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 boilersuits 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