That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories. James Kelman
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pulled out a hair. He reacted with a shriek: Jesus christ what was that! Jesus! That’s sore! That’s actually sore! It’s a sore thing to do.
I know!
I mean really.
Yes.
God.
Coward!
Coward? What do you mean coward? Andy shook his head.
I warned ye about smiling before.
Christ almighty! Pulling a hair out my chest! It was probably the only one I had too! Andy chuckled.
I dont like ye swearing.
Huh.
I dont. Sorry.
Christ almighty isnt swearing.
It’s worse than swearing.
What?
It’s a lack of respect for people’s religion. Fiona glanced at the window. Daylight now, unmistakably. She shivered.
Okay? he said.
Do ye have another duvet?
Duvet, eh, no, sorry, I dont, sorry.
Have ye a spare blanket?
No . . . what are ye cold?
Not so much cold but it’s uncomfortable with this one ye have, when it gets dragged over yer legs, the way ye’re moving about all the time.
Aw sorry I mean yeah . . . Andy got out of bed and in the lobby he found his big coat then a spare cushion from a chair. She watched his return. He passed her the coat but held onto the cushion and proceeded to plump it up for her. This is an activity known as pummelling, he said, the experts call it ‘plumping’. People plump up pillows. Nurses do it. Let him plump up your pillow, they say; plump plump.
Fiona smiled.
If it was a male nurse he would say ‘pummel’; let me pummel yer pillow. Know why? Because plump sounds gay and they wouldnt want to sound gay. I’m talking about some.
Fiona was silent.
Only some. Some dont mind at all. Male nurses I mean. Because they are nurses doesnt mean they are gay. Andy frowned. Sorry, he said. Where did all that come from! I’m not anti-gay at all, not even like the slightest slightest. Just some words are amusing. Plumping. It just sounds – I dont know – vulgar. It makes me think of fat people. Plump equals fat.
I’m plump.
Nonsense.
I am.
Nonsense.
I dont care and dont know why ye’re going on and on; fat and gay and . . . Fiona shook her head. It’s just stupid and prejudiced – fat. It’s horrible, just a horrible word.
I didnay mean it like in any sort of . . . I’m not anti-anything. I’m not.
Yer jokes dont work anyway. They dont. I’m sorry, they just dont.
Well, I’m not a comedian, that’s for sure.
Ye’re a musician. Ye’re a musician.
Whatever.
Ye are.
I’m not prejudiced anyway so just I mean like if any of my mates heard this conversation they’d be like who are we talking about here because it wouldnt be me.
Bla bla.
Andy waited by the side of the bed, aware of the cup of tea he had left there. No doubt he would kick it over before the night was over, before the morning was through, before dawn had broken, whatever time it was. But it had broken, the daylight through the window, oh god and work, work work.
The teacher returns to the room and everybody is silent and sitting with their arms folded. But it’s all a lie and the teacher knows the teacher knows the teacher always knows.
She was on her side facing away. He needed to say something. He didnt want her thinking anything bad. How come she did because he wasnt like never ever anti-fat, anti-gay, he was not anything like that, racist, that horrible bigotry horrible horrible shit. None of that. Never. He told bad jokes. He told them bad; maybe they were good till he told them, it was him, he made them bad. What else? He talked too much. That was normal he was just normal. She just
something
He needed back to bed; maybe he didnt.
THE
CARTWHEELS
OF LIFE
Kids come stoating in the door like ye werenay there. Oh fuck maybe I’ve disappeared! That was how ye felt. Ye dont know whether to laugh or get annoyed like how in my day there was a bit of respect for folk about to hit the eternity trail. Us auld-timers I’m talking about. Okay boy meets girl: I know all that, the cartwheels, jigging about in their shorts and skirts; I understand the scenario, sex everywhere and high spirits, great. One allows for that, growing up nowadays: different to the likes of us. Me I should say. I’m speaking for myself. I dont want to use the plural in that way. I’m no trying to talk for everybody and that’s how it makes it seem. If it happens it isnay intended, and if I have done it I apologise, it wasnay deliberate. I hate that kind of thing. I’m no wanting to be one of these moaning-faced old bastards that hate weans. And I’m no one. Rest assured. I’ve got grandkids, and I love them. But I’m no goni keep my mouth shut if things are wrong and nowadays they are wrong. Ye could start with the ‘us’, using the plural in that sense. That is worse than a bad habit, it is a misguided confusion and it only spreads mental disarray. ‘We’ this and ‘we’ that. Everybody is at it, from top to bottom, all as bad as one another, all falling for the propaganda. My parents were the worst, and that’s going back, my maw’s been deid thirty years. My da? well, who knows. That’s another story. But begin from them, and it’s the education system. Which is obvious. Nothing new about that. Fine, so we all know where the blame lies but so what, if naybody does fuck all. And they dont. Onwards in ignorance. The cartwheels, the shorts and the short skirts: know what I’m talking about. Young folk aye, but they’re no weans, aw flashing their kit. Who cares? And too easy to blame the system. As a kid myself I was a dunce. Inside anyway, if I wasnay one on the outside. The kind of boy that gets lost in the stream. I wasnay even the class clown. That was a pal of mine – Hughie Montgomery; Hughie died twenty years ago. It was a blow to us all. I miss him. It was something to do with community. That was it in the auld days. Weans nowadays know nothing about that. Ye feel sorry for them. Ye see them going about, ye just feel sorry for them, stoating in with all their stupidities. Ye think all sorts when ye see them. They dont seem to worry about stuff. No like how we worried. Ye see them dancing, just dancing; good-looking wee lasses. The boys too. They’re all nice to look at; young folk doing their jigs and polkas, legs flashing; it cheers ye up on a dull day. Nay thoughts of changing the world. No like us, revolution here, revolution there. Nowadays they dont worry about that kind of thing. Only each other, they just go with each other. They dont care about adults. What about adults? Ye want to ask them. Fuck the adults. Reminding them they are going to be adults themselves, they just look at ye. Daft auld bastard. Although some of it could be left for the classroom. That is my opinion. No that we ever got cartwheels. No me anyway. I couldnay do a cartwheel for love nor money. I couldnay. I tried to try it and couldnay. I had this fear of banging my heid on the grun. A cartwheel but what is a cartwheel? Ye spin round in a tight circle, like a somersault. Maybe it is a ‘somersault’. I’m no sure the difference. Did I ever? Maybe I didnay. I thought I did. What I do know is I couldnay do it. And either ye can or ye cannay. There is nay inbetween. Like standing on yer hands. Ye do it or ye dont. Naybody does it for ye. Ye jump to it: allez oop. Nowadays they’re all at it. Ye score a goal and that’s that; ower ye go. It makes life look simple too and that’s the problem. Because life isnay simple. Ye think it is and it isnay. No matter what they tell ye. I’m talking the propaganda. Ye make plans. I did. Same as everybody. All us anyway. Talking my generation, people try to put ye down.
Stopped in