That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories. James Kelman

but increasing the pressure until I had to flex strongly to withstand the firmness of her grip. When she released it imprints of her hands would remain on the skin. I stopped flexing. A mild draught, the wafting of her dress; she had risen and was standing, or had moved, kneeling closer to me. I needed to look at her, needed to see her, and if she had arisen her knees would have crisscross marks from the grass. Had she settled back, sitting on her heels? Perhaps I think perhaps, the unzip of her dress, it falling from her onto my feet, and her hands returned to my legs, moving upwards again but where they had come together previously they now parted, off from my body and onto the grass on either side of me, her wrists set firmly against the sides of my chest. She lowered her body until the top of my chopper touched the insides of her thighs, she moving forwards again until her face rested against my cheek, her tongue touching my lips, now her hands propping herself, manoeuvring herself, enclosing me, taking the weight of her body on her hands and moving slowly upwards, and down and now I thrusted and thrusted again but then was able to stop. Neither of us moved for several moments and when eventually we did we did together. I had raised my arms and placed them round her. We were moving together, we were. I marvelled at this. On it went and I knew I was smiling a true and honest smile. There are many types of smile and this was one such, there by the stream, my bag of possessions, thoughts of food.

      (TZEKOVITZ

      WAS ANOTHER)

      Mind you, I said, some writers can write a story about any damn thing in the world. Choose an object and tell me what that object is, I shall write you a story about it, I shall hand you that story as a finished piece by tomorrow morning. This is what they tell ye. Tzekovitz was one such writer and John Harvey was another. You too, I said. Dan . . . ?

      Dan.

      Dan Driscoll?

      That’s right son.

      Dan Driscoll; how could I have forgotten? I was chairing this Writers’ Group. Dan was wee and skinny and who knows what age; deaf when necessary, wore a bunnet and specs with thick round lenses. National Health specs they used to call them, granny specs. The auld bugger sat to my left side with his chair pushed back. He could see me clearly but I could not see him without shifting my own chair. What a tactic!

      Dan had no interest in what I described as the practicalities, none at all. He did not disrespect them, just had no interest in them. Nevertheless he listened politely when I was advocating precision, exactitude and the miracles of meticulousnessnous, such that draft after draft after draft should be produced toward that end. He waited to ensure that I was finished talking then handed me two stories he had written earlier that same day.

      The other people in the group smiled and watched for my reaction. They accepted Dan as a phenomenon and appeared to equate it with his North Bringlish origins. But how seriously should he be taken was the key question. Very seriously. Somebody who could write this number of stories? How else should he be taken but seriously?

      Dan had been privy to some exciting military events and incidents during his lifetime, had survived serious wars and violent interventions, been stationed in some of the more devilish outposts of Empire. When Britain was not at war with other business rivals, and Dan was not in the army, he generally was unemployed, along with the usual countless millions. I dont know if he wore a poppy every November. He maybe had one pinned in the dark interior of his bunnet. During one bout of unemployment the Bringlish Government had him interned in a work camp in the Renfrewshire area. His family fended for themselves while he was locked up. The politics of this seemed not to bother him but he was watching me when he let slip the information. I said, Where did it happen?

      I had a feeling ye would ask that son, he said, nudging the specs up his nose, and off he went with an incredible yarn about the time he

      Dan, I said, ssh. Ye’ve got to stop this. If ye talk it out yer system you will never write it.

      Write what?

      Yer story.

      My story? He squinted at me and sniffed, took off his bunnet and pulled out another two manuscripts from inside the lining. These two had that same tiny blue-ink scrawl, handwritten on the kids’ lined exercise pages. That made four this evening. I wasnay goni give ye these till next week, he said.

      Next week? Am I here next week?

      Take them now son in case ye arent.

      Ye keep calling me son. I’m sixty-four years of age.

      Dan blinked, pushing the specs back over the bridge of his nose. The woman who sat opposite smiled. Dan smiled back. Edith, he said, did I ever tell ye how come my nose got broke?

      No, said Edith and leaned forwards a little to hear the yarn.

      My attention was diverted by the extra two stories Dan had passed me. I held them up to the light to examine them.

      Is that a trick? he said.

      It is Dan aye. I can tell a lot from the paper a writer uses.

      He fixed the bunnet back on his head and straightened it. I folded the pages carefully and put them in my folder. Thanks, I said.

      Nay bother son. I’m one of these people who are aye on the spot when momentous occasions are unfolding. That’s why I write so many stories.

      Aw. I grinned.

      I wouldnt scoff, said a young fellow.

      I’m not scoffing, I said.

      Edith was smiling. Dan nudged the glasses up his nose a little. His eyes seemed particularly large whenever she was speaking. She addressed me directly: The genesis of this goes back centuries, she said, and is referred to by an early Roman chronicler; Heraclitus I believe. It may have been Oxon. In those days soothsayers were commonplace. They not only perceived but derived patterns from major human tragedies, horrific calamities; earthquakes, tsunamis, erupting volcanoes. They had noted that among the multitudinous crowds of people who chanced upon these scenes of devastation, were clusters of individuals whose faces were familiar. These people appeared at the scene of these tragic events. Edith continued: There was the girl and the boy; the elderly lady and the middle-aged bearded fellow; there were the two women, the young father with the baby in swaddling clothes, his wife and her lover. The same faces, always the same, spectators, passively there, registering no emotion.

      The rest were enthralled. Me too. I was not so sure about Dan. I couldnay see behind the glasses. When she finished talking I said, Edith, have you handed in a story yet?

      No.

      No?

      I cant write stories to save me. I write poetry, she said.

      I chuckled.

      Sorry, I didnt think to amuse you.

      God sake Edith that was a story! What ye talking about ye dont write stories!