Greyhound for Breakfast

by Kelman, James

  ‘I’ll take a look in later on.’

  ‘Aye do that Eddie. You’ve actually just caught me at a bad time.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ said Eddie and he winked and gave a quick wave. He walked on across the street without looking behind. Farther along he stepped sideways onto the path up by the Art Galleries.

  There were a lot of children rushing about, plus women pushing prams. And the bowling greens were busy. Not just pensioners playing either, even young boys were out. Eddie still had the Record rolled in his pocket and he sat down on a bench for a few minutes, glancing back through the pages again, examining what was on at all the cinemas, theatres, seeing the pub entertainment and restaurants advertised.

  No wind. Hardly even a breeze. The sun seemed to be beating right down on his head alone. Or else it was the alcohol; he was beginning to feel the effects. If he stayed on the bench he would end up falling asleep. The hotel. He got up, paused to light a cigarette. Along Sauchiehall Street there was a good curry smell coming from somewhere. He was starving. He turned into the entrance to The Green Park, walking up the wee flight of stairs and into the lobby, the reception lounge. Somebody was hoovering carpets. He pressed the buzzer button, pressed it again when there came a break in the noise.

  The girl who had brought him breakfast. ‘Mrs Grady’s out the now,’ she told him.

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘What was it you were wanting?’

  ‘Eh well it was just I was wondering if there’s a bank near?’

  ‘A bank. Yes, if you go along to Charing Cross. They’re all around there.’

  ‘Oh aye. Right.’ Eddie smiled. ‘It’s funny how you forget wee details like that.’

  ‘Mmhh.’

  ‘Things have really changed as well. The people . . .’ He grinned, shaking his head.

  She frowned. ‘Do you mean Glasgow people?’

  ‘Aye but really I mean I’m talking about people I know, friends and that, people I knew before.’

  ‘Aw, I see.’

  Eddie yawned. He dragged on his cigarette. ‘Another thing I was wanting to ask her, if it’s okay to go into the room, during the day.’

  ‘She prefers you not to, unless you’re on full board.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You can go into the lounge though.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I dont know whether she knew you were staying tonight . . .’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’ll tell her.’

  ‘Eh . . .’ Eddie had been about to walk off; he said, ‘Does she do evening meals as well like?’

  ‘She does.’ The girl smiled.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I dont advise it at the moment,’ she said quietly, ‘the real cook’s off sick just now and she’s doing it all herself.’

  ‘Aw aye. Thanks for the warning!’ Eddie dragged on the cigarette again. ‘I smelled a curry there somewhere . . .’

  ‘Yeh, there’s places all around.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Dont go to the first one, the one further along’s far better – supposed to be one of the best in Glasgow.’

  ‘Is that right. That’s great. Would you fancy coming at all?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It would be nice if you came, as well, if you came with me.’ Eddie shrugged. ‘It’d be good.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m working.’

  ‘Well, I would wait.’

  ‘No, I dont think so.’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ he shrugged, ‘I’d like you to but.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Eddie nodded. He looked towards the glass-panelled door of the lounge, he patted his inside jacket pocket in an absentminded way. And the girl said, ‘You know if it was a cheque you could cash it here. Mrs Grady would do it for you.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He pointed at the lounge door. ‘Is that the lounge? Do you think it’d be alright if I maybe had a doze?’

  ‘A doze?’

  ‘I’m really tired. I was travelling a while and hardly got any sleep last night. If I could just stretch out a bit . . .’

  He looked about for an ashtray, there was one on the small half-moon table closeby where he was standing; he stubbed the cigarette out, and yawned suddenly.

  ‘Look,’ said the girl, ‘I’m sure if you went up the stair and lay down for an hour or so; I dont think she would mind.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘It’ll be okay.’

  ‘You sure but I mean . . .’

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘I dont want to cause you any bother.’

  ‘It’s alright.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Your bag’s still there in your room as well you know.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Will I give you a call? about 5?’

  ‘Aye, fine. 6 would be even better!’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’ll have to be 5 – she’ll be back in the kitchen after that.’

  ‘I was only kidding.’

  ‘If it could be later I’d do it.’

  ‘Naw, honest, I was only kidding.’

  The girl nodded.

  After a moment he walked to the foot of the narrow, carpeted staircase.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a cheque cashed then?’

  ‘Aye, probably.’

  ‘I’ll mention it to her.’

  Up in the room he unzipped his bag but did not take anything out, he sat down on the edge of the bed instead. Then he got up, gave a loud sigh and took off his jacket, draping it over the back of the bedside chair. He closed the curtains, lay stretched out on top of the bedspread. He breathed in and out deeply, gazing at the ceiling. He felt amazingly tired, how tired he was. He had never been much of an afternoon drinker and today was just proving the point. He raised himself up to unknot his shoelaces, lay back again, kicking the shoes off and letting them drop off onto the floor. He shut his eyes. He was not quite sure what he was going to do. Maybe he would just leave tomorrow. He would if he felt like it. Maybe even tonight! if he felt like it. Less than a minute later he was sleeping.

  Manchester in July

  I was there once without enough for a room, not even for a night’s lodgings in the local Walton House. 6/6d it was at the time which proves how fucking recent it was. At the NAB a clerk proffered a few bob as a temporary measure and told me to come back once I had fixed myself up with a rentbook. I got irritated at this because of the logical absurdity but they were not obliged to dish out cash to people without addresses. By the time I had worked out my anger I was skint again (10 fags and some sort of basic takeaway from a Chinese Restaurant). I wound up trying for a kip in the station, then tramped about the ’dilly trying to punt the wares to Mr and Mrs Anybody. When it was morning I headed along and under the bridge to Salford, eventually picking up another few bob in the office across from Strangeways. I went away back there and then and booked in at the Walton for that coming evening, just to be on the safe side.

  The middle of July. What a wonderful heat it was. I spent most of the day snoozing full stretch on my back in a grass square adjacent to the House, doing my best to conserve the rest of the bread.

  Into the communal lounge about 6.30 p.m. I sat on this ancient leather effort of a chair which had brass studs stuck in it. The other seating in the place was similarly odd and disjointed. Old guys sprawled everywhere snoring and farting and burping and staring in a glassy-eyed way at the television. I had been scratching myself as soon as I crossed the threshold, just at the actual idea of it. Yet in a funny fucking way it was quite comfortable and relaxing and it seemed to induce in you a sort of stupor. Plus it was fine getting the chance to see a telly again. One felt like a human being. I mind it was showing The Fugitive with that guy David Jansen and this tall police lieutenant who was chasing him about the States (and wound up he was the guy who killed Jansen’s wife). I was right into it anyway, along with the remaining few in the room who were still compos mentis, when in walks these three blokes in clean bo
ilersuits and they switched it off, the telly. 10 minutes before the end or something. I jumped out the chair and stood there glaring at them. A couple of the old guys got up then; but they just headed off towards the door, and then upstairs to the palliases. It was fucking bedtime! 10.50 p.m. on a Thursday night. It might even have been a fucking Friday.

  not too long from now tonight will be

  that last time

  He was walking slowly. His pace quickened then slackened once more. He stopped by the doorway of a shop and lighted a cigarette. The floor was dry, a sort of parquetry. He lowered himself down to sit on his heels, his arms folded, elbows resting on his knees, his back to the glass door.

  He could have gone straight home and crept inside and into bed perhaps quietly enough not to disturb her and come morning, maybe that hour earlier than usual, and out and away, before she was awake. But why bother. He could simply not return. In this way they would simply not meet, they would not have to meet. And that would be great. He was not up to it. It was not something he felt capable of managing. It was not something he was capable of. He could not cope with it.

  But why bother. If he was obliged to do certain things and then failed to do these things then that was that and nothing could be offered instead. He had always known the truth of that. Always; even though he seemed never to have given it voice. Never; especially not with her. She would never have understood.

  And then there were his silences. That inability he had to get out of himself. It was not disgust, not contempt; nothing like that. It was something different altogether. But he had no wish to work out what the hell it was.

  He had been trying to adapt for years. And now she was there now lying in bed sleeping or awake, about to become awake, to peer at the clockface, knowing she is not as warm as usual, because of course he is not home yet and the time, and her eyes.

  He keeps imagining going somewhere else and taking a room perhaps with full board in some place far away where all the people are just people, people he does not know and has no obligation to speak to. There was something good about that. He inhaled on the cigarette then raised himself up and bent his knees a couple of times, before pacing on. After a time he slowed, but was soon walking more quickly.

  Forgetting to mention Allende

  The milk was bubbling over the sides of the saucepan. He rushed to the oven, grabbed the handle and held the pan in the air. The wean was pulling at his trouser-leg, she gripped the material. For christ sake Audrey, he tugged her hand away while returning the saucepan to the oven. The girl went back to sit on the floor, glancing at him as she turned the pages of her colouring book. He smiled: Dont go telling mummy about the milk now eh!

  She looked at him.

  Aye, he said, that’s all I need, you to get into a huff.

  Her eyes were watering.

  Aw christ.

  She looked at him.

  You’re a big girl now, you cant just . . . he paused. Back at the oven he prepared her drink, lighting a cigarette in the process, which he placed in an ashtray. Along with the drink he gave her two digestive biscuits.

  When he sat down on the armchair he stared at the ceiling, half expecting to see it bouncing up and down. For the past couple of hours somebody had been playing records at full blast. It was nearly time for the wean to have her morning kip as well. The same yesterday. He had tried; he had put her down and sat with her, read part of a story: it was hopeless but, the fucking music, blasting out. And at least seven out of the past ten weekdays the same story. He suspected it came from the flat above. Yet it could be coming from through the wall, or the flat below. It was maybe even coming from the other side of the stair – difficult to tell because of the volume, and the way the walls were, like wafer fucking biscuits. Before flitting to the place he had heard it was a good scheme, the houses designed well, good thick walls and that, they could be having a party next door and you wouldnt know unless they came and invited you in. What a load of rubbish. He stared at the ceiling, wondering whether to go and dig out the culprits, tell them the wean was supposed to be having her mid-morning nap. He definitely had the right to complain, but wasnt going to, not yet; it would be daft antagonizing the neighbours at this stage.

  Inhaling deeply he got up and wiped the oven clean with a damp cloth. Normally he liked music, any kind. The problem was it was the same songs being played over and over, all the fucking time the same songs – terrible; pointless trying to read or even watch the midday TV programmes. Maybe he was going to have to get used to it: the sounds to become part of the general hum of the place, like the cars screeching in and out of the street, that ice-cream van which came shrieking I LOVE TO GO A WANDERING ten times a night including Sunday.

  A digestive biscuit lay crunched on the carpet by her feet.

  Thanks, he said, and bent to lift the pieces. The carpet loves broken biscuits. Daddy loves picking them up as well. Come on . . . he smiled as he picked her up. He carried her into the room. She twisted her head from side to side. It was the music.

  I know, he said, I know I know I know, you’ll just have to forget about it.

  I cant.

  You can if you try.

  She looked at him. He undressed her to her pants and vest and sat her down in the cot, then walked to the window to draw the curtains. The new wallpaper was fine. He came back and sat on the edge of the double bed, resting his hands on the frame of the cot. Just make stories out of the picture, he told her, indicating the wall. Then he got up, leaned in to kiss her forehead. I’ll away ben and let you sleep.

  She nodded, shifting her gaze to the wall.

  You’ll have to try Audrey, otherwise you’ll be awful tired at that nursery.

  Sitting down on the armchair he lifted the cigarette from the ashtray, and frowned at the ceiling. He exhaled smoke while reaching for last night’s Evening Times. The tin of paint and associated articles were lying at the point where he had left off yesterday. He should have resumed work by now. He opened the newspaper at the sits. vac. col.

  The two other children were both boys, in primaries five and six at the local primary school. They stayed in at dinnertime to eat there but normally one would come home after; and if it happened before one o’clock he could send the wee girl back with him to nursery. But neither liked taking her. Neither did daddy for that matter. It meant saying hello to the woman in charge occasionally. And he always came out of the place feeling like an idiot. An old story. It was exactly the same with the headmistress of the primary school, the headmistress of the last primary school, the last nursery – the way they spoke to him even. Fuck it. He got up to make another coffee.

  The music had stopped. It was nearly one o’clock. He rushed through to get the wean.

  The nursery took up a separate wing within the building of the primary school; only a five-minute walk from where he lived. Weans everywhere but no sign of his pair. He was looking out for them, to see if they were being included in the games yet. He had no worries about the younger one, it was the eldest who presented the problem. Not a problem really, the boy was fine – just inclined to wander about on his tod, not getting involved with the rest, nor making any attempt to. It wasnt really a problem.

  The old man with the twins was approaching the gate from the opposite direction; and he paused there, and called: Nice to see a friendly face! Indicating the two weans he continued, The grandkids, what a pair! No twins in the family then all of a sudden bang, two lots of them. My eldest boy gets one pair then the lassie gets another pair. And you know the worrying thing? The old man grinned: Everything comes in threes! Eh? can you imagine it? three lots of twins! That’d put the cat right among the bloody pigeons!

  A nursery assistant was standing within the entrance lobby; once she had collected the children the old man said: Murray’s the name, John, John Murray.

  Tommy McGoldrick.

  They shook hands.

  I saw you a couple of days ago, the end of last week . . . went on the old man. I was t
elling my lassie, makes a change to see a friendly face. All these women and that eh! He laughed, and they continued walking towards the gate. You’re no long in the scheme then Tommy?

  Naw.

  Same with myself, a couple of months just, still feeling my way about. I’m staying with the lassie and that, helping her out. Her man’s working down in England temporarily. Good job but, big money. Course he’s having to put in the hours, but like I was saying to her, you dont mind working so long as the money’s there – though between you and me Tommy there’s a few staying about here that look as if a hard day’s graft would kill them! Know what I mean? naw, I dont know how they do it; on the broo and that and they can still afford to go out get drunk. Telling you, if you took a walk into that pub down at the shopping centre you’d see half of them were drawing social security. Aye, and you couldnt embarrass them!

  They were at the gate. When the old man made as though to continue speaking McGoldrick said, I better be going then.

  Right you are Tommy, see you the morrow maybe eh?

  Aye, cheerio Mr Murray.

  Heh, John, my name’s John – I dont believe in the Mr soinso this and the Mr soinso that carry on. What I say is if a man’s good enough to talk to then he’s good enough to call you by your first name.

  He kept a watch for the two boys as he walked back down the road; then detoured to purchase a pie from the local shop, and he put it under the grill to heat up. At 1.20 p.m. he was sitting down with the knife and fork, the bread and butter, the cup of tea, and the letter-box flapped. He had yet to fix up the doorbell.

  The eldest was there. Hello da, he said, strolling in.

  You no late?

  He had walked to the table in the kitchen and sat down there, looking at the pie and stuff. Cold meat and totties we got, he said, the totties were like chewing gum.

  What d’you mean chewing gum?

  That’s what they were like.

  Aye well I’d swop you dinners any day of the week . . . He forked a piece of pie into his mouth. What did you get for pudding?

  Cake and custard I think.