Read Online Greyhound for Breakfast by James Kelman - Free Book Online

soinso that carry on. What I say is if a man’s good enough to talk to then he’s good enough to
call you by your first name.
    He kept a watch for the two boys as he walked back down the road; then detoured to purchase a pie from the local shop, and he put it under the grill to heat up. At 1.20 p.m. he was sitting down
with the knife and fork, the bread and butter, the cup of tea, and the letter-box flapped. He had yet to fix up the doorbell.
    The eldest was there. Hello da, he said, strolling in.
    You no late?
    He had walked to the table in the kitchen and sat down there, looking at the pie and stuff. Cold meat and totties we got, he said, the totties were like chewing gum.
    What d’you mean chewing gum?
    That’s what they were like.
    Aye well I’d swop you dinners any day of the week . . . He forked a piece of pie into his mouth. What did you get for pudding?
    Cake and custard I think.
    You think? what d’you mean you think?
    The boy yawned and got up from the chair. He walked to the oven and looked at it, then walked to the door: I’m away, he said.
    Heh you, you were supposed to be here half an hour ago to take that wean to the nursery.
    It wasnt my turn.
    Turn? what d’you mean turn? it’s no a question of turns.
    I took her last.
    Aw did you.
    Aye.
    Well where’s your bloody brother then?
    I dont know.
    Christ . . . He got up and followed him to the door, which could only be locked by turning a handle on the inside, unless a key was used on the outside. As the boy stepped downstairs he called:
How you doing up there? that teacher, is she any good?
    The boy shrugged.
    Ach. He shook his head then shut and locked the door. He poured more tea into the cup. The tin of paint and associated articles. The whole house needed to be done up; wallpaper or paint, his
wife didnt care which, just so long as it was new, that it was different from what it had been when they arrived.
    He collected the dirty dishes, the breakfast bowls and teaplates from last night’s supper. He put the plug in the sink and turned on the hot water tap, shoving his hand under the jet of
water to feel the temperature change; it was still a novelty. He swallowed the dregs of the tea, lighted a cigarette, and stacked in the dishes.
    A vacuum cleaner started somewhere. Then the music drowned out its noise. He became aware of his feet tapping to the music. Normally he would have liked the songs, dancing music. The wife
wouldnt be home till near 6 p.m., tired out; she worked as a cashier in a supermarket, nonstop the whole day. She hardly had the energy for anything. He glanced at the fridge, then checked that he
had taken out the meat to defrost. A couple of days ago he had forgotten yet again – egg and chips as usual, the weans delighted of course. The wife just laughed.
    He made coffee upon finishing the dishes. But rather than sitting down to drink it he walked to the corner of the room and put the cup down on a dining chair which had old newspaper on its top,
to keep it clear of paint splashes. He levered the lid off the tin, stroking the brush across the palm of his hand to check the bristles werent too stiff, then dipped it in and rapidly applied
paint to wall. It streaked. He had forgotten to mix the fucking stuff.
    Twenty minutes later he was amazed at the area he had covered. That was the thing about painting; you could sit on your arse for most of the day and then scab in for two hours; when the wife
came in she’d think you’d been hard at it since breakfast time. He noticed his brushstrokes were shifting periodically to the rhythm of the music. When the letter-box flapped he
continued for a moment, then laid the brush carefully on the lid of the tin, on the newspaper covering the chair.
    Hi, grinned a well-dressed teenager. Gesturing at his pal he said: We’re in your area this morning – this is Ricky, I’m Pete.
    Eh, I’m actually doing a bit of painting just now.
    We’ll only take a moment of your time Mr