Not Not While the Giro

Zuzzed

A load of potatoes was stacked and waiting for me first thing that morning. I got right into it. The farmer’s boy brought the jug of tea and once he had gone I sat down to roll a smoke. It was empty, the tin, just a bit of dust it contained. I jumped back at the work. Later he returned for the jug and though he would’ve seen I hadnt touched it he said nothing. I steamed into the weighing and packing, not stopping at all although when the lorry arrived in from the fields there was still plenty of the original left. The farmer helped the Frenchmen lug it in to my area while I continued. They finished. The farmer stood watching me work for a time. Yes, he said, we’re getting a fair crop scotti.

I nodded as I carried across another tub of spuds to the weighing machine. I didnt notice him leave. I might have heard the lorry revving or something, gears maybe — the driver was hopeless.

Each tub or barrel of potatoes weighed out 281bs so it wasnt too bad except if the farmer was about which meant it could only be 281bs and nothing more or less. It was the constant bending fucked me. The shoulders get it, and the belly muscles. And the heat was terrific — the sweat I mean, I dont know how hot it was in the barn though outside maybe 70 to 80 degrees. I was working stripped to the waist. Clouds of dust all the time, streaks of sweat, the tidemarks everywhere. When dinner time came I wasnt hungry anyway. A bottle of cider would’ve went down fine right enough but apart from that nothing, nothing at all bar the smoke, of course, tobacco would’ve been ideal. Not so good being without it, there was just dust in the tin.

The Frenchmen were lugging in the next load. Only French worked the fields, some women with them and — when one of the men needed a slash for christ sake he just carried on never mind the women being there or not, a couple of girls amongst them but no, it never bothered them at all, just got on with it. Maybe that’s healthy, who knows. Though the women never helped with the lugging off the lorry, they usually — christ knows, maybe off for a piss for god sake.

Warm out scotti! The farmer was there. I hadnt seen him. I was swinging a sack down from the pile and getting it across to the empty tubs in a movement. He stepped to the side just in time. Fair crop, he was saying.

I had dumped an empty next to the machine and was rolling in the spuds and while I topped it to the 28 mark I said; Can you loan me a nicker?

What was that scotti?

A nicker. Can you loan me a nicker? — a pound I mean, eh?

I knew he was looking at me but I continued with the work. A moment later he said, Yes, I told you about that, these Frenchmen, wily set of buggers, you have to watch it with these dominoes.

What — aye, yes, aye, can you loan me it then? take it off the wages and that.

He lit his pipe and exhaled, Dare say so scotti yes.

Fine.

Well then, he said. And while I was swinging across another sack he wound up by adding, Back to the field I suppose.

Moments later the lorry was revving. I couldnt believe it. By the time I ran out into the sun I saw it turning out onto the main drag, all the Frenchmen and women sitting on the back of it, laughing and joking quietly. A couple of them gave me a brief wave. I shook my head. A hen or a cock or something came walking across out of a fence thing. I looked at it. I went back into the barn. When the boy came with the afternoon jug I asked him if his old man had left anything for me. He stared at me. A message son, I said, did your old man leave a message for me?

No.

He was supposed to — a pound note it was. Maybe he left it with your mother eh? Away and ask her.

He wont have.

Ask and see.

But he wont have.

Christ sake son will you go and do what I’m saying.

He came back in five minutes, shaking his head. He probably had walked about the place and not bothered even seeing her. He stood watching me for a bit then said, When’re you taking the tea scotti?

Eh. . does she smoke son, your mother?

No.

Christ.

She wants to finish the washing up. The jug.

What. I stopped the weighing and turned and the fucking barrel fell, the spuds all rolling about the fucking floor. The boy stepped back out the road. It’s okay son, it’s okay, just take the thing away.

The next load was the last for me although the French would be picking until 8 p.m. Their morning began at 5 a.m. I wouldnt’ve worked hours like that. The farmer had asked me a couple of days back. Are you interested in a bit of overtime for fuck sake! 5 till 8. Why in the id of christ did they do it! The dough of course. By the time I had cleared and swept the area and shot off home and got back the following morning another load of fucking sacks would be stacked there ready and waiting.

The farmer was hovering around again. He went off and I heard him calling over a couple of Frenchmen to give me a hand with the travail. I got the time on one of their watches. I stopped work. I looked at the farmer. Well scotti, he said, taking the pipe out of his pocket. A good day’s work eh? See you in the morning then.

I couldnt believe my ears. I stared at him. He was patting the tobacco down and when he noticed me he added, Alright?

My hands were trembling. I clasped them, rubbed them on the sweat rags I wore round my waist.

Something wrong then?

Something wrong! What d’you mean something wrong! My christ that’s a fucking good yin right enough, a miserable bastarn nicker as well you’d think it was the crown fucking jewels or something.

He went tugging on the stem of his pipe. I grabbed my T-shirt and walked out the place. I heard him start and exclaim: The pound. Scotti! The pound. Sorry.

He was digging into his hip pocket for that big thick wallet and the Frenchmen standing smiling but curious as well. Forgot all about it, said the farmer, coming towards me while unwrapping a single.

Sorry. Sorry by christ, that is a good yin, a beauty. I continued on and out of the yard and kept on until about halfway between the farm and the turnoff, heading up towards the site where the tent was pitched. Then I stopped and sat at the side of the track. I sat on the turf, my feet on the caked mud in the ditch. I had forgotten to parcel a few spuds for my tea. Also the tin but it only had dust in it anyway. I had also forgotten a piece of string for my jeans. I was meaning to buy a belt, I kept forgetting and the threads at the cuffs of the jeans were dragging when I walked. The string would do meantime then I could get the belt. I got up, stiff at the knees. I strode along swinging my arms straight and on beyond the shortcut between hedges further on up to the front of the field where the tent was and left wheeling across the place, a few holiday-makers were wandering about with cooking utensils.

I was lying on top of the groundsheet, cool, the breathing coming short, in semi gasps maybe. I relaxed. Slowing down, slowing down, allowing the shoulders and the belly and the knees, letting them all get down, relaxing, the limbs and everything just slackly, calm, counting to ten and beyond, deep breathing exercises now, begin, and out in out in out in hold it there and the pulse rate lessens the heart pumps properly slowly does it slowly does it now yes and that fresh air is swirling down in these shadowy regions cleaning the lungs so now you can smoke and be okay and live to a ripe old age without having to halt every few yards to catch your breath, yes, simply continue and.

The sacks were piled high next morning. The lorry long gone to the fields. My mouth was sticky. I opened the tin and sniffed the dust. The boy had poked his head in and disappeared as soon as he saw me. Away to tell his mother probably. Fuck the pair of them. Later the crashing of gears and the lorry coming in. The Frenchmen with the load. I was getting a few looks. Fuck them as well. Then the farmer. Looking as unamazed as he could. Fuck you too. I laid down the barrel I was filling and went over. A nicker, I said, that’s all I’m asking, till payday, just deduct it.

Of course scotti. . He was taking out the pipe.

I mean just now, you know, it’s just now I need it.

He nodded and got the wallet out, passed me a single.

Great. Fine. I nodded, I’m just going.

He looked at me.

The wee shop in the village just, I’ll only be a minute. . I grabbed the T-shirt.

By the grassy verge beneath the veranda of the local general store with the morning sun on my shoulders, the tin lying open at one side and the cider bottle uncorked on the other, and the cows lowing in the adjacent meadow, and the smoke rolled and being lighted and sucking in that first drag, keeping the thrapple shut to trap it there; with no bout of coughing, not a solitary splutter, the slight zuzz in the head. Instead of exhaling in the ordinary way I widened my lips and opened the throat without blowing so that the smoke just drifted right out and back in through my nostrils. Dizziness now but the head was clear though the belly not so good, and a shudder, fine. Then the cider, like wine it tasted and not too pleasant, just exact, and ready now, the second drag.

Time had passed. The lorry. It came into view, chugging along, the farmer at the wheel. I gestured at him with the bottle and the smoke, but as a greeting only. He returned it cheerily. The French on the back, the women there. I waved. Bon, I shouted. Once it had passed from view I swallowed the remainder of the cider and got up to return the bottle. I walked back to the farm, the tea would soon be coming.