Greyhound for Breakfast (4 page)

Honestly jock.

Are you sure?

There’s just no way.

I was breathing her perfume, the point behind her ear. She had her coat open and my jacket was open, our arms round each other’s waist. I had been hard since stepping into the space, and
Renee was not backing away from it. We continued kissing. She definitely did not want to go in and up to her room, and it was because of Joan. She’ll be there in the morning, said Renee, and
I wont bear to look at her. Not now.

That was that. I opened my tin and rolled a cigarette. She was waiting for me to make things happen. Eventually I said, Listen Renee, the trouble with the place I stay in, it’s 8 bloody
beds to a room and that I mean you cant even get leaving a suitcase because somebody’ll knock it. No kidding.

She pulled away to look at me properly. I brought out the gin, offered her a swig, took one myself when she declined. There was an all-night snackbar across at the Square and I asked if she
fancied a cup of coffee. She shrugged. The two of us came out onto the pavement, walked for a couple of minutes together without speaking. Then we had our arms round each other again and we walked
that way that the bodies link, the thighs fast together, the feet keeping pace and so on. At last I said, Right: how would you like to find out where I really stay?

I didnt look at her. But when she made no answer I did, and I could see she was trying not to smile. What’s up? I asked.

Oh jock!

What?

She shook her head, lips tightly shut; but not able to stop smiling now.

I dont stay in the Foodstore if that’s what you’re thinking.

Yes you do.

What?

You do jock.

Naw I dont.

Oh well then I’m looking forward to meeting your landlord! And she laughed aloud.

I chipped away the cigarette and had another swig of gin, gestured with it to her but she shook her head. You’re wrong, I said.

Am I!

Well you’re no, but you are.

Oh, I see. Renee shook her head: All the kitchenstaff know!

They dont.

Jock, they do.

They fucking dont! I’ll tell you something, it was me started the rumour in the first place.

You?

Aye, of course.

But the Portuguese women all laugh about it jock.

Aye okay, but it’s like a double bluff; when it comes right down to it they dont really believe it.

Joan does.

Joan . . .

It was her that told me.

Oh christ. I took out my tin and rolled another fag immediately. Look, I said, Renee I mean the only reason I do it’s because of the thieving that goes on in there. You cant turn your
back. Christ, you know what like it is!

She didnt answer.

As far as I’m concerned I’m only going to stay there till I make sure I’m no going to get fucking set up – cause that’s what they’re trying to fucking do, and
I’m no kidding.

There’s no need to swear about it.

Sorry.

Anyhow, you dont have to worry.

What?

About who knows; it’s only the kitchenstaff, and they wont say anything.

How do you know?

They wont.

What a life!

Jock, dont worry.

I wonder how the hell they found out.

Renee chuckled. Maybe you were snoring!

She seemed to take it for granted I could smuggle the two of us inside with the greatest of ease, and showed not the slightest interest in how it was to be accomplished. I led
her round into the narrow, enclosed alley at the back of the building and told her to wait at a special spot. She smiled and kissed my nose. Renee, I said, you’re actually crazy, do you know
that?

Not as crazy as you. She raised her eyebrows.

It was never easy getting inside the building at night and that was another reason why I didnt go out very often. The security man on nightshift was from Yorkshire and me and
him got on quite well together. Usually the way I managed things was to chap the window of his office and go in for a cup of tea and a chat. He assumed I was just stopping off on my road home and
when I said goodnight he paid no further attention, never for one moment even dreaming I would be sneaking back beneath the window and along the corridor to the rear staircase. Tonight he kept me
yapping for more than twenty minutes. I left him seated at his desk, twiddling the tuner of his transistor radio; he spent most of the night trying for a clear sound on the BBC World Service.

She stepped forwards from the shadows when I appeared at the window. We were both shivering with nervousness and it made it the more awkward when she clambered up and over the
sill. I snibbed the window afterwards. That was the sort of thing Yorky would have discovered routinely. We went quickly along and down to the basement, and along to where the Foodstore was
situated beyond the kitchen and coldrooms. Once inside I locked the door and stood there with my eyes shut and breathing very harshly.

Alright? she said.

Aye.

She smiled, still shivering. Can you put on a light?

No, too risky. Sometimes I use a candle . . . I crossed the narrow floor and opened the shutters; the light from the globes at either end of the alley was barely sufficient to see each other by.
I opened them more fully.

God, she said, it cant be very nice staying here.

Well, it’s only temporary remember . . . I brought out the rags and sacking from the teachests, fixed us a place to sit down comfortably. It was always a warm place too. She unbuttoned her
coat. I opened the halfbottle and this time she took a small mouthful of the gin. We leaned our backs against the wall and sighed simultaneously, and grinned at each other. This is actually crazy,
I said.

She chuckled.

Perishable items? I said.

Pardon?

I’ve got milk stout and diabetic lager and butter and cheese and stale rolls, plus honey and some cakes from yesterday morning. Interested?

No thanks.

More gin?

She shook her head in a significant way and we smiled at each other again, before moving closely in together.

The daylight through the window. I blinked my eyes open. My right arm seemed to be not there any longer, Renee was lying on it, facing into the wall. I was hard. I turned onto
my side and moved to rub against her; soon she was awake.

When eventually I was on top and moving to enter her she stared in horror beyond my head, and then she screamed. Through the window and across the alley up in the ground-floor
window a crowd of female faces, all gesticulating and laughing. The Portuguese women. I grabbed at the sacking to try and cover the two of us. Renee had her head to the side, shielding her face in
below my chest. Oh jock, she was crying. Oh jock.

Dont worry, dont worry.

How long’ve they been watching!

It’s alright, dont worry.

Oh jock, oh jock . . .

Dont worry.

Shut the shutters, please.

I did as she asked without putting on my clothes first. I quite enjoyed the exhibitionist experience of it. Renee dressed without speaking. I tried to talk her into coming down to King’s
Cross for a coffee so we could discuss things but she shook her head and mumbled a negative. She was absolutely depressed. I put my hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes, hoping we would
manage to exchange a smile but there was nothing coming from her. It had just turned 7 a.m. I’m going to go home, she said. She lifted her bag and waited for me to unlock the door, and she
left saying, Bye jock.

*

It was time for me to leave as well. This had been a warning. I gathered the chattels immediately and filled a plastic bag with perishables. I got my all-important notebook from
its concealed spot, just in case of future emergencies, and left, leaving the key in the lock.

The old woman opened her eyes when the gas-light flickered, but soon closed them again. The boy was squinting at the football news on the back page, trying to find something
new to read. He let the newspaper fall onto his lap and lifted the tongs. He released the catch and wangled the points round a large coal lying in the shovel and carefully placed it on the spare
fire in the grate. The old woman regarded him gravely for a moment. When he smiled back her forehead wrinkled in a taut kindly expression. Her gaze roamed upwards to the clock then her eyelids
closed over.

He glanced at the clock; 8.40. He should have been home by now. The poker was lying near his foot inside the fire-surround. He wanted to rake among the ashes to see if anything red remained.
Perhaps there would be enough to kindle the lump and save the fire, perhaps the new lump was too big to catch light. The rustle as he turned a page of the paper seemed to reverberate around the
narrow, high-ceilinged kitchen. There was nothing to keep him. His parents would be annoyed. The bus journey home took nearly an hour and during the long winter nights they liked him to be in bed
by 10 o’clock. They would guess he was here.

He got to his feet, stretched. The movement roused the old woman; she muttered vaguely about apples being in the cupboard. He drank a mouthful of water straight from the brass tap at the sink
then returned to his chair.

The fire looked dead. Lifting the poker suddenly he dug right into the ashes. The old woman bent forwards and took the poker from him without comment. Gripping it with her right hand she moved
her left deftly in and out the coals. Finally she balanced the new lump on smaller pieces, her thin fingers indifferent to any heat which may have remained. The poker was put back in position;
handle on the floor with its sooty point projected into the air, lying angled against the fender. Wiping her fingertips on her apron she walked to the door and through to the parlour.

Neither spoke when she came back. She sat on her wooden chair and stared into the fire. Cloying black smoke drifted from the new lump. It crackled.

A little after 9.45 she looked up on hearing the light rap on the outside door. The boy stirred from his doze. He made to rise and answer but relaxed when she indicated he should remain where he
was.

The outside door opened and closed, and muttering as the footsteps approached. She came in first and he followed, he appeared to be limping slightly. Mumbling incoherently and did not notice his
grandson. She walked across to the sink and filled the kettle and set it on the oven gas to make a pot of tea. The boy wondered if she knew what his grandfather was saying to her. He called a
greeting. The old man turned slowly and stared at him. The boy grinned but the old man turned back and resumed the muttering. His grandmother seemed not to notice anything odd about it. As the old
man spoke he was scratching his head. There was no bunnet. The bunnet was not on his head.

The muttering stopped. The old man stared at the woman then at the boy. The boy looked helplessly at her but she watched the man. The expression on her face gave nothing away. Her usual face.
Again the boy called a greeting but the old man turned to her and continued his muttering. The tone of his voice had altered now; it was angry. She looked away from him. When her gaze fell on him
the boy tried to smile. He was aware that if he blinked, tears would appear in his eyes. He smiled at her.

Ten shillings I’m telling you, said the voice.

The boy and his grandmother looked quickly at the old man.

Ten shillings Frances, he said. The anger had gone from his voice. As if noticing the boy for the first time he looked straight at him. For several seconds he stood there, watching him, then he
turned sharply back to face his wife. Ach, he grunted.

She was standing holding the apron bunched in her fists. Shaking his head the man attempted a step towards her but he fell on the floor. He sat up for a moment then fell sideways. The boy ran
across crying it was okay – it was okay.

His grandmother spoke as he bent down over the old man.

He fell down, she said. He fell down.

She knelt by him on the linoleum and together they tried to raise him to his feet but it was difficult; he was heavy. The boy dragged over a chair and they managed to get him up onto it. He
slumped there, his head lolling, his chin touching his chest.

He lost money, said the old woman. He said he lost money. That was what kept him. He went looking the streets for it and lost his bunnet.

It’s okay Grannie, said the boy.

It kept him late, she said.

After a moment the boy asked if they should get him changed into his pyjamas and then into bed but she did not reply. He asked again, urgently.

I’ll get him son, she said eventually. You can get away home now.

He looked at her in surprise.

Your mum and dad will be wondering where you’ve got to, she added.

It was pointless saying anything more. He could tell that by her face. Crossing to the bed in the recess he lifted his coat and slipped it on. He opened the door. When he glanced back his
grandmother nodded. She was grasping her husband by the shoulders, propping him up. He could see the old man looking at her. He could see the big bald patch on the head. His grandmother nodded once
more. He left then.

It was a bit strange to see the two of them. She was wee and skinny with a really pecked-out crabbit face. He was also skinny, but shifty looking. Difficult to tell why he was
shifty looking. Maybe he wasnt. Aye he was, he was fucking shifty looking and that’s final. He was following her. He could easily have caught up with her and introduced hisself but he didnt,
he just followed her, in steady pursuit, at a safe distance. And that is the action of a shifty character. The fact that a well-thumbed copy of the
Sporting Life
poked out from his coat
pocket is neither here nor there. Being a betting man myself I’ve always resented the shady associations punters have for non-bettors. Anyhow, back to the story, the distance between the pair
amounted to twenty yards, and there is an interesting point to discuss. It is this: the wee woman actually passed the man in the first place and may have seen him. She could have nodded or even
spoken to him. But she did seem not to notice him. Because of that I dont know whether she knew him or not. And it is not possible to say if he knew her. He looked to be following her in an
off-hand kind of fashion. When she stopped outside the post office he paused. In she went. But just as you were thinking, Aw aye, there he goes . . . Naw; he didnt, he just walked on.