by James Kelman
Some look she gave him! Then she disappeared. He got along with the second woman. She also was middle class but neither snooty nor snobby. This good lady found him the boots. A very fine value purchase. She went as far as to suggest that these boots were the best bargain in this entire charitable outlet.
Dan did too. Outstanding boots, he said, the Missis will be pleased. If stuck they would do for a game of football. Sometimes he passed a green and a game was on. So now if one of the teams was a man short he could volunteer himself. He was so impressed by these boots that he pulled them on there and then, waggling his toes in supreme comfort. Not only did Dan buy the boots he donated an extra pound coin to Oxfam. The only snag was they had no laces. Why do you not use the laces from your old boots? suggested the helpful female voluntary worker.
Dan did exactly that. He was so pleased with the boots that when he stepped outside the shop he nearly flung the auld yins away. He changed his mind at the last minute and returned into the shop, intending to donate them to charity. Unfortunately he met the snobby woman first. She took one look at the auld boots and held her head aloft: Sniff sniff sniff. They are rather old do you not think! She turned her back on him. What a cheek! If the Missis had been there she would have smacked her one on the gub.
He kept the old boots and retreated from the charity shop. He was goni take them hame, thinking they might do for dry days but he couldnay be bothered carrying them about. Dan was one of these guys who hates carrying anything, even in his pockets. It was his conviction that pockets were for storing hands. He was also prone to forgetfulness, forever leaving bags on buses. The good thing about hands, as far as Dan was concerned, even if ye forget them, ye’ll no leave them behind on a bus. He dumped the auld boots in a place unknown and set off hame. By the time he got there he was hirpling. It was a weird feeling, he said later. I thought my feet had grown two inches. At my age? But this is what it felt like. My toes were bunched up. I was in acute discomfort ye might call it. They hurt like Hell and were very painful. The Missis was annoyed but. Who selled ye these boots! she cried. Was it that snobby woman with the funny brooch!
Oh now hen I did not notice any brooch, Dan said, I was too busy admiring the boots. And now I’m in agony.
Serve ye right, said his Missis, ye’ve done nothing but complain since ye came home. On and on ye go. Even when I’m watching television it’s moan moan moan, complain complain complain, especially during these gardening, holiday and home-improvement programmes that I love so dearly. And that special one about selling yer own home and buying another one which is my absolute all-time quintessential favourite programme whenever presented by that nice dandy fellow with the three-barrelled name and the fancy cravat. Missing this programme is the last straw.
Dan hardly heard, he was examining his bruised feet in such a way that she too might examine them if of a mind. What a state they were! Black, blue and purple toes. He waggled them in front of her, distracting her attention from the television. My God, she muttered.
Dan looked at the television. It was thon presenter guy who wears these fancy silk scarves and answers to the name Reginald Duvet-Pottsgirth. Is he cousin to one of the Majesties? asked Dan.
Oh away and get yer damn boots, she said.
Dan’s Missis was an expert shopper in her own right, and a noted collector of ladies’ footwear size 3 in and around the southeast and west of southern Bringland. Dan once challenged her to count her shoes. What a task! Some had never been worn, still wrapped in tissue paper. They dont fit her feet, he told a friend, that is why she doesnay wear them. But she will not dump them. Never, she says, they will come in handy.
It turned out Dan’s Missis had eighty-seven pairs of footwear in the house of which four belonged to Dan, including a pair of sandals he hadnay seen since their honeymoon, a time he remembered oh so well, that was the week the sun was shining in a clear blue sky. So eighty-three pairs belonged to the Missis. I thought ye had more than that, he said.
I’m excluding slippers, sandals and slip-ons.
How come? asked Dan.
Use yer imagination, she said.
I will. I’ll include them in a story.
That cut no ice with the Missis. She held out her hand and he passed her one by one the boots he had just bought out Oxfam. Her eyes flickered shut a moment as though to grasp the inner essence of said articles. Then she stared at each with such intensity that the answer to the riddle seemed set to reveal itself. She reached out her hand, and entered this hand into the cavernous inners of the upper and discovered a new shoelace tied into a lump at the toe of each boot. This is why his feets were sore. He had been walking about the town the whole day with these bunched-up shoelaces cutting into the flesh at the tops of the tips of his toes. Now they were blistered to Hell. His Missis was shocked. Who gave ye these boots? she queried. Was it her with the snooty voice?
Och it doesnay matter, said Dan.
Or was it her with the brooch who is snobby but not snooty?
Dan sniffed but said nothing.
Hell mend ye, she said but was distracted by Dan gesturing at the television. Look hen, he said, it’s that upper-class young dandy fellow ye like, him with the fancy scarves and the three-barrelled name; Roger Pin-Cushion.
His Missis glared at him.
Fancy a cup of tea? he said, and off he went to the kitchen.
The End.
The problem for me was that I had to invent much of that story myself, and I had to do it from ‘scratch’. Dan did write one about shoelaces but the only bit I remember clearly was how it began, then the shoelaces themselves, how come they were bunched-up like that and shoved into the toes of the boots? Maybe it was the snobby snooty woman to blame. Maybe she had a thing about auld guys in tackety boots bought out charity shops, and her deigning to serve behind the counter too it wasnay right so it wasnay. These were key elements in the story though in Dan’s original, maybe not, now I come to think about it, there was a bus played a part. Dan began his story by taking a bus from where he stayed in an outer suburb. He took this bus down High Street just past the library at the top of the street where all these charity stores and secondhand shops are gathered. Ye never know who ye might bump into, he said, including yerself son on the look-out for all these pre-owned book bargains, is that what ye call them?
Naw, I said, the last time I tried it, I was halfway along the street when the shadows appeared to lengthen, of their own accord, and I met a Bus Inspector I knew from the olden days.
Did ye son?
Aye.
Dan pushed back his chair, peered at me over the top of his specs. I know what ye says to him, ye’re going to the west end of town so which bus will ye take? Do not take any, says the Bus Inspector, we’re a wee bit short of buses the now.
Och that’s an auld yin; I would have expected better.
Hang on a minute and ye’ll get one, said Dan, I’m just going along for a wee blether with the Caretaker.
Check if it is raining outside while ye’re at it, I muttered, I need to hit the road soon. Unless there’s any wardrobes around? I could jump into one and pull shut the door.
The tobacco tin was already out his pocket. Will do, he said.
PICK UP THE
PIECES
He made himself laugh aloud. Here he was racing along the Centreal Way and cutting back through downtown, amazed to find it was still there but trying to restrict his smiling face and eyes to the ground in front of his tootsies lest he was adjudged mad, mad. He was not mad, he was just glad to have escaped and to be here, free and easy; and so so glad to be free.
Glad glad glad: simply that. He didnt care he was hungry. So what! lacking the whatever, so what. Matters were positive. He laughed again with an immediate self-reprimand. Stop that laughing. Cut it out! At once ya fool.
True but it was all in the head.
He needed not just a million euros, a veritable million euros, but grub too; or food as we humans call it, veritable clusters of it. T
here used to be a place for the likes of him. But it was not there. He went to look and no. He used to get into that place, he just walked in, passed by the guy on the door with a cheery wink then a plate of macaroni cheese and pomme frit. But the door wasnt there never mind the guy himself.
Och well cheer up. Even without grub. What is this grub all the time. To hell with grub. Grub is just food, who needs it. Veritable clusters, strawberries and grapes, wee new potatoes, the ones you just run under the tap and let the red soil drain away, ye could fucking eat the fuckers raw, as with turnips when one passes a field and el coasto eez clearo.
All these things in shops. That is the thing about this downtown area. He spied one of them amazing men’s tailors, geared to the city gent, and with that darkbrown wood exterior – shabby to the undiscerning eye but to him the pinnacle, veritabilus-a-um. He knew it would be there and the fates didnt let him down.
Talking about the panels, that darkwood, it comes with old-fashioned counters and grumpy old-timers tugging back their double-cuffed white shirtsleeves in their bid to sell ye a harris tweedsuit with red satin waistcoat of the fanciest fancy, designed for princes. Tailors to royalty, ye could aye tell by the ombience. One pushes open the door of entry: Dingading. Out pops the grumpy old sales fellow. Sir? A jacket please. Of the finest quality. Of a type worn by nonchalant movie stars. Not football players whose sense of style – what sense of style! They dont fucking have any, football players man these cunts know fuck all.
A 37” chest nowadays, the no-grub diet and so on. And furlined inners a necessity. In case of blanketslack, the lack of blankets, the ‘nay blankets’ syndrome. Bodily warmth there was none. One’s bodily regions lay unprotected.
The cold is the worst.
Seriously but with a couple of hundred smackers to spare he would splash out on proper suiting, inimitably so. He would buy and don it that same minute.
Plus three pairs of thick woollen hose of the type worn by Mount Everest climbers and ye maun wrap them if ye’ll be huvvin a likin fur it ye ken.
In this part of the world they thought him Scottish. Fair enough.
A jaunty woollen cap of the type preferred by Rover Scouts. Naw laddie I’ll be werrin it tae.
Nay linen underwear. Seelk. Slippery substances. He thought as much. Swimming trunks, as worn by all these steak-eating world record-breaking guys. Built-in-bulge unnecessary. My trunk may have shrunk but not the appendages. Parties of the female gender would hasten to allay any fears therein, if one might find such a one available for empirical verification.
Lastly a jacket of the finest black leather
Once he had the money, this million euros or was it dollars? The truth is he was past the stage of clothes. Fuck clothes, who needs them. They can join food, fuck them all, margarine and whatnot, yoghurts, he was just glad, glad glad glad. Often he got the urge for dessert spoonfuls of natural yoghurt. Heaps of these spoonfuls, dinner spoonfuls, fucking ladlefuls man what do ye call that? a fucking eh whatdyecallit, a freaky dependency? One of the many he would have had if if and only if
The truth is, if truth it be, he felt dandy. Yeah, dandy. Outlook beautiful and bright. And looking the part with the unshaven, weatherbeaten countenance. Once the hernisheid reached an appropriate length he would trim that son-of-a-gun fucker.
One’s beard was patchy in places but women regard such as boyishly appealing. Once it had sprouted for five or six weeks mayhap it would look better. There is a certain facial sprout adopted by excessively rich personalities in search of street credibility. They domicile themselves in backstreet hotel suites for twelve days without shaving then come out for a week to exhibit their tonsorial appurtenances in fulsome suavity, then shave and hideaway for anar twelve days.
The trouble with him, him himself – if there be any trouble with him himself – is simple, plain and obvious: one has frittered one’s life. Talking fucking mega here! This guy used to be good at sports and English studies. Perhaps if he had stuck in at them. Even he was good at drawing as well, if we are talking classrooms, he was; and reasonably so at mathematical equations. The teacher was aye giving him these wee gold star things his mammy stuck up on the fridge door. Maybe if he had knuckled doon. Instead of frittering it all away. Talking talent blues. Folk fritter. He was one such – fritterer rather than fritter, given one’s father used to dunk slices of spam in a floury liquid then fry them and serve them to the weans under the heading ‘fritters’. Tasty as fuck man if we are talking grub, and how can we not, grub is grub and as to survival, if survival will enter the equation, as enter it must, grub is of the essence.
But he needed a slash. He looked for a bookie’s. One of the last places in the world that offered pissholes free to the public. Except nowadays ye have to ask for a goddam key. Imagine that man ye couldnay get a piss without getting a key from behind the counter lest one purloin the damn cistern.
Banged up cludgés. One performs the ritual.
There was a lady behind the counter engrossed on her phone, her phone! Her attitude left much to be desired. This was a bookie! Bookies were exciting places! A million eurobelles on the first favourite!
The sign on said cludgé door: For Customers Only.
Oh so it wasnay free after all; one had to make a bet first, fucking miserable bastards.
She watched for his response. He allowed a smile to play about his bulbous lips. She proffered the key. Then she stared at his fingers for a prolonged period. How come? It aint like they were podgy. Never. His fingers were never fucking podgy. Nay cunt could accuse him of that, podgy fucking fingers.
A million eurobelles! The first favourite, go on my girl, yippee! yippee!
Ah but the piss, the piss was bliss. And soap for one’s hands. Oh man, the little things in life. He soaped the beard. Fucking carry on. Beards. He hated beards. Why did he have a fucking beard. Well now of course it wasnt a beard it was a set of bristles mayhap a full set of the spiky buggers. Imagine shaving but. Imagine a bare neck. What is a bare neck. Imagine post shave
glug glug
The water through the hair on the head. Without the hair on the head one would be bald. Even women. Cold water into his eye sockets and cold water onto his scalp and dripping down the back of his neck.
He ripped a handful of toilet paper and shoved it in his jacket pocket for future reference. Free resources nowadays were a rare find. He was in a lav someplace recently and there was a halfful bottle of beer balanced on the window ledge. A halfful bottle of beer balanced on the window ledge? We are talking cludgés man know what I mean these dastardly middle-class cunts and their shitty jokes, take a sip of that ya down-and-out fucker.
The lady at the betting shop counter ignored him when he returned the key. This was a very positive action on her part and indicated to him, with neither fear nor favour, that he remained in the world as a man among men, in the outside world. Who better to remind one than a lady of the female persuasion. This returning-the-key lark was a gesture of what one might term solidarity: he too was a human fucking bean man and he didnt care if people ignored him as long as they did so in a studied manner, as a deliberate action because he, he would look right back although surely she could have glanced upwards, it wouldnt have taken much, just to look up and over, and take a wee keek at the man who
ach.
At the same time but once was good, that she should look at him twice was beyond expectation. The most one could have wished was this
who gives a fuck.
He returned to Centreal Way via the bypass and out the other side spied a damsel at the upstairs window of a huge Estates Agency specialising in Luxury Lets in Penthouse Apartments for the down-at-heel ‘county’ set.
For some reason he started doing a jig. Why did he do that! Mind you it was more of a yelping twitch, albeit a full-body one. He tended towards such behaviour following jaunts to the lavvy and other acts of social inclusion.
But it was true, the damsel was looking down at one from the upstairs window w
ith an expression on her face, an actual expression – he could see it! And not looking down at ‘one’ but at him, him! looking down at him.
dow dee dow dee doh,
dow di dow di dee,
dee dow di dow dee dah,
dee dah dee dah dee dah
She was. He touched his forelock and beamed up a smile. She looked away.
He too had a mind. Or rather a brain. He had to stop these fantasies. The million euro business. Penthouse apartments and lassies in the bookie shop.
He had nothing. A Have-not. Nothing new in that. He had done all this before. Of course money was essential but when int it? The old ho ho ho, the sarry heid, the breid, el casho. For what might we buy with money? A fucking chicken sandwich for christ sake chicken a la chips, thick batter, putrified fat and burgers, beer-battered fish, poor auld fish man battered by a pint of guinness, oh well, what’s new.
He who has nothing. One who has nothing. But what does nothing mean? If he has nothing, or had nothing. What had he when having had nothing?
Beg pardon?
Was there a thought? He seemed unable to think. Was he unable to think. His poor old head. There was a scene in some old television drama that took place in 19th Century England when the servants appeared with course after course of grub. All these upper-middle-class English actors all sitting down to chicken legs and roasted mutton, tankards of ale and hot pheasant. Oh sorry we’ve got to film that episode again. Waiter, bring the grub! Yes sir says the waiter. I hope you people arent too full of pheasant, we got to shoot the scene again!
But no, he was not coping. Although in a way he was, although in a way he wasnt, a different way. Beer-battered fish and chips, he needed out altogether, out of this damn everything, everything.
The country and everything else. Out of town.
Here he was returned and the only answer was escape.
One encounters personal difficulty in perambulating the highways and byways in a manner that suggests positivity.
The lack of heaving pit-a-pats, breathings, babies and mothers, fathers. He cannot have this promise-for-the-future. No ma’am your royal highness, he cannot have it. He whose future
