Greyhound for Breakfast

by Kelman, James

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  The thin man called, ‘Is he looking for a run?’

  The crew-cut man nodded and said, ‘You looking for a run yourself?’

  ‘Aye!’

  ‘Okay then son, as soon as one falls vacant I’ll tell your brother, eh? How’s that?’

  ‘Great, that’s great mister.’

  ‘Right you are,’ answered the crew-cut man and he shut the door behind him. Tommy heard the key turning in the lock.

  His mother opened the door when he arrived home. She cried, ‘It’s nearly four o’clock Tommy where’ve you been? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing mum, I was just late, honest.’

  ‘Just late!’

  ‘Aye, honest.’

  ‘Tch! Away and take off these old trousers then and I’ll make you a piece on cheese! And go and wash yourself in the bathroom you’re filthy! Look at your face! Where did you get dirt like that?’

  When he came through to the living room after his piece was on a plate on the sideboard and there was a cup of milk. His father was sitting on his armchair reading the Mail and drinking tea, a cigarette smouldering on the ashtray. ‘How did you get on?’ he asked over his spectacles.

  ‘Okay dad.’

  ‘What a time he took!’ said his mother.

  ‘Any problems?’ asked his father.

  ‘Some but it was okay really. I’ve to collect people through the week.’

  His father nodded.

  ‘Were they not in to pay the money?’ asked his mother.

  ‘No, and I went back.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘The man said I might get a run soon. He’ll tell John.’

  His father nodded, his gaze returning to the paper.

  ‘That’s good son,’ replied his mother.

  Then his father murmured, ‘See and save something.’

  Tommy nodded, biting into the piece on cheese.

  Getting Outside

  I’ll tell you something: when I stepped outside that door I was alone, and I mean alone. And it was exactly what I had wanted, almost as if I’d been demanding it. And that was funny because it’s not the kind of thing I would usually demand at all; usually I didnt demand anything remotely resembling being outside that door. But now. Christ. And another thing: I didnt even feel as if I was myself. What a bloody carry on it was. I stared down at my legs, at my trousers. I was wearing these corduroy things I mostly just wear to go about. These big bloody holes they have on the knee. So that as well. Christ, I began to think my voice would start erupting in one of these bloodcurdling screams of horror. But no. Did it hell, I was in good control of myself. I glanced down at my shoes and lifted my right foot, kidding on I was examining the shoelaces and that, to see if they were tied correctly. One of those stupid kind of things you do. It’s as if you’ve got to show everybody that nothing’s taking place out the ordinary. This is the kind of thing you’re used to happening. It’s a bit stupid. But the point to remember as well; I was being watched. It’s the thing you might forget. So I just I think sniffed and whistled a wee bit, to kid on I was assuming I was totally alone. And I could almost hear them drawing the curtains aside to stare out. Okay but I thought: here I am alone and it’s exactly what I wanted; it was what I’d been demanding if the truth’s to be told. I’ll tell you something as well: I’m not usually a brave person but at that very moment I thought Christ here you are now and what’s happening but you’re keeping on going, you’re keeping on going, just as if you couldnt give a damn about who was watching. I’m not kidding you I felt as great as ever I’ve felt in my whole life, and that’s a fact. So much so I was beginning to think is this you that’s doing it. But it bloody was me, it was. And then I was walking and I mean walking, just walking, with nobody there to say yay or nay. What a feeling thon was. I stopped a minute to look about. An error. Of course, an error. I bloody knew it as soon as I’d done it. And out they came.

  Where you off to?

  Eh – nowhere in particular.

  Can we come with you?

  You?

  Well we feel like a breath of fresh air.

  I looked straight at them when they said that. It was that kind of daft thing people can say which gives you nearly nothing to reply. So I just, what I did for a minute, I just stared down at my shoes and then I said, I dont know how long I’ll be away for.

  They nodded. And it was a bit of time before they spoke back. You’d prefer we didnt come with you. You want to go yourself.

  Go myself?

  Yes, you prefer to go yourself. You dont want us to come with you.

  No, it’s not that, it’s just, it’s not that, it’s not that at all, it’s something else.

  They were watching me and not saying anything.

  It’s just I dont know how long I’ll be away. I might be away a couple of hours there again I might be away till well past midnight.

  Midnight?

  Yes, midnight, it’s not that late surely, midnight, it’s not that late.

  We’re not saying it is.

  Yes you are.

  No we’re not.

  But you are, that’s what you’re saying.

  We arent. We arent saying that at all. We’re not caring at all what you do. Go by yourself if you like. If you had just bloody told us to begin with instead of this big smokescreen you’ve always got to draw this great big smokescreen.

  I have not.

  Yes you have. That’s what you’ve done.

  That’s what I’d done. That’s what they were saying: they were saying I’d drawn this great big smokescreen all so’s I could get outside the door as if the whole bloody carry on was just in aid of that. I never said anything back to them. I just thought it was best waiting and I just kind of kidded on I didnt really know what they were meaning.

  John Devine

  My name is John Devine and I now discover that for the past while I’ve been going off my head. I mean that the realization has finally hit me. Before then I sort of thought about it every so often but not in a concrete sense. It was actually getting to the stage where I was joking about it with friends! It’s alright I would say on committing some almighty clanger, I’m going off my head.

  On umpteen occasions it has happened with my wife. Two nights ago for instance; I’m standing washing the dishes and I drops this big plate that gets used for serving cakes, I drops it onto the floor. It was no careless act. Not really. I had been preoccupied right enough and the thought was to do with the plate and in some way starting to look upon it not as a piece of crockery but as something to be taken care of. This is no metaphor; it hasnt got anything to do with parental responsibility. My wife heard the smash and she came ben to see what was up. Sorry, I said, I’m just going off my head. And I smiled.

  ONE SUCH PREPARATION

  THE INITIAL REBELLIOUS BEARING IS SEEMINGLY AN EFFECT OF THE UNIFORM’S IRRITATION OF WHICH AMPLE EVIDENCE IS ALREADY TO HAND. BUT THIS KNOWLEDGE MAY BE OFFSET BY THE POSSIBILITY OF BEING TOUCHED BY GLORY. AT THE STAGE WHERE THE INCLINE BECOMES STEEPER THE ONE IN QUESTION STARED STEADFASTLY TO THE FRONT. HIS BREATHING, HARSH AS BEFITS AN UNDERGOING OF THE EXTREME, NEVER BETRAYED THE LEAST HINT OF INTERIOR MONOLOGUE. THERE WAS NO SIGN OF A WISH TO PAUSE AND NOR WAS THERE ANY TO REDUCE OR TO INCREASE PACE. HIS CONTROL WAS APPROPRIATE. THE AIR OF RESIGNATION GOVERNING HIS MOVEMENT CONTAINED NO GUILT WHICH INDICATED AN AWARENESS OF OUTSIDE INFERENCE. IT WAS AT THIS PRECISE MARK THE SATISFACTION EMERGED IN THE PROCEEDINGS. HIS ARMS AROSE STIFFLY UNTIL THE FINGERTIPS WERE PARALLEL TO THE WAISTBAND. HIS GAZE HAD BEEN DIRECTED BELOW BUT HE CONTINUED STARING TO THE FRONT AS IF EXPECTING OR EXPERIENCING A REACTION. WHAT WAS THE NATURAL SUMMIT MIGHT WELL HAVE BEEN INTERPRETED AS OTHERWISE.

  Greyhound for Breakfast

  Ronnie held the dog on a short lead so it had to walk on the edge of the pavement next to the gutter. At a close near the corner of the street two women he knew were standing chatting. They paused, watching his approac
h. Hullo, he said. When they peered at the greyhound and back to him he grinned and raised his eyebrows; and he shrugged, continuing along and into the pub.

  The barman stared while pouring the pint of heavy but made no comment. He took the money and returned the change, moved to serve somebody else. Ronnie gazed after him for a moment then lifted the pint and led the dog to where four mates of his were sitting playing Shoot Pontoon. He sat on a vacant chair, bending to tuck the leash beneath his right shoe. He swallowed about a quarter of the beer in the first go and then sighed. I needed that, he said, leaning sideways a little, to grasp the dog’s ears; he patted its head. He manoeuvred his chair so he could watch two hands of cards being played. The game continued in silence. Soon the greyhound yawned and settled onto the floor, its big tongue lolloping out its mouth. Ronnie smiled and shook his head. He swallowed another large draught of the heavy beer.

  Then Mclnnes cleared his throat. You looking after it for somebody? he asked without taking his gaze from the thirteen cards he was holding and sorting through. Ronnie did not reply. The other three were smiling; they were also sorting through their cards. He carried on watching the game until it ended and the cards were being shuffled for the next. And he yawned; but the yawn was a false one and he sniffed and glanced towards the bar. Jimmy Peters had taken a tobacco pouch from his pocket and started rolling a fag. Ronnie gestured at it. Jimmy passed him the pouch and he rolled one for himself. He was beginning to feel a bit annoyed but it was fucking pointless. He stuck the finished roll-up in his mouth and reached for a box of matches lying at the side of the table. Heh Ronnie, said Kelly, did you get it for a present?

  What?

  I’m saying did you get it for a present, the dog – a lot of owners and that, once their dogs have finished racing, they give them away as presents – supposed to make rare pets.

  Aye. Ronnie nodded, inhaled on the cigarette.

  I’m serious.

  Aye, said Tam McColl, I heard that as well. Easy oasy kind of beasts, they get on good with weans.

  Ronnie nodded. This is a good conversation, he said.

  Well! Tam McColl grinned: You’re no trying to tell us it’s a fucking racer are you! McColl chuckled and shook his head: With withers like that!

  Withers like that! What you talking about withers like that! Ronnie smiled: What do you know about fucking withers ya cunt!

  The others laughed.

  My auld man used to keep dogs.

  Aye fucking chihuahuas!

  Are you telling us you’ve bought it? asked Kelly.

  Ronnie did not reply.

  Are you?

  Ronnie dragged on the cigarette, having to squeeze the end of it so he could get a proper draw. He exhaled the smoke away from where the greyhound was lying. Jimmy Peters was looking at him. Ronnie looked back. After a moment Jimmy Peters said, I mean are you actually going to race it?

  Naw Jimmy I’m just going to take it for walks.

  The other three laughed loudly. Ronnie shook his head at Peters. Then he gazed at the dog; he inhaled on the cigarette, but it had stopped burning.

  Does Babs know yet? asked McInnes.

  What?

  Babs, does she know yet?

  What about?

  God sake Ronnie!

  Ronnie reached for the box of matches again and he struck one, got the roll-up burning once more. He blew out the flame and replied, I’ve just no seen her since breakfast.

  Tam McColl grinned. You’re mad ya cunt, fucking mad.

  How much was it? asked Kelly. Or are we no allowed to ask!

  Ronnie lifted his beer and sipped at it.

  Did it cost much?

  Fuck sake, muttered Ronnie.

  You no going to tell us? asked Kelly.

  Ronnie shrugged. Eighty notes.

  Eighty notes!

  Ronnie looked at him.

  Jimmy Peters had shifted roundabout on his seat and he leaned down and ruffled behind the dog’s ears, making a funny face at it. The dog looked back at him. He said to Ronnie, Aye it’s a pally big animal.

  Ronnie nodded. Then he noticed Kelly’s facial expression and he frowned.

  Naw, replied Kelly, grinning. I was just thinking there – somebody asking what its form was: oh it’s pally! a pally big dog! Fuck speed but it likes getting petted!

  That’s a good joke, said Ronnie.

  The other four laughed.

  Ronnie nodded. On you go, he said, nothing like a good fucking joke. He dragged on the roll-up but it had stopped burning once again. He shoved it into the ticket pocket inside his jacket then lifted his pint and drank down all that was left of the beer. The others were grinning at him. Fuck yous! he said and reached for the leash.

  McInnes chuckled: Sit on your arse Ronnie for fuck sake!

  Fuck off.

  Can you no take a joke? said Jimmy Peters.

  A joke! That’s fucking beyond a joke.

  Kelly laughed.

  Aye, said Ronnie, on ye go ya fucking stupid bastard.

  Kelly stopped laughing.

  Heh you! said McInnes to Ronnie.

  Ah well no fucking wonder!

  Kelly was still looking at him. Ronnie looked back.

  McInnes said, You’re fucking out of order Ronnie.

  I’m out of order!

  Aye.

  Me? Ronnie was tapping himself vigorously on the chest.

  Aye, replied McInnes.

  It was just a joke, said Jimmy Peters.

  A joke? That was fucking beyond a joke. Ronnie shook his head at him; he withdrew the dowp from his inside ticket pocket and reached for the box of matches again; but he put it back untouched, returned the dowp to the ticket pocket, lifted the empty beer glass and studied it for a moment. He sniffed and returned it to the table.

  The others resumed the game of Shoot Pontoon.

  And after two or three minutes Tam McColl said, Heh Ronnie did you see that movie on the telly last night.

  Naw.

  We were just talking about it before you came in.

  Mm. Ronnie made a show of listening to what McColl was saying, it was some sort of shite about cops and robbers that was beyond even talking about. Ronnie shook his head. It was unbelievable. He stared at the cards on the table then he stared in the direction of the bar, a few young guys were over at the jukebox.

  Jimmy Peters was saying something to him now. What was it about, it was about fucking the football, going to the football. Ronnie squinted at him: What?

  Three each, said Jimmy, what a game! Did you see it?

  Ronnie shook his head. He glanced at the shelf in beneath the table, the four pint glasses there, dribbles of beer in each. It was fucking beyond belief.

  That last goal! said Jimmy.

  Ronnie nodded. He clapped the dog’s head, grasped its ears, tugging at them till at last it shook his hand away. He sniffed and muttered, I’ll tell yous mob something: see if this fucking dog doesnt get me the holiday money I’ll eat it for my fucking breakfast.

  The others smiled briefly. And Kelly said, So you are going to race it?

  Ronnie shrugged. He didnt feel like talking. It was time to leave. He felt like leaving. It would be good to be able to leave; right now. He reached to clap the dog, smoothed along its muzzle.

  Heh Ronnie, said McInnes. Where you going to keep it?

  Ronnie wrapped the leash round his hand and he nodded slightly, lifted the box of matches.

  No in the house? grinned Tam McColl.

  There was a silence.

  You’re fucking mad!

  Whereabouts in the house? asked Jimmy Peters.

  Ronnie struck the match and tilted his head while getting the roll-up burning; he exhaled smoke: The boy’s room, he said. Just meantime. He’s no here the now. He’s away with a couple of his mates. Down to London . . . He sniffed and dragged on the dowp again.

  The others had been sorting the cards out after a new deal.

  We never knew he was going, said Ronnie, no till the
last minute. One of his mates got a phone call or something so they had to move fast.

  Move fast? said McInnes.

  It was a job they were after. They had to move fast. Otherwise they wouldnt fucking get it.

  Aw aye.

  Ronnie shrugged.

  Kelly glanced at the greyhound and said, What you going to call it? You got something fixed?

  Eh . . . I dont know. The guy I got it off says it’s up to me. The way it works, most of them’s got two names, one for the kennel and one for when it races.

  Kelly nodded. Has it definitely raced Ronnie I mean I’m no being cheeky?

  Aye Christ it’s qualified at Ashfield and it’s won three out of ten at Carfin.

  Honest?

  Aye, fuck sake.

  What’d they call it?

  Ronnie sniffed. Big Dan.

  Big Dan? Tam McColl was grinning.

  What’s up with that ya cunt ye they’ve got to call it something! Ronnie shook his head, and he glanced at Kelly: You heard of it?

  Eh naw, no really.

  Ronnie nodded.

  I’ve never been to Carfin but; never I mean – have you?

  Naw.

  You sure it’s won there? asked Jimmy Peters.

  Aye Christ he showed me, the guy; it’s down in black and white.

  Whereabouts? asked Kelly.

  Whereabouts? Ronnie squinted at him.

  Where’s it written down?

  The fucking Record.

  Aw.

  Kelly said, You talking about the results like? On the page?

  Ronnie looked at him without saying anything in reply. He lifted his empty beer glass and swirled the drop at the bottom about, put the glass to his mouth and attempted to drink, but the drop got lost somewhere along the way. He said, Plus I saw its form figures and that on a race-card.

  Kelly nodded.

  Both McInnes and McColl and now Jimmy Peters were looking at him. Ronnie said, In the name of fuck! What yous looking at!

  Aye, well, muttered McInnes, Your boy’s fucked off to England and you’ve went out and bought a dog.

  What?

  There was no further comment. Ronnie shook his head and added, For fuck sake I’ve been wanting to buy a dog for years.