An Old Pub Near the Angel

by Kelman, James

  They travelled by taxi to John’s single end in Maryhill. Immediately on entering Mick collected the key and went out again to the communal stairhead lavatory. When he returned a bottle of malt whisky and six cans of Export lay neatly on the table.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Drink we want – not an appetizer!’ said John, searching in the cabinet for suitable cups.

  ‘Okay!’ cried Mick, taking two tumblers from his inside pocket and one half-pint glass from each side pocket. ‘My contribution!’ he said, smiling proudly.

  ‘Silly bastard, you’ll get caught one of these days.’

  ‘No chance man – used to call me Fingers Henderson at school. Not remember?’

  ‘How should I remember? You’re years older than me.’

  ‘Ah don’t give me that patter. You joined the Scouts long before me.’

  ‘You’re a liar man, you got tossed out before I left the Cubs.’

  Mick smiled and sank into an armchair.

  ‘Pour us a drink,’ he said. ‘Can’t be bothered arguing with you.’

  ‘Cause you’re wrong.’

  ‘Up your arse.’

  ‘Ah well never mind.’ John handed him a whisky, and a beer.

  ‘Good luck son you have my sympathy.’ Mick gulped two-thirds of the whisky down. Then went on, ‘Listen why don’t you get off your mark. Get the first train to London in the morning before you start seeing ghosts with her and her mother? Cause I’m telling you man that’s what’ll happen.’

  ‘You really talk some piss at times.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  John did not reply. He leaned across and topped up his guest’s whisky.

  ‘If I had your chance,’ continued Mick, ‘I’d be off in a flash – bags packed and offski.’

  ‘Have I got to listen to this.’ He groaned staring at the ceiling, then said, ‘Anyway you could still do it for God sake. Why don’t you instead of telling me?’

  ‘Well the kid . . .’

  ‘Ach you’re always telling me he’s up at your mother-in-law’s with Betty all the time!’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘You know something? I’ve thought about it a few times – but taking them with me, not just myself. Get away from old greeting face,’ he paused, ‘and Betty’ll end up the same way if she carries on the way she’s going.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh cause I can’t get a job and that,’ he lit a cigarette. ‘Every time I see the old bag she’s on at me about it. Really gets on my nerves, and Betty as well. I know she’s thinking the same thing nowadays. In fact I was up with them a month ago, at Bearsden and her maw started on. I sat watching the box not saying a word then Betty says there’s a lot of truth in what she’s saying. Jesus Christ!’ Mick laughed loudly. ‘I grabbed a nicker out her purse and went down the Black Bull, met a guy I knew and ended up at a party. Didn’t go home until the next morning.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Her and the kid were still at Bearsden. Stayed the night, maw told her I was probably gone for good and good riddance. One miserable nicker! Not even enough for a taxi to Central Station! Jesus Christ.’ He looked so disgusted John could not help laughing. ‘All right for you with a job and that – not seen a fiver for months. Had four quid tonight. Most I’ve had since I’ve been on the broo!’

  ‘How’d you get it?’

  ‘Birthday! Aye!’ he laughed. ‘Betty’s maw – would you believe it? Gave her three quid for me, told her to buy me something cause I’d only fritter it away.’

  ‘After what you’ve been saying about her too.’

  ‘Ach she’s loaded. Should see her house man, like Elder’s Furniture Shop inside. Three quid! Gives her milk boy a bigger tip at Christmas. She really hates me.’

  ‘Why d’you see her then?’

  ‘Don’t know. Suppose if I had a job I wouldn’t go but she’s not bad in ways – buys the kid stuff and drops Betty now and then. Extra couple of quid comes in handy.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be me.’

  ‘What you talking about?’ Mick sneered. ‘Pride or something?’

  ‘For a couple of quid,’ replied John quietly. ‘I wouldn’t take it.’

  ‘Try living on a tenner a week then come and tell me!’

  ‘Why don’t you go south? Said you were thinking about it.’

  ‘Well why should I man, I mean I’m from Glasgow. Why the hell should I go down there to live?’

  ‘Work! I mean you liked it down there before you got married.’

  ‘Well five years married! I’ve changed. It’s not too bad, me and Betty get on okay together apart from her mother. Anyway . . .’ he grinned, ‘. . . I like it on the broo. Plenty of time to read and that, it’s not a bad life.’

  ‘Never have a penny.’

  ‘Don’t need it. Hardly bothers me at all now. Really!’

  ‘You’re a liar.’

  Mick laughed. ‘I’m telling you man. Don’t need any. Take a pound a week to myself and Betty buys me the tobacco. Tell me what I need money for?’

  ‘That’s no way to live.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘What about the kid?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Surely you want him to get something better?’

  ‘Well if he wants to get a job down south I won’t stop him.’

  ‘Christ that’s no way to live.’

  Mick laughed again and refilled the glasses. ‘Probably one of the most contented men in Britain when I think about it. If I could get an old cottage in the country – stay the summer – Glasgow in the winter. They send you your broo money when you stay in the wilds! Christ what a life eh?’

  ‘So you’ve given up? Very surprised. Really am, I mean it’s a load of piss. Balderdash!’

  ‘What you going to do?’ asked Mick still smiling.

  ‘Don’t know but I’m not going to give up like that.’

  ‘Still going to night school?’

  ‘Aye!’

  ‘How’s it coming on?’

  ‘Not bad, thinking of going to college. Get enough highers for the uni. Strathclyde or something . . . Technical maybe. Engineering . . .’

  ‘You?’ Mick gaped in astonishment.

  ‘Not think I’ve got the ability or something? Fuck me what’s up at all? I’m only twenty-four for God sake!’

  ‘Didn’t mean that. Just can’t imagine you,’ he stopped and smilingly said, ‘No offence.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard! Seriously, you should try it too. All those books you read – no trouble, start putting them to use! If I can do it you’d guy in. How far!’

  ‘Interesting maybe – but I’d still have to get a job after wouldn’t I?’

  John shook his head slowly.

  ‘What you shaking your head about?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I know it doesn’t matter. You don’t.’

  ‘You’ll have to get a job sooner or later.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ach forget it man. Forget it.’ He smiled. ‘Just don’t come tapping me when I hit the big time.’

  Mick hooted derisively. They continued drinking silently for a time.

  ‘Seriously though you’ve got no plans?’

  ‘None at all,’ answered Mick happily refilling the glasses once more.

  ‘Must be something?’

  ‘Might go into politics.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aye, there’s this bird from the Young Socialists keeps coming up to see me and when she first saw my books asked me to join them. Says I’m a Natural Leader.’

  ‘Young Socialists by fuck you’re nearly thirty.’

  ‘Don’t know where you get these ideas about my age.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘No! Really! I’m only twenty-five! Anyway she keeps on coming back. Suppose she must fancy me. Or maybe it’s my mind she’s after. Wants to save me – says I’ve given up too.’ He grinned. ‘Funnily enough she wants m
e to get my highers and all that piss. Nobody believes I’m really enjoying life. Fuck them all!’ Mick declared with a flourish, knocking over his latest whisky in the process.

  ‘You’re blotto!’

  ‘Shite!’

  ‘Anyway . . .’ John stood up and walked to the door.

  ‘Want to see a doctor about your bladder.’

  John laughed and staggered out to the lavatory. When he returned Mick was refilling the glasses again.

  ‘Here’s to your seance-in-law!’ he cried and downed half his whisky.

  ‘I’m steaming man you know that?’ John sank into his chair and wearily lifted his glass. ‘Went for that piss there . . . fresh air and that . . .’

  ‘You know I might . . .’ Mick broke off. ‘When you getting married again?’

  ‘Week on Saturday. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Week on Saturday eh?’

  ‘I have this feeling I’m going to spew my guts.’

  ‘Your house.’

  ‘You staying the night?’

  ‘No got to get back. Going to Bearsden the morning. Didn’t tell you that eh? Jesus Christ! Sad! Going to Bearsden the morning. better go I think.’

  ‘We’ll finish the bottle before I’m sick. Should I be sick first? Who can tell eh?’

  ‘Who can tell? Imagine going to Bearsden in the morning?’

  ‘Not change your mind about the stag?’

  ‘No. Like to – but reasons. Reasons!’

  ‘Well you should be there. Best man and that should be at the stag’s what I think. Still as long as you get me to that church eh? Who cares?’

  ‘Not me man. Couldn’t care less. I’m going to see you week on Saturday bright and early if not before. No bother.’

  ‘Repeat that?’

  ‘Quite simple.’ Mick stood up and stretched, almost toppling over with the effort.

  ‘Here!’ John poured another drink. ‘For the road. Courage for Bearsden. Jesus!’ He stared at the bottle. ‘Almost done the lot in!’

  ‘Oh!’ John yelled and crashed down onto his armchair.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The robbery!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forgot to tell you the plan. Listen I’m going to rob banks in future. Natural Leader eh? Well listen to this – came to me last night in bed. A genius! Going to organise all the men on the broo. Guess how?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Going to get a meeting together and put across the plan. Maybe two hundred guys on the broo right? Well imagine two hundred men walking into a bank. Okay give us the money! Christ a small army! Who could stop us? Nobody would know punters or robbers! Busies couldn’t do fuck all either! Two hundred handed! What busies could stop us?’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Brilliant eh?’

  ‘Don’t know if it’d work. You think it’d work?’

  ‘Easy! No bother man. Two hundred handed! If they were all organised! Easy, and when we got outside we just split up and walk away and who could tell who was who? Nobody would recognise a face or anything. Genius! Anyway ponder on it. I’m going home. See you on the Saturday. Busies couldn’t do a thing. Maybe do three or four a week. Wouldn’t know what hit them. Ponder on it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You still going to be sick?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Come on the broo! Sa great life. You can rob banks or anything. Screw Young Socialists. Fight with seance-in-laws. Can’t beat it man.’

  ‘Good night Natural Leader.’

  ‘Still going to college and getting married and all that?’

  ‘Without fail it’s what’s going to happen I think.’

  ‘Headbanger! Remember and buy me a best man present.’

  The door banged shut behind the best man, shortly before John retched the night up.

  Circumstances

  They stopped outside the hospital gates. He could see the night porter peering through the window trying to identify the girl. The rain pattered relentlessly, although gently, down on the umbrella.

  ‘I better go in,’ the girl said with a half smile, staring in at the little office.

  ‘Thought you were allowed till twelve before they closed the gates?’ he asked.

  She shrugged without replying and shuffling her feet began humming to herself.

  ‘Anyway let’s walk up the road a bit where there are no spies.’

  ‘Oh Danny doesn’t bother.’ She stepped backwards into the shadows, expecting him to follow.

  He saw the night porter turn the page of a newspaper with his left hand; he held a tea cup against his cheek with the other. Perhaps she was right. He didn’t appear the least bit interested.

  ‘Jilly, fancy a coffee?’

  ‘In your flat I suppose?’ she smiled, but not forlornly.

  ‘Well it’s only a room. But it’s warm and I’ve got a chair.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean!’

  He turned his coat collar up before replying.

  ‘Listen, if you know any cafes still open we’ll go there.’

  He could not be bothered. What he did want to say was listen why don’t you go in or why don’t you come I’m getting tired and really what’s the diff anyway? But she always had to play these little games all the time.

  ‘I’m only kidding, Stuart,’ she answered quickly, recognising that tone.

  ‘Yeah!’ He smiled. ‘Sorry, Jilly. Come on, let’s go and drink coffee. I’m too tired to rape you anyway.’

  ‘Very funny!’ she laughed.

  Stuart had met her at the hospital dance four weeks ago and this was the sixth time they had gone out together. Cinema twice. Pub thrice. This evening Jilly had not finished until after eight, so they had dined in an Indian restaurant, had a few drinks and strolled about. When the rain started they made their way back to the hospital where she lived in. He did not find her tremendously attractive but she appeared to quite like him. They had never had sex together although at the beginning he had tried to persuade her at every opportunity. But now, she noticed his attempts becoming less frequent as were his jokes and funny remarks on the subject. She was half a head shorter than him, dressed quite well if six months behind in style, had short black hair and wore this brown corduroy coat he liked the first time he had seen it; but not the fifth. She had a sharp wee upturned nose. Nineteen years old, kissed with sealed lips and came from Bristol.

  ‘No females allowed in here you know!’ said Stuart, quietly turning the key in the lock. ‘Under any circumstances!’

  Jilly giggled looking up and down the street.

  ‘I can only stay ten minutes,’ she whispered, peering into the dark, musty-smelling hallway.

  He beckoned her to follow and she crept upstairs without glancing back. This was a respectable bachelor-only house wholly maintained by an eighty-eight year old Italian landlady who preferred elderly, retired if possible, gentlemen. She had allowed Stuart in through her husband, who drank in his local, putting a word in. ‘Steady boy,’ he had told her. It was a clean, quiet house and during the six months he had stayed there he had only twice set eyes on another tenant. There was one other occasion when, shortly after closing time, a person had bumped against his door then fallen upstairs. When he investigated whoever it was had disappeared. He had concluded that the person lived directly above but could not be sure. He paid £3.50 per week for one medium-sized room containing a mighty bed which somewhat resembled his idea of the way an orthopaedic bed would look. It was shaped like a small but steep hill; four feet high at the top and half that high at the bottom. Occasionally he would awaken with his feet sticking out over the end and his head eighteen inches below the flat pillow. An unusual continental quilt covered the bed. The mattress interior seemed to be stuffed with empty potato crisp packets and startling crinkling sounds escaped whenever he turned over. It was extremely comfortable! He had no running water but there was an old marble-topped washing table and an enormous jug and basin. Underneath the table stood an enamel bucket a
nd all three vessels plus the electric kettle were filled daily with fresh water by the landlady. There were neither gas nor electric cooking appliances. Under no circumstances was he allowed to cook even if he did supply his own stove; but he seldom ate out, preferring to buy in cold meat or cheese. Recently he had discovered tinned frankfurters which he emptied into the kettle with one or two eggs. When the water boiled for three minutes, both the sausages and the eggs would be ready to be eaten. Only snag was, apart from the spout being very narrow, that the hole in the kettle was barely 3″ in diameter and this meant having to spear each frankfurter out individually, by fork, which required skill; and occasionally an egg would crack when lowered by spoon and dropped onto the kettle bottom, causing the water to become cobwebby from the escaping egg white. Fortunately the coffee flavour always seemed unimpaired. He was secretly proud of his ingenuity but could not display it to Jilly as he had neither egg nor frankfurter. Still she did accept the chair, and the coffee. He switched on the gas fire.

  ‘Very quiet house,’ she said presently.

  ‘Haunted.’

  Jilly smiled her disbelief.

  ‘You don’t believe me? There’s things go bump in the night here!’

  ‘I don’t believe you. No.’

  ‘Okay.’ Sitting facing her on the carpet he began twiddling the knobs of his transistor radio. ‘What’s Luxembourg again?’ he asked.

  ‘208 meters. If I believed everything you told me I’d go mad or something.’

  ‘Doesn’t bother me if you don’t want to hear about it.’ He paused. ‘I’m going to tell you anyway.’ He switched off the radio and continued in a low growling kind of stage voice. ‘One dark black winter’s evening just after closing time, around the turn of the century, an aged retired navvy was returning from the boozer . . .’

  ‘Retired what?’

  ‘Navvy, and he was still wearing his Wellingtons – was returning from the boozer quietly singing this shanty to himself when he opened the front door and climbed the stairs,’ Stuart paused, pointing to his door, ‘just as he passed this very door to go up to his room he stopped and there at the top of the stairs he saw this death’s head staring at him. Well he staggered back letting out this bloodcurdling scream and toppled downstairs banging into this door on the way to his doom.’