le jouer
Him with the long face and that conical hat sitting there with the clay pipe stuck in his mouth, the widower: he enters this café around 7 every evening with a nod to the barman, a quick look to ensure his chair and table are vacant; though in a place as quiet as this anything else seems out of the question. Lurking about at the rear of the table is a wee black & white dog that finally settles into a prone position in the shadows by the wall beneath the grimy mirror. On putting the tall bottle of wine and the two glasses down onto the table, the widower has tugged this huge coloured handkerchief from his right jacket pocket, and into it has given a muffled honk; and sniffed while stuffing it back out of sight. Several moments on he is glancing across at the clock on the gantry and taking the handkerchief out once more, to wipe at his nostrils.
The door has opened.
That younger man — him with the upturned brim on his hat — has walked in, hands in coat pockets; and a half twitch of the head by way of greeting the barman; and a half rise of the eyebrows on seeing the widower’s glance at the clock. A deck of cards he lifts from the bar en route to the empty seat facing the widower. With a slow yawn the dog lowers its head, closes its eyes, reverting into its prone position. While the wine is being poured by one the other is shuffling to deal methodically, ten cards apiece.
Later, him with the conical hat will rise and knock the bowl of the clay pipe against the heel of his right boot and without so much as a grunt will head for the exit followed by the wee black & white dog; and this dog must dodge smartly to get out before the door shuts on it.
That younger man will have refilled his own glass and will then gather up the cards and, as he is shuffling, he will be gazing round the interior of the room: but the only person present apart from the barman will be Paul Cézanne: and so he will continue to shuffle the cards for a period, before setting out the first game of solitaire while half wondering if his kids are behaving themselves.
Roofsliding[2]
The tenement building upon which the practice occurs is of the three storey variety. A section of roof bounded on both sides by a row of chimney stacks is favoured. No reason is known as to why this particular section should be preferred to another. Certain members of the group participating are thought to reside outwith this actual building though none is a stranger to the district. Roofsliding, as it is termed, can take place more than once per week and will always do so during a weekday mid morning. As to the season of the year, this is unimportant; dry days, however, being much sought after.
The men arise in single file from out of the rectangular skylight. They walk along the peak of the roof ensuring that one foot is settling on either side of the jointure which is bevelled in design, the angle at the peak representing some 80 degrees. During the walk slates have been known to break loose from their fixtures and if bypassing the gutter will topple over the edge of the building to land on the pavement far below. To offset any danger to the public a boy can always be seen on the opposite pavement, from where he will give warning to the pedestrians.
When the men, sometime designated roofsliders, have assembled along the peak they will lower themselves to a sitting posture on the jointure, the legs being outstretched flatly upon the sloped roof. They face to the front of the building. Roofsliding will now commence. The feet push forward until the posterior moves off from the jointure onto the roof itself, the process continuing until the body as a whole lies prone on the gradient at which point momentum is effected.
Whether a man ‘slides’ with arms firmly aligned to the trunk, or akimbo, or indeed lying loosely to the sides, would appear to be a function of the number of individuals engaged in the activity at any given period (as many as 32 are said to have participated on occasion). Legs are, however, kept tightly shut. When the feet come to rest on the gutter roofsliding halts at once and the order in which members finish plays no part in the practice.
A due pause will now occur. Afterwards the men manoeuvre themselves inch by inch along the edge of the roof while yet seeming to maintain the prone position. Their goal, the line of chimney stacks that stand up right to the northside of the section. From here the men make their way up to the jointure on hands and knees. It is worth noting that they do so by way of the outside, unwilling, it would appear, to hazard even the slightest damage to the ‘sliding’ section that is bounded between here and the line of chimney stacks to the southside. When all have gathered on the jointure once again they will be seated to face the rear of the building. Now and now only shall conversation be entered upon. For up until this period not a man amongst them shall have spoken (since arrival by way of the skylight).
2
This account has been taken more or less verbatim from a pamphlet entitled Within Our City Slums; it belongs to the chapter headed ‘Curious practices of the Glaswegian’. The pamphlet was published in 1932 but is still available in a few 2nd hand bookshops in the south of England.