That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories. James Kelman
the cork and swigged, swigged and again swigged. Le cidre le cidre ’twas elixiric. I sat on the bank of the ditch. Whew. Man, but what a hit. Really, fuck, wow; the insides exalteth.
Prior to then my state had been somnambulistic, barely considering my life, not as a retrospective concern but as to how good it had become. It had become good. Really. This was incontrovertible, not given that one starves but as an effect of it.
I had to grin, sitting there on the grassy bank, the dampness a reminder. My bum is damp! ergo sum.
This area was devoid of lushgris which is my only name for these God-bestowed long stalks of grass that one tugs individually, and out each comes, the lower ends so so juicy.
I continued along the lane. Soon I found myself returned onto the narrow, winding road, pausing now and again for a swig of le stoof. How had that happened? This was magic man, fucking magic. The experience. Yea, and thrice yea.
Yet a gap existed somewhere or other at the back of my mind while also a developing anticipation of finding a place for a genuine sleep, one of lying-down proportions. I refer here, for sociological purposes, to the notion of phased sleep. We have singular sleeps, magical sleeps, natural sleeps and honest sleeps, fitful sleeps, and false sleeps. A genuine sleep is one of lying-down proportions, and I stand by that. And when one refers to ‘finding a place’ one, in general, refers to the place. There is only one. This is located, perhaps, on the grassy bank of a little fortified stream sited providentially for the weary wayfarer.
A strange land. Once upon a time I was familiar here, a familiar, familiar here and within. I needed a seat, oh God, a seat is equal to, is equal
The hedge at the side of the road had become less big and less thick while the tarred surface of the road softened beneath the strong sun, the smell reminding me of childhood days in cramped city streets. My feet had become hot, hot, very very hot and I had to sit quickly, again by the ditch, unloosening the laces and taking off my boots. Bare feet. I massaged my toes, Oh God in Whose Existence I do so believe. All of this. Existence. In toto. Conveyed by a sigh. Serenity has a place here, finds its niche.
I walked a few paces and entered a bower. Here were trees but sun rays entered. I had by then taken off my T-shirt and brought out the bottle. I sat down on the good earth and swigged the last of le cidre.
Oh.
The sounds of the country, the silences too, and the fragrance. I became aware of one sound, similar to the slow movement of a stream and turning to peer through the near bush I saw its glint a hundred yards off in a gully, the sun on the ripples, mild ripples. I gathered the empty bottle and stuff into the bag, knotted the laces of the boots together round my neck, and walked towards the gully. On the bank of the stream I spread the contents of my bag on the grass, awarding each article its own space. I was pleased and made to do something, whatever it was, maybe just sit down beside them and examine them or something, I dont really know, my stomach seemed to have risen, the internal diaphanous bag, the cider gurgling, bubbles up further, the gullet. Oh dear. Now I lay me down to sleep.
I did indeed, I lay myself down closing my eyes but spun off someplace and quickly reopened them. The spinning resumed. I braved it out, clinging on
The sense of late summer, a peaceful quality, days yet to come. Raising myself up, lying on my front, staring into the water. It was deep in places. Clear brackeny water; pebbles and rocks on the bottom, weeds moving gently in the current. So there was a current; these waters were not stagnant. Obviously I had to go in. There was no question about that. I needed to move within the water, whether to swim or not was irrelevant, I just had to walk in it, stand still in it. I picked a dozen of the juiciest docken leaves and laid them along the bank. I could use them instead of soap because of course I needed to wash, and seeing my feet, my toes in sore need of a wash, not just the feet man I was a smelly bastard, the undersides of my arms – what my granny called ‘tidemarks’, Get rid of these tidemarks son, you will have to, sooner or later, later. Life’s tidemarks, marks of the tide, of life itself. Life life life. Yet the undersides of these arms of mine! More than tidemarks. Dirty white streaks. Leftovers from my last job. What had that been? Jesus! What the hell was it? My last job! I had had to leave in a rush the day before yesterday, two days before yesterday, or was it three? Through no fault of my own it might be said, given one’s temper can be frayed, frayed and these gaffers, managers and foremen. Farms may be factories, but I aint no fucking chicken.
Who cares.
I drapt the jeans and stepped to the edge, dipped in the right side toes. Freezing cold water. I submerged a foot. This foot, old pal of mine, I submerged it, seeing the hairs on my lower leg rise in protest. Old pal or not this gnarled extremity required the cold water treatment. I forced the foot down onto a flat rock amid the pebbly bottom then stepped in the other. The water rose to that knuckly bone beneath the knee. Cold, yes; freezing? I do not know except there was little feeling in these lower limbs of mine and the feet could have been cut and leaking blood, for all I knew, piranha too, plentiful in the land of Angles. These feet were numb and deadly white in colour. Too cold for comfort this water. I returned to the grassy bank, pulled on the jeans and sat, using the docken leaves on my feet, pressing the sap into them. I stretched out on the grass. I am a vegetable. Sap or blood. The sun had been hidden by a cloud of many layers but the last of these evaporated. I watched the sun revealed. The heat from it was quite amazing. I got an erection immediately in a most natural manner. The vegetable aspect of one’s body. I sat up. This was no time for erections. Yet it maintained itself in spite of certain mental efforts. ‘Think of churches.’ Who gave such advice? Unless I dreamt it.
Guzzy, is there a word ‘guzzy’?
When I wakened
Thus had I dozed.
Was the heat greater now? Yes. Past midday too, and the sweat on my body! I slid down to the water’s edge and onto my hunkers, resting there. I submerged my hands, my arms, ohhhh breathe in breathe in. I could sluice the water up under my oxters, over my shoulders, onto my chest, I cleansed my face and neck. My eyes closed; my eyes had closed. I was crouched there and motionless I was motionless I must have been motionless, but then gazing at the water, the lady’s reflection, my eyes no longer closed. She was sitting on the other side of the stream, close by clumps of ferns, this lady. The bank rose higher here and the line of the stream slanted strangely that almost she lay out of my field of vision and may have assumed I did not see her. A stately and majestic country home or castle was located in the immediate vicinity. ’Twas her abode. ’Twas my conviction, wearing a summer dress of a kind favoured by all, having two little thin straps across the shoulders, Oh my Lady. Those straps may be thin but but for them the dress would collapse onto the ground, falling or crumpling in a heap at her feet and these feet might step out of such a garment. She was sitting with her knees raised, her elbows resting upon them, hands cupping her chin. And I did see her, truly I did and now of course pretending that I had not and again dropped my jeans, dipped both feet into the water until touching the pebbles, then I rose, pushing myself up from the bank. The water was cold and necessarily so, creeping over my knees, but not so cold as before; I stared into the water, concentrating on this, and waded a third of the way across. It was a little deeper now and I might have swam. Instead I returned to my own side and stepped out onto the grass maintaining the pretence that I was alone, leaving my jeans where they were and lying stretched out on my original place halfway up the grass slope, shielding my eyes from the sharp ray of sun. She perhaps would have thought my eyes closed but they were not and I could see her clearly enough, this beautiful beautiful lady, of indeterminate age. My legs had dried but the chopper was rigid and it would not go down and I thought to cover it with my T-shirt, yet seeing her shift position, her legs now outstretched and her hands underneath her thighs. I shifted my own position, laying my arms alongside the length of my body, closing my eyelids. I was waiting, I waited. A rustling movement, as of her rising and entering the stream, lifting her dress clear of the water, carefully stepping her way across, focused on the water alone as though in ignorance of me, then approaching from the stream, passing where my jeans were lying. She lowered herself down to kneel on the grass oh so carefully, lifting her dress that it flopped to cover her legs entirely, her hands lightly on my ankles, rustling the hairs over my knees and upwards to where the hair stopped