint.

  Over the bridge I went up the lane to the modern cottages. Although the mist had lifted a bit it was black night but it wasnt too bad, the occasional porchlight having been left on. Where the lane ended I turned back. If she was here she was either sheltering, or hiding.

  Round the bend I continued in the direction of the hotel. The rain had definitely lessened, moonlight was glinting on the waters of the loch. I saw her standing at a wee wall next to the carpark entrance, she was with a very old man who was dressed in yellow oilskins, a small yap of a terrier darted about in the weeds at the side of the road. My approach had been noted. The girl finished muttering something to him, and he nodded. She made a movement of some kind, her face had tightened; she stared in the direction of the loch.

  Well, I said. Has she not got a place yet?

  What was that? The old man leaning to hear me.

  I said has she not got a place yet, the lassie, she was looking for a place.

  O aye aye, a place.

  Aye, a place, has she got one yet?

  He waited a moment before shaking his head, and while he half gazed away from me he was saying: I’ve been telling her try up at Mrs Taylor’s house.

  Were you?

  Aye, aye I was telling her to try there. You know Mrs Taylor’s I would think.

  Naw, I dont, I dont at all.

  Is that right . . . he had glanced at me. You dont know her house then, aye, aye. No, I dont think she’d have any rooms at this time of night. Mrs Taylor, he shook his head. A queer woman that.

  The girl turned her head, she was gazing in through the carpark entrance. But her gaze had included me in its manoeuvre. Look, I told the old man. I’m living on that wee caravan site along past the village. There’s a spare one next to where I am. Tell her she’d be alright in there for the night.

  He looked at me.

  Look it’s empty, an empty caravan, she’ll be on her tod, nothing to worry about for Christ sake.

  The old man paused then stepped the paces to begin chattering to her in her own language. Eventually she nodded, without speaking. She’ll go, he said to me.

  I told him to tell her I would carry her rucksacks if she wanted. But she shook her head. He shrugged, and the two of us watched her hitch them up onto her shoulders; then she spoke very seriously with him, he smiled and patted her arm. And she was off.

  I nodded to him and followed.

  She stared directly in front of her thick hiking boots. We passed over the bridge and on to the turnoff for the site. A rumble from the mountains across the loch was followed by a strike of lightning that brightened the length of the bogging track. A crack of thunder. Look, I said, I might as well get a hold of your rucksacks along here, it’s hell of a muddy . . . I pointed to the rucksacks indicating I should carry them. I helped them from her. She swung them down and I put one over each of my shoulders. Setting off on the grass verge I then heard her coming splashing along in the middle of the bog, not bothering at all.

  The light was out in our caravan. I showed her to the one next, and opened the door for her, standing back to let her enter but she waved me inside first. Dumping the rucksacks on the floor of the kitchenette we went into the main area, it was the same size as the one shared by the three of us. These caravans were only really meant for two people. A stale smell of socks and sweat about the place, but it was fine apart from this, fairly tidy; the sparks must have given it a going over before returning to Glasgow, and they had taken all their gear with them.

  The girl had her arms folded and her shoulders hunched, as if she had recently shivered. She stood with her back to the built-in wardrobe. I nodded and said: I’ll be back in a minute.

  Chas was snoring. I could see the red glow from Sammy’s cigarette. He always had trouble getting to sleep unless drunk; this evening we’d only had 4 or 5 pints each over a period of maybe 3 hours. He said: I heard yous.

  Any tea bags?

  My jacket pocket.

  I also collected two cups and the tin of condensed milk from the cupboard in the kitchenette. It’s still teeming down out there, I whispered.

  Aye.

  She’s soaked through. I hesitated, Okay then Sammy – goodnight.

  Goodnight son.

  I chapped on the door before entering. She was now sitting on a bunk but still wore both her anorak and her hiking boots, her hands thrust deep inside the anorak pockets. When I had made the tea she held the cupful in both hands. No food, I said.

  Pardon?

  Food, I’ve no food.

  Ah. Yes . . . She placed the tea on the floor, id a rucksack to her, unzipped it and brought out a plastic container from which she handed me a sandwich. Then she closed the container without taking one for herself.

  After a few sips of tea she said, Tea very good.

  Aye, you cant beat it.

  She looked at me.

  The tea, I said, you cant beat it – very very good.

  Yes.

  She refused a cigarette and when I had my own smoking she asked: You work.

  Aye, yes.

  Not stay? She gestured at the window. The rain pounding at it.

  Naw, not stay. I grinned: I stay in Glasgow.

  Ah, she nodded, my friend is Glasgow.

  Great place Glasgow. You like it?

  Glasgow very good.

  Great stuff, have another cup of tea immediately.

  She looked at me.

  Tea – more tea?

  She shook her head. You ah . . . You . . . She continued in french and finished with a shrug: I cannot say this with english.

  I shrugged as well and as soon as I had swallowed the last of the tea I rose to put the cups on the draining board at the sink. The girl said, You go now.

  I smiled. I go now.

  Yes.

  In the morning, tomorrow morning I’ll be here.

  Yes.

  I paused at the door.

  She half smiled. Tired, tired tired tired.
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  I nodded and said, Goodnight.

  Both of them were washed and ready to leave when I woke up next morning. When Sammy was out of earshot I asked Chas if he thought he would mind if I was a bit late in. Ask him and see, was the reply. Sammy scratched his head when I did. He said: Okay but dont be all morning. I pulled the blankets up to my chin but as soon as I heard the car engine revving I got out of the bunk and dressed. Brushed my teeth, shaved.

  Outside it was dry, fresh, a clear morning in June. Across the loch puffy clouds round the Ben. In the hotel bar the previous night Sammy had forecast a return of the warm weather, and it looked like he was going to be right. There was no reply when I chapped the door. I chapped again and went inside. Clothes strewn about the place, as if she had unpacked every last item. And her smell was here now.

  She was sleeping on her side, facing into the wall. I stepped back out and chapped the door loudly. Rustling sounds. I clicked the door open.

  No!

  It’s me.

  No!

  I remained with my hand on the door knob.

  Come!

  Her hair rumpled, a pair of jeans and a Tshirt she was wearing, eyes almost closed; she moved about picking things up off the floor and folding them away into the rucksacks; so much stuff lying it seemed odds against the rucksacks being able to take it all. I filled the kettle and shoved it on to boil the water. She looked up: Tea?

  Aye, yes, tea.

  Your friends?

  Work.

  Ah.

  She stopped clearing up, she yawned while sitting down on the bunk with her back to the wall and her legs drawn up, resting her elbows on her knees. She gazed over her shoulder, out of the window, murmuring to herself in french.

  You sleep okay?

  Yes, she replied.

  She had the plastic container out, the sandwiches ready, when I came back with the tea.

  I said, It’s a great morning outside, really great. The morning, outside, the weather, really beautiful.

  Ah, yes . . . She looked out of the window again and spoke in french, she shrugged.

  Tea good?

  Very very good, she smiled. She passed me the plastic container.