Not Not While the Giro

A notebook to do with America

When he came out of the pub the snow was still falling, he paused to fix the bunnet properly on his head then crossed the large patch of waste ground to the building. It was the remnant of a tenement; much of the rest was lying around in disordered heaps. The close had been sealed off with a sheet of corrugated iron but the nails were removed from three of its sides and the man got in quite easily. He struck a match. The debris wasnt too bad. He lighted a cigarette before walking to the foot of the stair.

On the first floor each of the flats had had its door taken off. He passed quickly up to the second and chapped the only flat which had one. He chapped again. An interior door creaked, steps along the lobby floor, and soon an elderly woman peered at him. She would be about 10 years older than the man. She invited him in and he replied with a nod. Stepping over a big pile of laundry he followed her ben to the front room where two candles were flickering at opposite ends on the mantelpiece. She was indicating a dining chair: on it were a spectacle case and a notebook, and a grey soft hat and a maroon scarf; on the floor underneath stood a pair of brown shoes. The woman sat down on another dining chair which was set to one side of the fireplace. Not a bad fire was burning.

He glanced about for another chair. He stood by the mantelpiece. After several moments he sniffed and took out his cigarettes, handed her one, struck the match. Eventually he exhaled and said, No, I dont come down that much at all these days. Once or twice a week maybe. Too far. Too far to come for a pint. Miles away I’m living now. And these buses! Hell of a dear, bloody scandalous.

He sniffed again, rubbed his hands together briskly; he took the cigarette from his mouth and studied it. Aye, he said, hell of a dear. I still like to come back but. . have a pint, see the old faces and that. Two buses though, one into town, then another I’ve got to get from there to here. Murder, the time it takes, you wouldnt credit it.

She had inhaled on her cigarette, tugged her coat round her shoulders, she exhaled into the fire and watched the two smokes mingle. Then she glanced at him to say: Will you be going to America?

What?

He said you would be.

Christ sake Mrs. He sniffed. How can I go to America? I cant go to America. He turned away from her and walked to the window where he gazed at the pub. It was a flat roofed kind of affair. Though outwardly modern the 19th century brickwork at the rear would reveal it to have been the ground floor of an ordinary three storey tenement until recently. A customer was entering. The bright light from inside showed a confusion of footprints in the snow at the doorway. Rubbing his hands again the man returned to stand by the mantelpiece. Freezing, he said, that fire. . When she didnt reply he added: Will I get some wood or what?

He thought you would be going to America.

Aye. . the man nodded.

He was wanting to go himself.

I know.

He would’ve.

The man made no answer but when she repeated the statement he muttered, No he wouldnt have, not now, he was too old, too old Mrs. That’s how he asked me.

Aye but you’re not going. She shook her head slightly, stared into the fire.

Christ sake it’s no use talking about it like that, that was just talk; that was just talk. He just liked to talk to me about it down in the pub. Ach. Reaching into an interior pocket he brought out a halfbottle of whisky and uncapped it; he offered it to her before slugging a mouthful.

I waited for you, he said you’d come.

Aye.

He’s ben in the kitchen. She leaned forwards to drop a portion of saliva onto the fireplace, picked a shred of tobacco from her lower lip. I covered him up.

The man nodded. A few moments later he said, Aye.

I’m making tea, she muttered. She rose from the chair and collected a saucepan and milkbottle of water from somewhere behind, and got tea from a packet on the mantelpiece. While she prepared the things she was saying, I had to lift him myself onto the table you know, it was a job.

He sighed. Christ sake Mrs. . I wish you’d waited for me to come. When she finished the preparation he said, I’ll away and see him.

No candles burned in the kitchen but it wasnt long before he could distinguish the body quite well; it was set properly on the table, entirely covered by a blanket. There was a pile of newspapers over at the gap where the sink used to be. He walked over to look out the window. The pub was not visible from this side of this building. He raised his bunnet and wiped his brow; he went back to the table and cleared his throat as if getting ready to speak but instead he lifted the blanket and looked at the face. An old face, years older than the woman probably. He continued looking until a length of ash fell from his cigarette. He blew quickly to scatter it, id the blanket into its former place.

He shut the door behind him.

Aye. . he sighed. Some minutes passed. He took out the halfbottle and after offering her it he sipped some himself. When the bubbles were forming and bursting in the saucepan he sniffed and touched the peak of his bunnet. I think I’ll just go down the road, he said.

Are you taking the notebook?

Eh aye, he sniffed again, if you dont mind.

The woman nodded and he got the notebook. He shook his head when she indicated the other items and went away soon after.