Free The Busconductor Hines by James Kelman Page B

the window, seeing her appear on the pavement, and crossing the street, going to the corner where she paused to turn, and wave.
    The water was on to boil for coffee. But when he opened the tin he saw it to contain only enough for two cigarettes; he rolled a thin one. He studied it. He stuck it behind his ear and shut his eyelids. One should have fucking guessed. No, naw son, naw it’s okay, definitely not, no need to panic I mean your auld man’s just going to jump out the fucking window but everything’s fine, honest I mean . . . He leapt out the chair and strode to the tallboy then to the kitchen-cabinet and to the draining board at the sink, the mantelpiece and the top of the television set and to the front room and the places where money may be found, then to the wardrobe in the lobby, the pockets of the clothes inside there.
    Back in the kitchen Paul glanced at him when he tugged open the top drawer in the tallboy again.
    There’s no smokes son and there’s no fucking money to buy them. What am I supposed to do? Did your mummy tell you that! Eh?
    Paul raised his left arm.
    A smoke, I’ll be needing a smoke, and there’s no fucking cashbag. No good telling me to shut up. What in the name of christ am I going to do? The neighbours – nah, not at all, no chance wee man no chance. The fucking Pawn! Brilliant – christ sake, mature boy for 4 right enough! Well done the wee Paul fellow. Here, get your coat.
    Hines had sat down already and was knotting his bootlaces. But Paul was still kneeling amongst his stuff on the floor. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and lighted it, he collected his uniform jacket. Paul!
    The boy jumped up and raced ben the front room, Hines right behind him: When I tell you to do something you do it – eh? you listening? Right?
    Paul didnt answer, his face red.
    Okay?
    He nodded, avoiding Hines while getting his coat from the settee. Hines fixed the buttons for him then got the suit from the wardrobe.
    Going downstairs he had the boy on his shoulders and was jumping the steps 2 and occasionally 3 at a time. And they were both laughing when they reached the close. On the pavement he lowered him to the ground and took him by the hand across the street. Round the corner and along and Paul kept pausing and rubbing at his ears. Hines told him to stop it, but he began doing it again. I told you to stop that!
    Paul stared at the pavement.
    After a few strides Hines stopped. Okay; what’s up?
    They’re sore daddy.
    What d’you mean sore? d’you mean cold?
    Paul didnt reply.
    Ah christ, up in the Arctic they’d be falling off. Frostbite, so cold it makes things like ears fall off. And your toes if you’re no wearing plenty of socks.
    Clearing his throat he spat a mouthful of catarrh into the gutter. The Eskimos son, they wear a lot of fur and that to keep the cold out. Wrap it about their ears and toes. See if they didnt, that’d be them, finished. They have to go about the whole year wearing them as well because of that fucking weather they’ve been landed with. They eat whales and stuff. Use up every bit of the bodies – oil out the skins; and this oil they make into various items, fuel and that. Short people with stumpy legs though maybe it’s the furs makes them look so fucking stumpy I dont know. If they unwrapped all their clothes and that theymight be skinny underneath. Skinny by christ. Aye but that’s it about the ears son I’m no kidding you, they have to wear stacks and stacks of clothes. Never catch a cold either. I mean imagine somebody from this bloody dump going up to where they live son, they’d be dead in a matter of moments – pneumonia or some fucking thing. Unless they started doing the same as the locals. And vice versa down here I mean they’d probably wind up catching a disease. Really desperate. Poor auld fucking Eskimos son it makes you sick so it does.

    Â¾lb beef links, 1lb of