by James Kelman
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by James Kelman
Title Page
A Disaffection
Copyright
About the Book
Patrick Doyle is a twenty-nine-year-old teacher in an ordinary comprehensive school. Isolated, frustrated and increasingly bitter at the system he is employed to maintain, he begins his rebellion, fuelled by drink and his passionate unrequited love for a fellow teacher.
About the Author
James Kelman was born in Glasgow in 1946. His books include Not not while the giro, The Busconductor Hines, A Chancer and Greyhound for Breakfast, which won the 1987 Cheltenham Prize. His novel A Disaffection won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. How Late it Was, How Late won the Booker Prize in 1994. His collection of short stories The Burn, won a Scottish Arts Council book award. James Kelman lives in Glasgow.
ALSO BY JAMES KELMAN
An old pub near the Angel, and other stories
Three Glasgow Writers (with Tom Leonard and Alex Hamilton)
Short Tales from the Nightshift
Not not while the giro, and other stories
The Busconductor Hines
Lean Tales (with Agnes Owens and Alasdair Gray)
A Chancer
Greyhound for Breakfast
Hardie and Baird & Other Plays
The Burn
Some Recent Attacks: Essays Cultural and Political
How Late it Was, How Late
The Good Times
Translated Accounts
And the Judges Said …
You Have to Be Careful in the Land of the Free
JAMES KELMAN
A Disaffection
PATRICK DOYLE WAS A teacher. Gradually he had become sickened by it. Then a very odd thing happened or was made to happen. He had been visiting the local arts centre and having a couple of drinks, found himself round the back of the premises for a pish, and discovered a pair of old pipes. They were longish and reminded him of english saxophones from a bygone era, the kind that reach to the floor and are normally performed on by seated musicians. Now by no means whatsoever would Patrick have considered himself a musician – if anything his secret hankering was to be a painter, doing fairly large murals. He could imagine covering the gable ends of tenement buildings, or even better, the interior walls of tenement closes, inserting various nooks and crannies and twists and corners; evil shapes and sinister figures – different things: but always inclining toward Goya’s work of the black period.
The pipes were strange kind of objects in the response Patrick had for them. It was immediate to begin with. As soon as he saw them it was, christ! And he shook his head, still just standing there, staring at the two of them. He picked the thinner one up and glanced about but nobody was watching. It was still winter yet. It was dark and it was cold. People seldom wandered round to here. Patrick scratched his head; then, without smiling, proceeded to blast out a long deep sound. He stopped. And now the glimmer of a smile did appear on his face. Again he glanced about: still nobody. He took a very long deep breath and once more he blasted out this long, very deep sound. It was really beautiful. Of a crazy sort of nostalgia that would aye be impossible to describe in words, and not in oils either. He noticed the other pipe but already the decision was made and it would make no difference one way or the other how it sounded, he was taking them both, the pair of them.
They were not heavy, nor particularly bulky. He carried one under each elbow, back via the fire-escape door and along the corridor into the main lounge. He was of the company of a group of teachers which was discussing the Christmas Pantomime they had produced at school a couple of months ago. This year Patrick had opted out of it and was aware of being slightly excluded from things. One of the women chuckled. She was recounting an incident that had occurred between herself and a boy pupil during rehearsals. Patrick watched her. She was called Alison and he thought her something special. If she had not been married he would have asked her out ages ago. And that something as well in the way she communicated with people, the way she addressed them, a quick flick of the head which seemed to indicate she was noticing everything, every single thing that was going on.
He turned to see if the bar was still open for business and a pipe clattered to the floor. The company peered at it then at the one he was holding. He nodded downwards. Aye, he said, I found them round the back, they’ll come in handy.
He reached to collect the fallen one, he balanced it and the other one against the side of his chair. He smiled and stood up, walked across to the bar and ordered a tomato juice. It was one of those things: he would be driving home and already he had taken far too much. He was meaning to cut out this drinking and driving carry on altogether. Alison occasionally commented on it. Tonight she had made a joke about it to him but obviously she wanted the point taken seriously. He would take it seriously. She was dead right. Maybe the tomato juice would meet her approval! He sipped at it while the barmaid was getting his change from the till. It was really fucking virulent tasting stuff and he grued. This was part of the problem of nonalcoholic drinks, how they were so untasty. Without vodka tomato juice was almost not to be spoken of.
Back at the table a nosy bastard by the name of Desmond was examining the pipes. He nodded at Patrick as he sat down, pursing his lips in an ironic manner, as if to say: Quite a nice pair of pipes.
Patrick shrugged. They’ll come in handy.
Somebody else in the company was yawning and muttering about having to get up early in the morning for the swimming beginners so it was time to hit the road home. And soon chairs were being shifted and folk were swallowing the last of their drinks; now rising and buttoning or zipping their coats and jackets. Patrick walked ahead of Alison, managing to hold the door open for her with his left foot, the pipes being held beneath either elbow as before. Want a lift? he asked.
Are you up to it?
Aye, he grinned.
She nodded. A couple of the others were looking across and he called, Anybody else wanting a lift?
Where you going? asked a man who had recently taken up a temporary post at the school.
Home – but I’m dropping off Alison first.
Nah it’s alright, thanks all the same.
Suit yourself … Patrick smiled, he turned to say something to Alison but Alison was some yards off now, chatting to Mrs Bryson.
On the journey to her street he drove in relaxed fashion and he spoke fine, keeping her quite interested and amused by wee events in the classroom. And he felt as happy in himself as he had done for what seemed like ages. Maybe since the day he had graduated nearly six years ago – although fuck sake it seemed like yesterday morning. Yet in other ways a hundred years; all those failed plans and principles and ideas for the future, all those ways ahead. And now here he was, a teacher – still a teacher! What was to be done. Nothing. Then here was this pair of pipes. What about them. What was to be done about them. It was really strange. Also that feeling, as if it was his last chance to make good or something. Daft. Crazy. A cliché. He glanced into the rearview mirror. He smiled at Alison.
You’re very cheery the night Mister Doyle.
Uch, I’m always cheery.
You are not. You’re about the most depressed character in the entire school.
Does that include Old Milne?
Old Milne’s not depressed, not with his salary.
You’re right! He looked sideways at her, frowned a moment then added, How’s the husband these days?
Pardon?
Your husband, how’s he doing?
Alison mad
e no comment.
Eventually Patrick said. Is he okay?
Yes.
Good … He turned the steering wheel now at the junction of the main road and her street; the car entering; and parking outside her close. A very brief silence and then she was moving to unlock the passenger door. She paused, glancing at him. And he winked and grinned. Take care and sleep well, sleep well.
You’re in a funny mood … Alison frowned.
Am I!
Yes, ye are. She smiled before manoeuvering her way outside onto the pavement where she waved, and crashed the thing shut. Patrick groaned. Other people had a habit of doing that as well and the door was no longer hanging properly on its hinges. That horrible grating noise when somebody pushed it too far ajar. High time he had a new motor altogether. This was probably why folk crashed the thing shut so hard, their assumption it couldnt be working right because it looked so ancient. Fucking hopeless.
Alison was attracting his attention from the closemouth. She maybe thought he was going to fucking fall asleep and stay there all night. He grinned and waved back at her, flashed the headlights a couple of times: and she vanished. Not even a puff of smoke. He continued to stare at the closemouth.
When he parked the car in his own street he was aware of the pipes as a new problem in his life – even in such minor events as exiting from the car e.g. did one for instance take them in one’s arms before rising from the seat? or get out first and then fucking drag them after you? or else prop them against the side of the car while you’re still sitting down! It was almost like having a pet. Oddly enough the sister-in-law tried to dump a six-week-old puppy onto him quite recently, but he had declined. It would have been no good with him being out all day at the teaching. The wee beast would not have been happy. Plus holidays. Other difficulties too. And if he had wanted to stay out all night what then.
The pipes could be looked upon as a surrogate pet. Even better! a surrogate child! Or wife for god sake! In fact, these very pipes represented the whole wide world. With these pipes in tow anything was possible. Nay! Probable!
Pat was laughing aloud while walking up the stairs. And there certainly was a lot of irony involved in it. But what could not be ignored was the existence of happiness: he felt genuinely happy. This was the point at issue. He had not felt genuinely happy for years.
Could that be true. Years? Aye, it was true, years.
Inside the lobby he propped the pipes against the wall beneath the coathooks but changed his mind and took them ben the parlour; if he left them in the lobby the temperature might affect them, being far too cold and draughty and then if he left them in the kitchen it would be too hot sometimes and too damp othertimes; either one of which might not be good for them. But this front room he used rarely, so the temperature though not warm was not cold and, more importantly, would remain constant.
In the kitchen he switched on the electric fire, crouching down to heat his hands at the two bars, with the jacket about his shoulders, keeping it there till he got warm – that was one of the problems of being alone, always coming into nothing, coming home to this coldness, a permanent dearth of warmth, of the warmth brought into being via the presence of another party, a fucking person in other words. He prepared a pot of tea, sat down on his chair, hands in his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched. He was beginning to feel very tired indeed. That coupled with the cold he was probably better off going to bed. Fuck the tea. He unplugged the kettle and undressed, switched off the fire, having to visit the lavatory out in the lobby, before climbing swiftly into bed and under the blankets, huddling into as small an object as possible. And if he had drunk a big mugful of tea he would have had to get back up during the night. There again but, if he was better organised in regard to his pishing habits he would never have found the pipes! For a moment he considered rising to have a go on them but it would not have been right; it would have been wrong; it would have been the wrong thing entirely. If he was going to blow on them at all he wanted to do so in earnest and that meant being in the proper condition, the correct frame of mind and the correct frame of body. Give up the drink for a start! He would get fit. And that was another point: he doubted, quite fucking seriously, if ever he had felt truly healthy for years. Ages! How come he was not married to someone like Alison for instance? She was actually physically beautiful and without any doubt was obtainable – attainable. Or had been when she first arrived last summer. Maybe even now, if he was to really try, just depending on how he went about it; if he asked her out, just to see what transpired. It really was time. He had to do something. He really had to do something because it was driving him crazy, it was fucking driving him crazy. He could ask her out, just to see what transpired. Take her for a meal and a drink maybe, nothing startling, just a quiet kind of unobtrusive carry on. Something not to put her off. Not to be too forcible otherwise, otherwise it really would put her off. Simply to get her on her ownsome while the two of them were alone and by themselves, and without any of that fucking school mob watching what you were doing, wanting to know your business, the way they were aye wanting to keep tabs on everything you did, every last thing you got involved in or did not get fucking involved in! Like the stupid bloody pantomime. And the pipes of course. They would be gossiping about them as well. Desmond and Mrs Bryson and all the rest. Hubbubs in the bloody staffroom. Complete silence when he enters and then fucking hubbubs once he goes fucking back out again. O aye, did you see them! Even the way he acquired them did you notice! No kidding ye he just fucking lifted them from behind the fucking arts centre! How fucking bloody damn appropriate right enough!
At school the next couple of days he was in better spirit throughout with all the different classes. It was good and it was cheery. During the past while he had been becoming close to overwhelmed by the darkest of feelings over the influence he could have with pupils. Each and every single relationship he had with each and every pupil seemed totally unhealthy, each and every one of them, girls and boys, they were all the same.
The Teacher!!
The Great Man!!
How they regarded him as the perfect being. This great man of the universe. Statesman, philanthropist and diplomat. The final arbiter. He whose pronouncements on all subjects – including of course physics, politics and mathematical logic, the arts and philosophy; in short the entire history of the world – were to be listened to and paid the utmost attention. Their parents and/or guardians did not come into it. In comparison to his their values and opinions were absolutely worthless, absolutely worthless. Fucking obscene really, when you pondered the issue. Occasionally he could bore them stupid about it in the staffroom. Very occasionally. In fact, not very often. Far better remaining silent in the midst of such crassness, in the midst of such utter cant and hypocrisy, in the midst of such
christ! quite often he had to jump up and walk out of the bloody place! Even during conversations he was a part of. And he knew fine well this made him seem a queer sort of oddball of a character; maybe even queer in the sense of gayness, of his being homosexual, because he was not married and never had been married and the way things were going never would be married.
He hadnt even really lived with anybody. Nor had he ever been engaged or anything like that, although once it could be said he had come near. That was at uni. But they hadnt slept together! At the time he was so naive he considered that a strongpoint. Sheila Monaghan was her name and she was now teaching in a school somewhere in Aberdeen. If she had honestly liked him they would have slept together. There was no doubt about that. She used to let him feel her breasts and take her bra off but nothing more than that. Plus there was that occasion she let her hand rest on his bollocks and it drove him daft although she seemed to be unmoved unless of course it was a pretence. It wasnt easy to know what was what with Sheila. But fair enough, as far as he knew she never ever slept with anybody else either. And he did, eventually, whenever he could get the chance which was not often and usually standing up in the shadowy bits in the a
dmin section of the students’ union. Also on four separate occasions at parties when space was made by pushing the coats and jackets to one side. Quite funny carry ons. The type of thing that never happened nowadays. That had never happened at all except at uni and twice while at the teachers’ trainers. It was all very fucking pathetic. A situation full of pathos. To hell with it! He just wanted something different. To not be a teacher perhaps!
What a temptation!
There were these amazing paintings done by Goya when he was quite old, late middle age or thereabouts – no, much older than that, he was really elderly at the time. Could that be true! They were actually astonishing. Incredible pieces of art. And gruesome. And yet! Plus that hollowness of tone. Was that it? A hollowness of tone? Or was he just thinking of the pipes.
He had not been thinking of the pipes at all. But neither had they gone from his head; rather the opposite, a kind of luxuriation, they were so much a part of him. But maybe they had gone right enough. The imagination works in its own way. It was easy to assume the whole backdrop of his perception had altered whereas it might not have; there was no reason to think it had, rather the opposite, if reason had anything to do with it. But there was little to trust in reason. Fuck that for a racket. A method of approaching the thing, perhaps, was to say he had been subconsciously avoiding all thought on the subject because of a growing awareness that it could prove momentous, all too fucking momentous.
He bought tins of enamel paint on his road home from school next afternoon; one each of the colours silver, red and black. He wondered whether a better depth of sound might be obtained by blocking the ends. When using them before he held the top section with his right hand while his left was covering the bottom in such a way that only a tiny fraction of air escaped. It worked fine but with something affixed permanently and made adjustable, a variety of notes would become available. That is, if a variety of notes was what was required. Even the term itself, ‘variety’, could scarcely be deemed satisfying. In an odd sense it almost cheapened the pipes as instruments, as though there must be an ‘object of the exercise’ and this object was to play a fucking tune. And it was not that. It was not that at all. Was it something better than that? Something better than playing a tune? Or was it just something different? Something different, not better? What could it be? This great feat he was setting out to do. This amazing thing that was not connected with playing a tune, a plain ordinary tune. This astonishing accomplishment he would achieve on a pair of discarded pipes, found dumped behind the rear fire-escape of the local arts centre.
