The Busconductor Hines by James Kelman Page B

old as Sandra but probably younger a couple of years. She was wearing a thick anorak and jeans, and thick boots. He cleared his throat; then he moved toallow the pram to pass more easily. She had long hair. The pram bumped down the short flight of steps: and along the path, behind its canopy, the girl’s head and shoulders could be seen above the big weeds.

    For a while he tidied the house, before making a slice of toast and cheese, and coffee. Carrying it ben the front room he laid it on the floor beside the settee. He put an L.P. record on the music-centre, setting the arm so that it played continuously. He closed the curtains. When he sat down he bit a mouthful of the food and shut his mouth on it. But within moments he emptied it onto the plate, then stretched along the settee, resting his heels on its arm. He got up and switched off the light. He lifted the cup but put it down without tasting the coffee. He made a cigarette. When it burned he laid it on the ashtray on the floor.
    The wallpaper peeled at the corner of the room nearest the front of the building, on the same side as the boy’s cot. Beneath the peeling section were several air-pockets. He was reaching to press his right indexfinger into one of the larger ones, to make contact with the wall; he continued to press when the contact was made.
    Back on the settee he raised the cup to his lips and allowed the coffee to enter his mouth; but he was restricting the gap so that it could only trickle through. He pushed a finger against the skin beneath his bottom lip, to the point where the coffee would have been parallel on the other side. Fuck sake. He drank most of the rest at once.
    Toys and books were among the fankled blankets on Paul’s cot. Hines hadnt tidied there. He got up from the settee but he went ben the kitchen and got the quilt from the bed and back on the settee he stretched along it, drawing the quilt over himself, right over his face, and turning in to face the rear of the settee. He closed his eyelids, he stuck his indexfingers into each ear.

    Paul – bouncing on the edge of the settee and grinning at him. Hines sat up, shielding the light from his eyes. The music was no longer being played. Paul was laughing . . . Granpa gave me 50 pence and we got trifle and crisps.
    Good.
    Sandra came in, her coat off; she walked to the cot and straightened out the bedclothes. Your record was blaring, she said, I dont know how you can sleep with it like that. I’m surprised nobody was in complaining.
    He nodded; he lifted the unsmoked cigarette from the ashtray on the floor and lit it. Sandra was now tugging on the sleeves of Paul’s coat and she got it off then knelt to help him with the rest of his clothes but he twisted about and she told him to stand at peace. He continued to twist, not letting her get ahead with it all.
    How was your mum and dad? okay?
    For God sake Paul. Yes. She pulled the jumper over his head and shoulders then he jerked out of her grasp and she smacked him on the wrist. Just stand still this minute!
    I dont want to go to bed.
    O for heaven sake.
    I dont want to!
    Hines reached over and whacked him on the bottom and his knees caved in; and he fell so that his chin could have landed with some force on the floor but it was avoided, his hands arriving first and taking the impact. A moment’s shock before the greeting fit. Hines got off the settee then Sandra sat down on it. She murmured. He’s dead beat, he’s been on the go all evening; dad had him out in the garden after tea.
    Hines had knelt on the floor, one knee raised, and he sat the boy there and continued undressing him, then helped him on with his pyjamas. He told him to go to the lavatory and began folding the clothes onto a chair next to his cot. Paul was no longer crying when he returned. Hines put him into the cot and he pulled the blankets up to his chin. Good night son . . . He gazed at him; he leaned to kiss him on the forehead. See you