James Kelman
An Old Pub Near the Angel
In memory of Constance Hunting, literary hero.
The Cards
‘Duncan your record is appalling,’ Sanderson looked over his head somewhere and then sniffed. ‘You should have been fired the last time you were up.’
‘But Mr Sanderson there were reasons for those absences,’ Duncan stopped and looked away.
‘What excuses could there be for this,’ he picked up the folder, ‘since the last time you were up here. Look at this.’ He smacked the page with his left hand. ‘November sixth, eight, nine, the fourteenth, twentieth, twenty-first and twenty-second.’ Sanderson let the page fall.
‘But I gave a medical certificate for those three days,’ said Duncan.
‘No that won’t do,’ Sanderson frowned. ‘I mean what would my bosses think. No. You’ll be paid to the end of the week. Now let me see, Tuesday isn’t it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Fine fine,’ he made a note on a pad then sat back in his modern chair.
‘Well Duncan if you go home and change now, you could get to the stores before it closed. Or you could go tomorrow. Yes perhaps that would be best.’
‘I won’t be working today then?’
‘Today!’ His eyebrows arched in astonishment. ‘No, no,’ Sanderson sucked in air sharply between clenched teeth making a rasping sound. ‘No!’ he said again loudly and shook his balding head violently.
Duncan stood up. ‘The cards be ready tomorrow as well?’
Sanderson stared curiously up at Duncan, taking in the semi-long hair and then, lowering his gaze, noticing the crew neck sweater under the uniform jacket, said: ‘I don’t think you were suited for this type of job from the start you know.’
Duncan felt the blood roaring through his head. Christ what an insult. It really was.
‘Try and collect your things before 2.30 eh?’ murmured Sanderson picking up the telephone receiver.
He wondered whether Sanderson could hear his heart thumping.
The anger subsided. ‘OK, Mr Sanderson I’ll see you.’ He turned and opened the door. Sanderson began dialling a number. His secretary looked up at Duncan as he walked across to the front door.
Duncan paused and smiled. ‘Little shite isn’t he?’
The woman turned in her swing chair and pulled out a drawer from the filing cabinet.
He closed the door behind him and walked out the gate to the bus stop. Well that was that. It was good to be free again. Still December? Bad time of the year for the broo. Probably be barred for misconduct. Yes bad timekeeping Mr Duncan ah ha. The ultimate sin, matched only by raping the district superintendent’s wife. Still the NAB would have to pay. A wife and child?
‘Jake Duncan!’ called out a youth in a bus conductor’s uniform.
Duncan looked round. ‘Aye Alec how’s it goin’?’
‘Not bad.’ The conductor pointed to the office. ‘What were you in for?’
‘Absences, late reports,’ Duncan shrugged, ‘the bullet.’
‘Jesus Christ! Must have been pretty bad for that.’
‘Aye,’ he looked up the road.
‘Could do wi’ a holiday myself,’ said Alec smiling.
‘Aye,’ replied Duncan. ‘Anyway looks like my bus coming.’
‘Yeah sure Jake,’ he grinned, ‘might see you in Bells sometime.’
‘Probably. Oh Alec any fags?’
‘Aye.’ Alec produced a ten packet. ‘Want a couple?’
‘Aye if you can spare them man.’
‘What with the fiddle I’ve got, are you kidding?’ Alec gave him three.
Jake burst out laughing and shook his head. ‘What a fucking job.’
The bus drew in to the kerb and Duncan stepped on to the platform. He turned and said, ‘See you Alec,’ then walked upstairs, to sit in the back seat. He caught a last glimpse of the garage before the bus turned the sharp bend into the main Glasgow road.
Duncan knew every bump and hill on this road, he could also name every pub and betting shop between Garthill and the boundary. He settled back and closed his eyes. He had always found it easy to sleep on a bus, too easy at times.
Not a bad job the buses. Hours were terrible right enough but you could knock up a decent wage if you put in the hours. Christ it was a bad time of the year for the broo. She’d be worried. Understatement. Probably go off her head. Could take a couple of part-time jobs. Mark a board or a boozer. Done them before. Anyway, time for a pint before going home. She’s not expecting me back till midnight anyway. Could stay out for a while. Maybe win a few quid on the horses. Who knows?
The journey to Killermont Street from Garthill Bus Depot took forty-five minutes exactly and when Jake alighted, it was 2.30 p.m., just too late for a pint. He had 4/- in his pocket and all the time in the world to spend it. Not enough for the Pictures but he could have a bet or a table game at snooker. No fags though.
Jake walked over to the kiosk and bought a half ounce of Sun Valley and a packet of Rizlas. He would have to rely on travelling free on the bus. The Corporation and other omnibus companies’ employees had an unofficial agreement whereby drivers and conductors were never asked for fares while travelling in uniform. Occasionally Jake had had to pay on a Corporation bus because the conductor had been an old timer and old timers were notorious company men. They had worked on the trams and boy it was a job in those days — had to wear white collar, black tie and black shoes then. Better than the average wages too. Aye, aye. Aye! NOT like now. Not at all.
He decided to go home and tell Joan. Better to get it over and done with. He walked down Buchanan Street pausing at Gerrards corner. The Man’s Shop, there was a good tie in the window he rather fancied. Perhaps get it for Christmas. Buchanan Street was crowded with Christmas shoppers especially at Argyle Street and where the expensive stores were. A tie could cost five and a half quid there. Argyle Street was busier yet with thousands of people charging around clutching paper bags and shopping bags. When the traffic lights changed they surged across the road and the red-necked traffic policeman was powerless to do anything other than wave them on. Less than two weeks to go and the urge was upon the people to buy and buy and buy in time for Xmas.
The bus queue outside Arnott’s stretched for thirty yards and Jake joined the end. Unfortunately he had to queue like anyone else because he worked on the blue buses and therefore had no priority.
The people waiting were complaining and Jake listened amused. Apparently there had not been a 63 or 64 through for nearly twenty minutes and it was beginning to snow. A wee man standing next to Jake opened the left corner of his mouth.
‘Bloody freezing isn’t it?’
‘Aye’ replied Jake.
‘Bloody snow,’ the wee man spat into the gutter, turned his coat collar up and pulled his bunnet down tighter until it rested on his ears.
‘What is that son?’ he pointed to a bus standing at the traffic lights. ‘Is that a 64?’ he asked.
‘No it’s a 63,’ said Jake.
‘Jesus Christ!’ The wee man hunched his shoulders up and turned inwards. The lights changed to green and the bus drew into the stop; three people got down and the conductress leaned out. ‘First three,’ she called.
About eight women jumped on defiantly.
‘I said the first three!’
‘We’ve been waiting half an hour you know,’ said one woman.
‘What a shame,’ replied the conductress, ‘wait and I’ll get the ladders out and you can climb on the roof.’
‘There’s no’ even five standing,’ said another but the automatic doors closed on the reply. The bus pulled away but stopped again and the doors opened.
‘Hey Jake!’ shouted the driver.
Duncan recognized him and jumped on unaware of the accusing looks from the people left behind.