by James Kelman
The same place they went when I was a kid.
Oh dont give me that, she said.
Give you what? I wasnt giving her a thing. It was true. All I did was tell her. If she chose to not believe me or to be annoyed by it, or be irritated; whatever, it was up to her. She accused me of being lev – lev – lev something. What the hell was the word! Levaticus? That was the name of a biblical character. Leviticus. She couldnt have accused me of being a biblical character? Or could she? It depended on her mood.
But it was no laughing matter.
People did not believe in laughs and she was no different. Neither was I. Laughs laugh laughter. I didnt believe in laughs either. That is why I returned to Glasgow, when any sane individual would have remained elsewhere, excluding Scotland obviously, if one might distinguish between the two, as most folk do.
The backcourts, backstreets, back alleys, the shadowy lanes nearby the river, derelict warehouses with caved-in roofs, broken glass and old iron, and weeds, and people; people who might be anything, dangerous, anything. That is where the children played, so what was new in that? Kids survive.
It wasnt my decision. I would have stayed south. I kept that to myself. Lindsey would have jumped down me throat, be entitled to jump down me throat.
Hoh hum.
Black soot ingrained brick buildings.
Black soot ingrained brick buildings, sandstone bricks, forming a rectangle. For every two entrance ways there was a midden containing three large metal containers inside of which piled black polybags full of rubbish and shite, shite. The containers should have been emptied weekly. They were not.
I would to have drawn them.
I adjusted the stub of charcoal between my fingers, my pinkie and ringfinger ached. The charcoal was finished and these two were the fingers that had the most work to do, thankless work. I should have thrown the stub away. If I hadnt paused to perform the adjustment the ache in my fingers would have gone unnoticed. A proper artist wouldnt have noticed. He would have been too engrossed. I was not a proper artist. I engaged in pastimes; this was one such.
When was soot anything other than black? It was always black. Soot was soot. No wonder I was having the difficulty. How do you draw soot you do not draw soot, who could draw soot, no one could do it, ever do it, they would never succeed.
Wait. Soot could be brown, soot could be purple. Soot need not be black, black grey. How do real artists manage? They just plunge in and try, they do not ask first; what colour is such and such; they just jumped in and did what it was, in front of their eyes, their eyes, theirs and nobody else, it lay in front of their eyes. What lay in front of their eyes? Whatever, what it was, whatever it was, and if it was green it was green, and why should it not be green, if soot is green it is green, fucking green!
I looked at the drawing, then out the window. A pigeon. One of the tenements lay derelict and a commune of pigeons had taken over the top flat. One landed exactly then, wings barely flapping. They flew in and out the broken windows, lined the juncture of the roof and on the chimneypots, digging their beaks into the moss-covered slates. Imagine worms on the roof. And hopeless-looking birds, but not in flight. The bigger the bird the more graceful it was, leaving aside pelicans. What was the wee fat bird that nests on these break-neck cliffs overlooking the sea? Not terns.
That was you getting old when your memory went. My uncle said it. Once the memory goes it becomes a downward spiral. They fly ten thousand miles without a break. Wee fat birds that the old St Kildans used to eat. These men climbed up incredible cliff faces in their bare feet because maybe only their big toe could find a grip. They had feet like shovels, with webbed toes, evolved from a thousand years of climbing. More. When had the first humans come to the island? Probably chased there five thousand years ago, same period as the Skara Brae settlers in Orkney.
Webbed toes! Surely not. How could it be? If they had had webbed toes the whole world would have known. Maybe they did. Anthropology was the appropriate area.
Life was just extraordinary. In some ways it was. Even you looked out the window, observing from the window, and saw the big puddle. Really, it was an enormous puddle. It flooded the entire backcourt and left all the families up two closes no way to reach the midden. Not unless they trailed through the water. Fucking webbed feet, ye needed webbed feet to live in Glasgow.
How to reach the midden? Send the weans!
What the hell else do we have children for? They would love the adventure!
But it was disgraceful; a scandal said Lindsey and she was right. Why should any child have to live in this environment. This place was horrible; infant mortality rates scandalous, scandalous; people living in confrontation with their surroundings, a pitched battle between the two, unlike what’s his name, Lowry the great Lancashire artist who painted scenes from working-class life, crowds of people going to work in the factory, returning home from the factory. Lowry had been a political animal. He had to have been. Otherwise why use the subject matter?
I was not a political animal. This was a confession I enjoyed. I felt justified. Perhaps not. But it was a justification, whether I felt it or not. I liked to think I was political but I was not – my God, a bird had popped out the top window of the derelict building, out onto a windowsill, arms behind its back, beneath the coat-tails, head cocked, gazing down to the backcourt, supreme observer, a God-like witness.
But why the hell had they allowed the building to degenerate into dereliction? It was a nonsense. This city’s political leaders, the ones that werent corrupt, were a bunch of cowardly bastards, no-good cowardly bastards. But it was up to the citizens to take up arms. Fight the buggers. Fucking fight them, dont be scared. Not that they were scared, they werent scared at all, they just had better things to do with their time, unlike me.
I was a do-nothing.
Like every place else on the globe, the battle in Scotland lay between the people and the politicians, the people and the political system, the class system, the people and the bullies, the people and the sycophants, the people and the armed forces.
Why not get actively engaged in politics. How to manage that? Go out and do something. Find a campaign and go and join it. People were fighting against racist laws. Go and join a picketline. Why was I unable to do that? Or Trident missiles, the people down at Faslane, young and old, elderly, all fighting against the army, navy and cops and the secret services, not to mention their American coozans, all down there fighting ordinary Scottish folk. Why didnt I go and join them? And take my child with me. People took their children. I didnt. Me and Lindsey, we didnt. If I suggested that to her she would run a mile. I never did suggest it, I didnt have to.
But who said I was unable to do it!
Unproven.
One day I might. One day soon. I had only been home a couple of months. Even being home was a surprise, never mind the accoutremon. Girlfriend and babee.
Life moved on. A lighter touch was required. Defective technique. One day I would seek tuition. There were leisure classes in the field. How to be an artist in ten weeks. It shore sounded good ol partner.
Yet the political activists were the ones to admire. Both my siblings were activists. I was not. But so what! Here at the base level, street level, the level of existence, ordinary existence. My siblings didnt deign to stoop so low. I had the family, they had none.
That aspect of white crayon, its smoothness in application, no, I did not care for it.
Down in the backcourt dissolving lumps of excrement and tissue paper clogged the water. The flooding caused by three days’ heavy rain and one burst pipe. The level of the puddle had risen to the extent that one now had to search for the source. What could one do. Very little. I dampened the white crayon with my fore-finger.
Kids and adventure. On the dry land athwart the puddle they were building a flat wooden vessel. Call it an ark. These little humans were raising an ark to set sail for Treasure Island. Forget the religious connotation, the small ones were into Pieces of E
ight Massir Awkins. You had to laugh. I did, I liked kids and having one of my own was beyond anything imaginable. Incredible that a human could bring another human into being. Of course Lindsey had played a part in the process. It takes two, two.
And where was the child to play. The backcourt was a massive adventure playground and I would have loved it when I was a wean, but now: now it was too dangerous. You could not let kids out there, not until they were older. Other parents did and I had no problem with that although Lindsey did. She was from the south seas of England and dint understand tenement life ol partner.
Neither did I.
On one roof across from me I could see two men working with slates and tarpaulin, repairing the recent storm damage.
That or a storm similar had struck the south-east coast of North America. Although the information was an irrelevance it helped people feel better. Nevertheless this here had been the worst storm for twenty years according to Mrs McAuley on the ground floor left; a crabbit woman who spent most of her life in the local butcher shop. Was that not unnatural behaviour? My father was a horse punter and spent most of his life in the betting shop which, if not admirable, was at least understandable. But butcher shops! There was something deviant about that. Every time one passed along the pavement and gazed into the butcher-shop window lo and behold that female personage was there at the counter, in conversation with the butcher’s wife, Mary, a local tradition-bearer. Forget the word ‘gossip’; ‘gossip’ did not do justice to the scope of what passed locally from mouth to mouth.
I was chuckling. I caught myself doing it. My thoughts delighted me. Yes and the toddler had returned in the backcourt below. Post haste. Red crayon red crayon. Nee naaawww neee naaawww. Red crayons for toddlers, certain toddlers. Definitely a red crayon for this wee being of the gender female with the spoon and cup
the spoon and cup
lost to the world making sandpies from out the black slime. The wee darling. I knew her mother and for God sake she was okay for all that never could she be described as a good mother. Never ever. She definitely was not a good mother. On this Lindsey and I agreed. As disinterested observers no other judgement was possible. She smoked like a chimney, went to the bingo, no doubt drank copious quantities of alcohol, to wash down the copious popped pills, all the while allowing her wonderful wee girl to toddle around this hellhole of a backcourt. What happened if she fell in the damn puddle; what if she fell on broken glass; if her flesh was sliced open? She would contract diphtheria. Nothing more certain. One felt like charging downstairs and lifting her out of harm’s way.
But was she in harm’s way?
Halt! Who goes there!
Middle-class missionaries.
Ah, pass on.
Artist as interventionist. The toddler in the puddle. I scraped an edge on the crayon, sketched quickly. Blunt crayons annoyed me unless appropriate. Appropriate crayons. How does one distinguish black-slime sandpies from sand sandpies? Weans dont why should adults? Might they be so distinguished?
By an understanding of the nature of ‘essence’. What is ‘essence’ mine fuhrer?
The aeroplane overhead. Fasten seatbelts. A London flight. The wealthy business class, commuters commuting. I commute, you commute. Five minutes to land. Already on the final descent. Oh my ears a-poppin. Here is a boiled sweet. The stewardess on the side seat stares vacantly, knees glued together. Glued together. I was once on a plane and a stewardess sat so facing me. Her knees! It was a big plane and I was on the seat at an exit door. And travelling alone, though such information is not relevant. The stewardess sat on the pull-down seat facing me. And amid much turbulence and a most bumpy landing her knees remained together, dimpled knees, not beautiful but yes, well, maybe they were.
Are all knees dimpled?
But how did she manage it! How could it be! Mon amee! Such compo-zure! Such aispeer-yons! Such aileegons.
Needless to report she had nice legs. All stewardesses have nice legs. Given that the uniform skirt is not conducive, should not have been conducive.
I challenge that. They are so conducive!
But conducive or not, 100 per cent female, women’s skirts. And what about her vacant stare? And could it be drawn. Hold it there a minute. Miss would you please be vacant a little longer. But why had I to unspread my own knees? Why! Why indeed, because I was getting hard. An erection occasioned, was occasioning, been brought about, effected by, the presence of these knees, and what and what, oh, what lay not so much
the knees of this woman, this stewardess whose stare was not at all vacant, or if it was yet concealing a most interested smile, a smile of daring, of daring – design!
Is design too strong a word?
The sense of the irresistible. Not by nefarious design aforethought, simply the non-reflective act of a free man. No no no. It was more than that. I was unspreading my knees for her, for her! She had been reading a magazine and pretended not to notice. And her knees my God stuck together, how could it be!
Now that surely was unnatural. Women surely are not programmed to keep those knees jammed together. Mine might be closed but not jammed. Hers were jammed. Jammed! Why?
Why indeed.
Now that had been unfair advantage. But the phrase ‘vacant stare’. Perhaps that stare was not so vacant. Perhaps that stare was a stratagem. How to deal with male intimidation. And it was. I had desired that she notice my masculinity. It was true. Who knows, maybe she would slip her phone number into my hand as we departed the plane.
Men have that over women. The freedom to open one’s legs. Not even in trousers will a woman open her legs, not like that, spread; spread knees. ‘Spread knees’ could be the name of an audacious new deodorant.
Had I been a copywriter. Mercy me. In the days when one travelled alone. One had yet to become a threesome. Lindsey and I had met but were yet to form a relationship. We had slept together. We had slept together. Sigh. One could only sigh. A reflective exhalation.
Sounds, what were the sounds. Banging through the wall. Who lived through the wall? Ye gods. The mystery of it, and to remain so; destined as such.
I heard this banging at odd hours. An old-fashioned author was required to make of that a mystery so dreadful, of such awe-inspiring
Oh my, more banging.
I focused closely on visual rather than aural matter.
In the backcourt parts of the ground had been cemented over. There were also dirt patches and here weeds blossomed. Bits of charred wood, remnants from the fire last month, strewn among rusted push-pram parts and holey bedspreads.
Jesus Christ a ragman! An actual ragman! I thought they had died out centuries ago! This guy! A fucking ragman! He was dragging a sack behind him and stopping every two or three strides to poke under articles. He was doing it on the off chance. Spoiled articles. Old newspaper or linoleum, it looked like linoleum. And his dog was there. That was odds on, a dog. Ragmen always had dogs. Oft times they were known as ‘rag and bone’ men. That would be the nineteenth century when bones lay about the streets in the name of God.
But I remembered those men from childhood, rummaging around for stuff, any kind of stuff, every kind of stuff. I hadnt seen one for years.
Mercy me he was going to leave! Hold it! Hold it hold it. Hold it hold it hold it.
The ragman stayed barely a minute. Three balloons for your coat and hat. Any bones? The dog sniffing at his heels. The dog had that hopeful demeanour one expects from the canine as opposed to the feline.
Two wee boys were watching all this from behind a dyke. They would have stones, were about to hurl said stones. The ragman had not seen them. Neither had his dog. This dog was mean. I hoped it would bark at them and chase them.
Nearby the empty space, where part of the dyke was demolished such a very long time ago. A section had collapsed and crushed a child. Why not say it. Killed the child. The child was beneath the dyke. Bigger children had climbed onto the dyke. I got the story from Lindsey who heard it from Mrs McAuley. The bigger c
hildren had run away after the ‘accident’. In case they got blamed.
Accident! The word had to be challenged. It did not do justice to the fact.
None ever was adjudged culpable. Not anyone. A freak of fucking nature. Council business. People had demanded the dyke’s demolition. Oh naughty dyke. What did they put it on Trial! Naughty naughty dyke. Then did the Council act.
I had a wee child. If such a thing ever happened, if it ever happened.
I had sketched this dyke on numerous occasions. What was there about that dyke? Nothing. Bricks and mortar a soul doth not own. Obviously not. Nevertheless, I sketched it.
Dead weans and old dykes, a traditional Glasgow story
The ragman approached the close entrance to the derelict tenement. Aha.
Just to see what was what.
The place was reeking! I could have told him. I had been inside it a fortnight ago. The concrete floor was rutted and wet, urine and shite, animal and human. The walls running damp, initials and dates knifed into the plaster, gang slogans on the ceiling. Empty buckie bottles and bricks and mortar, bricks and mortar, gen-yoo-oine bricks and mortar. I laid down the sketch pad and crayons, massaged the small of my back. The baby’s nappy needed changing. I should have done it an hour and a half ago. Then I could have gone for a walk, pushed the pram. I quite enjoyed that. I did enjoy it. I enjoyed it a lot!
Now Lindsey was due home.
In the background the drone of the radio. It came from through the wall. This was the radio programme, every lunchtime the broadcast. Who could believe people listened to such nonsense? But they did, in their hundreds of thousands. This person or persons through the wall from us; one’s neighbours, they listened to it on a daily basis. Probably I had seen them on the street. Ordinary people, no irregular habits, except this compulsion to listen to extraordinary crap. Was this not the most extraordinarily crap programme in the radio universe!
