An Old Pub Near the Angel (21 page)

Our next-door neighbours were an elderly couple by the name of Bradford. Mr Bradford came from the North of Ireland. He looked and dressed like a proper businessman in the three-piece suit and soft hat. His business was a private lending library in a wee shop across the street: the Garriochmill Library. He charged threepence to borrow a book.

He had just retired when we came to stay there but his house was full of old library books, most of which were written by
Lloyd C. Douglas and Edgar Burroughs, but included a few by John Steinbeck, Erskine Caldwell, Walter Greenwood and A.J. Cronin. I could borrow any I wanted and he always enjoyed a chat.

After he died his widow let me take what I wanted. I have to confess there were not too many I did want, but a few I still have. The circumstances surrounding his death were sad. Mrs Bradford had been away staying with relatives and he was alone. We had not seen him for a few days. Myself and Frank McGoohan, the upstairs neighbour, were banging on his door. Then we forced it in. He took one side of the flat and I the other. I found him dead, in the act of getting into his bed. He had the alarm clock in one hand and must have been setting the alarm, and just sank back when the heart attack hit. I stood there looking. Frank came ben to tell me that a taxi had just drawn up on the street and Mrs Bradford was getting out. We had to move quickly, meet her on the stair, take her into my house.

This part of North Woodside was full of life forty years ago; small businesses by the score. Butchers, bakers, carpentry shops, chemists, drapers and domestic repair shops; secondhand bookshops, launderettes, chip shops, newsagents and dairies; a sweetie shop, a crockery shop, secondhand furniture stores; many pubs, bookies, pawn shops, fish shops and licensed grocers: all within five minutes from the foot of my close, and from South Woodside Road to St Clair Street, taking in Henderson Street, Mount Street, Carrickarden Street and Dick Street. We did not need Great Western Road or Maryhill Road. I am not even including Raeberry Street in this, although I recall the Shakespeare Bar served three-course lunches for 2/6 around 1972. Nah, my memory is surely defective on that one.

When my family returned from the States things were tough
and my mother needed to go out to work. But doing what? She began the long haul to become a teacher. She secured the necessary Highers at day school then entered Teacher Training College. Napiershall Street Primary School was a short walk from my close. My mother taught there from the late 1960s for a period of six or seven years. It was her first job since 1942. My elder daughter Laura was one of her pupils for a year. She was under instructions never to greet her in the playground and never to say ‘grannie’ in the classroom. She was allowed to give secret smiles.

I was good friends with Frank McGoohan, my upstairs neighbour. He was divorced, a few years older than me, and lived alone. The last couple of days before payday he was always skint but rarely accepted Marie’s offer to come in for his tea. He was another reader, and was writing a novel based on his conscription days with the military. After Marie he was the next person to see my stuff. We passed our writings to each other. Frank was fond of English poetry, Keats and Shelley. He could not thole some of my spellings in ‘Nice to be Nice’. My rendition of ‘Wedinsday’ just fucking annoyed him. We agreed that ‘Wensday’ was more exact. But I argued that ‘nsday’ was just a glottal stop and I had to reject it. The central character in ‘Nice to be Nice’ is narrating a story from his recent life but assumes an audience and shifts his pronunciation accordingly: he resists glottal stops.

After a few pints discussing all that in the Gowdoc Bar with Frank, the Creative Writing class at Glasgow University Extra-mural Department was a doddle.

The possibility of revising my early stories of course has occurred to me. I find it impossible. The author of
An Old Pub Near the Angel
is in his early twenties and with his characters right at the
heart of the experience; a smoke, a meal, sex, a beer, the next bet, a relationship. At the same time he – the author – was trying to be a proper parent and husband, helping prepare the bottle, doing a feed, changing the nappy, telling a bedtime story.

I was happy doing all that. I enjoyed it very much. I loved seeing my daughters grow up. Before publication of the book I became friends with Tom Leonard who had two sons. We had disagreements but shared an outlook that included a way to conduct yourself as artist, husband and parent. None of that writer-as-adolescent shite: acknowledge the responsibilities and try to cope. I think we further agreed that if it was impossible to be both artist and father there was something wrong with art. I doubt if we would share that opinion nowadays.

The writing crowded in. I was chewing the nails until I could get my work out on the kitchen table, or spread on the carpet, to sort through the pages. Reading yesterday’s first draft was always an exciting experience. The lack of working time was a continual source of stress, as it still is. The frustration worms its way through rage and bitterness, and can lead to breakdown, and silence. I returned to the lives, as well as the works, of writers and artists, particularly Franz Kafka. He too appreciated the early novels of Knut Hamsun.

I saw it as the fundamental and shaping struggle in each, the need to do your work in the face of the socio-economic reality. There was no place in society for your work, as with Cézanne, van Gogh and the rest. Your only requirement was to do
their
work. Who the fuck were they? These bastards. Who wants to do their work? Let them do it themselves, tell them to go and fuck.

Young writers seek bonds of solidarity with older generations; we look for things in common. If a writer comes to mean something to us we want to discover affinities. How did they live their life? What hardships did they endure to pursue their art? How long did it take them to write a story? Kafka did
The Metamorphosis
in a couple of nights. Oh, I don’t believe it, no, no, for godsake, no.

Yes. Now pick yourself up, brush yourself down. Van Gogh did not even begin until he was 28. And look at Tolstoy, a hero at 22, a hero at 72. Phew.

The biographies I read back in my teens proved worthwhile in context. I have been an atheist since 12 so I do not know where the
Lives of the Saints
lead ye, but the lives of the artists lead you to other artists, philosophers and other thinkers. Cézanne’s life led me to Émile Zola; then van Gogh’s letters, Turgenev’s essaying; through Kafka’s journals you go everywhere.

Yet I still found difficulty in connecting with writers who had no reason to worry about money and job security. I was prejudiced against Turgenev for years, until it dawned on me how influenced I had been by Dostoevski’s judgment, arrived at through a suicidal gambling habit. I would have sat down for a game of poker with Dostoevski but knew I would not have enjoyed it. I aye imagined him jumping up from the table and flinging a cape round his shoulders, This is too slow, too slow! and marching out into the night.

When I read Mary Gray Hughes’ first collection,
The Thousand Springs
(Puckerbrush Press, 1971), I was very taken with the title story. It is set back in time and takes the form of the diary of a young woman surviving in desperate circumstances. She is the wife of a smallholder barely eking out a living from the land, just about coping with running the home. Her son is gravely ill, perhaps close to death. And the woman is trying also to be a writer, a writer who loves literature, who loves other writers. She is fighting for her own time and space, that point in the evening when the chores are done and she
manages a clear 15 minutes. That is what she can count on: 15 minutes. During that brief period she will go at it and take from it what she can. At the end of the story we discover that the young woman did not ‘become’ a writer, but her son did.

I think of another literary hero, Agnes Owens. What if Agnes had been ‘granted’ a proper chance to write when she was fighting to rear her family? As if it was not enough of a burden raising eight children, she spent years going out to work in whatever capacity, servant to the middle classes, clearing up their domestic mess. When she saw the squeak of a chance she grabbed it and produced those great stories that we know. How much more could it have been?

That part of her life she holds in common with Tillie Olsen who was writing in her teens then had to shut down in order to rear a family. And ‘shut down’ may give a sense of what happens; it is a part of your being that closes, like entering ‘sleep’ mode on a computer, if you are lucky, otherwise it is forever. Tillie Olsen returned to her art from around the age of 40, finishing
Yonnondio
, a novel she had begun as a 19-year-old girl. Theirs is a woman’s story. But it is also a writer’s story and encompasses many male writers.

The title story of Olsen’s collection,
Tell Me A Riddle
, is one of the great pieces of American art. She also published a brilliant work of non-fiction entitled
Silences
which I passed on to Agnes Owens. The title refers to those precise gaps in a person’s life, when you should be working at what you do, but simply cannot beg, steal or borrow the time.

She was a friend of Mary Gray Hughes, who in the mid 1970s sent me a rare edition of Olsen’s
Tell Me A Riddle
. She did not tell me it was a rare edition. This collection of only four stories has had an impact on contemporary English-language literature, not only in the U.S.A. Her work offered a
different way of seeing for myself, finding ways to hijack third-person narrative from the voice of imperial authority.

Prose fiction was exciting at this level. Somebody was punching fuck out ye but ye went away and attended the cuts, had a shower, and came back with Daddy’s axe. Tillie’s work was a weapon. The true function of grammar. Make yer point. Writers need to learn these lessons. If you do not then you will not tell the story. You might tell other stories but not the one you could be telling. These bastards think they own the language. They already own the courts. They own everything. They want to block your stories, and they will, if you let them. So go and do your work properly. Ye will need every weapon.

In my short-story collections, many stories began life as part of a longer narrative I hoped would become a novel. The problem becomes formal, particularly in ‘I-voice’ narratives. When there is no continuity in the writing the perspective of the central character shifts. It starts to feel like a different person. Even a slight variation can be too much. Eventually I gave up, transformed and finalised these sections. They became short stories in their own right.

Shifting the narrative voice back and forward, from first person to third, from third back to first, helped the process. This can resolve dramatic problems writers experience in ‘I-voice’ yarns. I wanted the central character active in a present adventure, not recounting the one about a mysterious stranger he once chanced to meet aboard a cargo ship to Borneo. I tried and rejected the present tense; locked into one dimension, behaviourist, static, lacking mystery, deterministic, non-existential. Just fucking philosophically naïve, like science fiction or world-weary detectives trudging the mean streets humming a piece of Mozart, to a backdrop of the theme from
Johnny Staccato
: the mental masturbation of the bourgeoisie, that was how I felt about the ‘I-voice’ present tense. Avoid it at all costs.
Go for richness, sophistication, infinite possibility: use the past tense properly, discover its subtlety. Learn yer fucking grammar! Do not be lazy! How does the verb operate in other language cultures?

There was a crucial factor that I liked about the shift from first to third party: you were left with a thought process; the central character had an inner life that seemed authentic. I just kept developing that third-party narrative, finding ways to embed the thought processes. This culminated in moves I made in
The Busconductor Hines
. There was something Joyce was doing, trying to be doing, Molly Bloom’s soliloquy,
Finnegan’s Wake
, it was just there how something, and it was just like eh, it was just fucking obvious man just how I could not quite say.

Alasdair Gray and I were having a pint together many years back and had a laugh about that. He knew exactly what I was talking about but could not quite get to what it was, that thing that we were talking about, maybe it was not a thing, maybe it was just a verb. It was certainly not the ineffable man that was a certainty, the ineffable is a fucking noun. That was 30 years ago, unless I have invented it all, probably I have.

The other novel from the early period was
A Chancer
which could only have been written prior to
The Busconductor Hines
otherwise it would have been very difficult, if not impossible. Yet I had to complete
The Busconductor Hines
before I could complete
A Chancer
.

Even to this day I get wistful about that other one, the unfinished third novel. I should have fucking finished it. I was just beat. If I had had the time, the space, if I could have found a way in. It needed all of that. The first, last or central section would have been the title story from my
Not Not While the Giro
collection.

There was even a fourth novel, about a private detective with a fondness for Russian literature. This guy is a black belt at every martial art, yet adored by women for his sensitive touch.
He is at home in every situation, able to cope with life on the street, degenerates of every profession, smiled at by prostitutes, respected by pimps and dealers, always at the ready to flummox university professors by quoting casually one of Pindar’s lesser-known odes.

I wrote about 30 or 40 pages during that 1971–3 period.

When the bills pile up I trot it out and stride purposefully about the room. This one will be a movie! Hey Marie! Marie! Then I trip over the cat, try to kick him and fall on my chin. Where am I? Where is the computer? This damn novel will enter manifold translations. It will set us free forever!