A Chancer

by Kelman, James

  Naw Christ I’m talking about gloves. The man grinned, You’ll have to get yourself a pair of boots. The first-aid, you’ll get them there – deduct it off your wages. Some no bad styles they’ve got. Eh Peter?

  Suede. The fucking lot they’ve got. Wear them up the fucking dancing if you like!

  Wouldnt be the first time, laughed the other guy.

  Peter nodded. Anyway, time for another . . .

  Tammas followed his gaze, seeing the overhead crane down at the very far end of the floor; a big furnace door had been pulled open and the next copper bar was being dragged out in a shower of sparks.

  He positioned himself nearer to the roller this time, watching everything Peter was doing. Peter made no acknowledgment till he had taken the stance with his back to it, set for the last issue. He called, Watch this yin specially, you’ve got to be fucking careful. If you pull at it you’ll fucking stretch the bastard and that’s it a binger. You’ve got to let it carry you along. If you go too slow you’re fucked, cause what’ll happen it’ll fucking bend right up behind you and it’ll fucking jam, it’ll no go through, and that’s you, another fucking binger! Peter shook his head. His cigarette was in the corner of his mouth and he moved it across to the other corner without taking his hands from the handles of the smaller clamps, not looking from the gap between his knees. Then the bang; and he was running.

  By the time tea break arrived Tammas was still waiting to make his first attempt. He walked behind the machine and sat up on the oil drum. Then Peter appeared and handed him a pair of big gloves. The tips were missing on most of the fingers. He shrugged: It’s the best I could find.

  Tammas pulled them on without replying. Peter pointed to the clamps and said, The main thing is no to panic.

  When the bang came and the bar issued Tammas raised the heavy-duty clamps, getting them round the end as it came slowly out the roller, and he gripped them there and tugged it slightly, lowering it off but it dropped down onto the trolley and angled a bit and he had the clamps still firmly there but moving as it continued to angle then roll and his fingers were poking out the gloves and he let the clamps go and the copper bar crashed down and bounced and he had to jump up and to the side to get out its path. Peter also had to jump. He shook his head and cried: I told you no to fucking panic!

  I didnt panic, cried Tammas pulling off the gloves, my fingers were fucking burning!

  Fuck sake! Peter was glaring at him. Then he shook his head again and he turned away; he walked to the end of the machine and gave a piercing whistle down towards the furnace. He roared: Hey Willie! Willie! Willehhh . . .

  The overhead crane started to move. When it reached the rolling machine the guy who worked it pressed the button for the huge hook to descend. Peter wangled it around the tip of the copper bar which was much duller in colour now. Okay Willie! he called. And the cranedriver raised the hook just sufficient for Peter to slide the mobile trolley in below it. Peter then waved and Willie drove the crane back down towards the furnace. He glanced at Tammas, indicated the clamps and added: Okay, carry on.

  Tammas got the clamps round the end of the bar and pushed forwards, working the bar on the trolley to the place it entered on the roller but in the process he nudged at the bar with his foot and the shoe burst into flames. For fuck sake! He jumped back the way, stubbing and stubbing his toe at the floor to put out the fire. Meanwhile the copper bar had rolled off the trolley and was lying flat on the floor again. Peter did not say anything. He walked to the end of the machine and gave the piercing whistle . . . Willehhh! And then he cleared his throat and spat, and he turned to Tammas. I told you ye needed boots.

  When the crane arrived he beckoned Tammas forwards while he motioned the driver to lower the hook; but the driver called to him: No fucking good Peter, bar’s too fucking cold.

  Jesus Christ! Another bastarn fucking binger! Peter shook his head; he wiped his mouth with the back of his right wrist.

  The guy from the other side of the roller had appeared. It’ll be okay, he said, they know we’ve got a learner; we just dock it off the time sheet.

  Peter nodded.

  The younger guy grinned at Tammas: Hot in here son eh! Mon we’ll have a fucking bevy!

  Tammas looked at him. But the man was waving him to follow him and he shrugged and walked after him. Soon the overhead crane was returning with the copper bar, to put it back into the furnace.

  Peter joined them. The other guy had opened a metal cupboard, bringing out a brown bottle; its glass was thick and mottled and its size was about that of an ordinary whisky bottle. He swigged a mouthful and handed it on to Peter who swigged some and handed it to Tammas. Dont drink too much, he said.

  Or you’ll get a dose of the skitters, chuckled the other guy. It’s given to us for the sweat we lose. It replaces it. Undiluted; a kind of lime.

  Tammas drank some. No bad, he said.

  Good with vodka! Bring in a bottle the morrow and give it a buzz.

  Wouldnt be the first time! muttered Peter.

  Tammas smiled. He took out his cigarettes, lighted one, then offered to the other two; they both took one and he struck the match. Then the sound of the overhead crane starting up. Peter said: Okay that’s us. Ready for another crack?

  Tammas looked at him.

  Eh?

  Just now you mean?

  Got to get the hang of it sooner or later.

  Peter’s right.

  Hh!

  Peter exhaled smoke, glancing at the approach of the crane. And the other guy said, You’re definitely better to go straight at it.

  Tammas shrugged and pointed at his shoes. No with them, they’re useless – and the fucking gloves as well I mean, Christ!

  You’ve got to learn but.

  Aye I know.

  Well.

  Once I’ve got the proper gear.

  Go and see the gaffer then, muttered Peter. It’s fuck all to do with me.

  I will.

  Aye well fucking go then!

  What d’you mean the now?

  No point hanging about here, no if you’re no going to fucking even attempt it.

  Well I would if I had the proper gear to wear.

  Ah you’ll be alright, said the other guy.

  No without the proper gear.

  Go and tell the gaffer then.

  Aye, okay. Tammas shook his head and left them there, and he walked straight down to the gaffer’s office. A girl was in with him. She had a bundle of papers under one arm and was leaning over his desk, pointing to something on a paper he had in front of him. She was wearing a blouse and a skirt. He waited until she exited then chapped the door and entered. The gaffer gazed at him. My shoes, said Tammas, they’re useless. Look . . . he displayed the toe of the burnt one. It went in bloody flames, just touched the bar and it went on fire. I need steel toe-caps.

  Mm.

  And the gloves as well. That guy Peter got me a pair but they’re all holes and the heat comes through. Murder when it touches the bare skin, the clamps.

  Aye well you get all that stuff in the first-aid. Did Peter no tell you?

  He says I’ve to see you.

  Christ I dont have it. I dont have anything here, it’s all kept in the first-aid.

  I’ve actually got a pair of boots in the house with steel toe-caps.

  Have you?

  Aye.

  The gaffer nodded.

  I’ll bring them the morrow.

  Fine. The gaffer nodded once more . . . Okay then?

  Eh aye, but what about the gloves and that will I go to the first-aid?

  O Christ aye, go ahead, you better get them.

  And the safety helmet.

  The safety helmet’s really important, aye, mind and get yourself one. And tell Peter and them cause whenever I fucking pass I dont see them wearing it. And it’s the safety code in here to wear it. Okay then?

  Tammas nodded. I’ll just go up the first-aid.

  Aye . . . The gaffer sniffed. Then he added: Mind y
ou and tell Peter and them about they bloody safety helmets.

  The first-aid room was across by the administration offices in a different, more quiet, part of the factory. Once he had collected a new pair of asbestos gloves and a safety helmet he returned to the rolling mill. Peter was busy with a new copper bar. Tammas called, I’ve just to watch till I get my boots the morrow morning.

  Peter nodded, not looking at him.

  O aye and the gaffer told me to tell you to mind about the safety helmets.

  Peter made no acknowledgement.

  At noon the younger guy appeared and told Tammas it was dinner time. Peter had walked off, not having spoken to him since his return from seeing the gaffer. But the two men were not having their breaks then, they had eaten earlier, during the tea break. They were on the early shift from 6 am to 2 pm and were paid straight through the full eight hours. Workers on the ordinary day shift were there from 8 am until 4.45 pm and received a full forty five minutes at dinner time.

  When he had found his way to the canteen he saw Billy sitting with a wee group of other men at a corner table. They were laughing. Billy turned to wave him over and he squeezed in beside them. The rest continued their own conversation while Billy asked, How’s it going?

  Tammas looked at him.

  What is it as bad as that!

  Bad as that! Tammas raised his right foot, displaying the scorched shoe. Look at the fucking state of this!

  A burst of laughter from the others at the table – Billy’s maybe louder than anyone’s. We heard! he cried. We heard! They’ve nicknamed you Hotfoot!

  Tammas shook his head. He opened his cigarette packet and gave one to Billy, lighted his own and put the packet back in his pocket.

  One of the men, still chuckling, said: Ah you’ll be alright son dont worry about it! Best job in the place once you get to know it – best fucking bonus and all! without a fucking shadow of doubt!

  Tammas shrugged. He inhaled on the cigarette, staring over to the counter where a long queue of men in dungarees and boiler suits had formed.

  Once the others at the table resumed talking Billy murmured, He’s right but man that’s what I’ve heard as well, them on the roller, they earn a fucking bomb so they do. Bags of overtime as well. They’re in every fucking Sunday, my auld man was telling me.

  Where you working?

  The pattern shop.

  The pattern shop?

  Billy shrugged. It’s difficult to explain; it’s cutting and things.

  Aw.

  Influence!

  Tammas nodded. Billy had a copy of the Daily Record in front of him on the table and he asked, Can I have a look?

  I’m studying myself, replied Billy, opening it at the racing page and holding it so that Tammas could see it with him. There’s a boy carries bets.

  Is there?

  Aye.

  Great. Tammas was nodding as he spoke, gazing at the programme of races. I dug out a couple of big outsiders last night in the Times . . . He shifted on his seat, put his hand into his jeans’ pocket and checked the money he had left. You got a pencil and a bit of paper?

  The boy’ll have it . . .

  The two of them continued reading the racing pages, barely talking, until eventually one of the teaboys entered. When he came to their table he gave out betting slips and he also had a pen which each person who wanted a bet used in turn. Tammas backed a four horse comedy for 55 pence, and he paid the additional coppers in tax.

  Around half past twelve the canteen was emptying as the men returned to their parts of the factory and Tammas sat on with Billy for a few minutes. As they were leaving a queue of office workers formed; both males and females, the former in suits or jackets and trousers, and wearing shirts and ties. They filed in as the last of the hourly paid men went out.

  At 2 pm Tammas was sitting in the smoke-area while the back shift men prepared to start work. Peter and the younger guy had gone to clean up about five minutes ago. Then he spotted Peter, away down near the exit, talking to a man and gesturing in his direction. Tammas sniffed and glanced at the roller, he rose, lifting his cigarettes and matches, and walked over to behind it.

  He was watching the backshift man who was doing Peter’s job when the teaboy appeared. The man was on the bit where he allowed the bar to drop down onto the mobile trolley. The teaboy also watched for a time, then he called, Heh jimmy that’s some start to your line you’ve got, eh!

  What? Tammas frowned at him.

  Nobody told you yet?

  Told me?

  Aye your fucking line, the first two man they’ve stoated!

  What?

  Aye! The teaboy laughed: 20’s and 16’s!

  What?

  Aye, your first two!

  Ye kidding?

  Naw, honest! The teaboy laughed at the guy with the clamps and jerked his thumb at Tammas: He doesnt fucking believe me!

  Hh! The guy smiled.

  20’s and 16’s? said Tammas.

  Aye. Nearly eighteen quid you’ve got already!

  Tammas nodded and then he sniffed: Time’s it?

  Three o’clock.

  Tammas pulled the safety helmet from his head and sticking it on top of the oil drum alongside the new asbestos gloves he glanced at the man with the clamps: I’m away, he said.

  A male office worker was in the gaffer’s office, sitting on a chair facing him across the desk. Tammas chapped twice on the door and walked straight in. Can you make up my cards? he asked.

  What?

  It doesnt . . . I’m no suited . . . Tammas was shaking his head as he held his foot up, showing the shoe. Nearly burnt the foot off me this morning!

  Aye but you’re getting your boots, said the gaffer, after a pause.

  Ach naw I just – I’ll just lift my cards.

  But it’s your first day just. Hh! The gaffer was holding a cigarette in his hand and he gestured with it at Tammas while addressing the other man: There you are; it’s his first bloody day and here he is wanting to wrap it.

  The man made no comment.

  I’m no used to the work, said Tammas.

  Aye but you’ve got to learn it!

  Naw it’s . . . Tammas shook his head. Just make up my cards.

  What d’you mean make up your cards – I cant just go making up your cards. It’s too bloody late anyway and it’s got to get done through the bloody office. No chance! The gaffer inhaled on the cigarette and blew out the smoke immediately.

  You can send them on then or else I’ll pick them up.

  Whatever you like.

  Okay, said Tammas and he turned and left the office, pausing to call: I’ll get them the morrow morning.

  Collecting his jerkin from the locker-area he raced on to the exit and right out and up the road to the betting shop. The boardman was marking up the results of the race his third runner was in, its name being marked up, into the first position, 9 to 1. His third runner had won at 9 to 1. Nine to one. Tammas closed his eyelids. 20’s 16’s and 9’s; 50 to 20 was 10 plus the 50 is 10.50 at 16’s; 10.50 at 16’s. He walked to the counter and got a pencil and a betting slip and went to one of the wall ledges to check the figures. As far as he reckoned he had £178 alone for the treble, £178 going on to his fourth and final runner, £178. That was a lot of money, it was fine, good money, plus the doubles, even if it lost, the fourth runner. Tammas nodded. It was good money – plus the three doubles, the 20’s and 16’s and the other two. Win lose or draw he had £178 plus three doubles – about another thirty or forty quid. Two hundred quid minimum. He opened the cigarette packet, put one in his mouth and looked for his matches, he did not have them, he must have left them on the oil drum or someplace. He walked to the counter and asked the woman cashier for a loan of her lighter. She pushed it beneath the grille to him. A sweetish taste in his mouth. He examined the betting slip once again and dragged on the cigarette. The taste had been there all day, to do with the heat probably, and the copper bars. The fourth runner was forecast favourite and favouri
tes always had a favourite’s chance, the most fancied horse in the race, the best fancied horse in the race, the horse with the best chance of winning – the horse that always let you down. It did not always let you down. Sometimes it won. Just not often.

  He walked across to one of the walls where the formpages were tacked up but he stopped. He knew the betting forecast on the race, the favourite being reckoned an even money chance. There was nothing else he needed to know. Not now. He had backed it and that was that, the money was running on and there was nothing he could do about it, either the horse would win or it would lose. There was not anything in between.

  A hundred and seventy going on to it, it was good dough. And win lose or draw there was still a return. He would receive cash in exchange for the slip of paper; and that is what it is about.

  A show of betting was coming through the extel speaker. The fourth runner in the accumulator was favourite as forecast. They were making it a 13/8 chance. To a hundred and seventy eight was 356 plus 3/8ths say about sixty quid. No – 5/8ths; 356 plus 5/8ths, about another 100, say about another hundred quid, about four hundred and fifty all in – plus all the doubles – and the trebles, the trebles alone, amounting to a fortune. A fortune. No point in even reckoning such a sum, not until it had won – either, or lost. Yet it had to be close to a grand, the thousand – it had to be close to a thousand, the thousand quid, it had to be.

  He left the bookie’s and crossed the road and stared into the window of a shop. It was glasses, a display of glasses, a display of glasses, it was an optician’s shop, all fancy types of spectacles. The favourite was on its own. There was no question about that. It was a race for novice chasers over 2½ miles. Some people would call it a bad race to bet in but sometimes it could be a good race to bet in. And the favourite was favourite because it was the best horse in the field, because of its good form over hurdles; this was only its second race over the bigger obstacles. That sweetish taste in the mouth when he inhaled on the cigarette. It would have to do with the copper. The copper and the smoking together.

  A loud voice from across the road. Two guys laughing about something at the entrance to the betting shop.

  He nipped the cigarette and walked back over.

  The favourite was now in to 5/4 which was good or bad, good or bad, depending. Yet it did not matter. None of any of that really mattered. And if the horse stayed on its feet it was a certainty. That was the fact. The only gamble: whether it would jump the fences. Tammas reckoned the horse would have been about 4 to 1 on if the race had been over hurdles. Just before the off the last show of betting had it in to even money.