A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  Another mug of tea.

  Two or three days, that’s all he would have been able to take of Eric. No more. Then they’d be at each other’s throat. At least Pat would. Eric would just be slightly taken aback then conciliatory. They were all like that, these middle-class bastards, lying fuckers, so absolutely hypocritical it was a way of being, they never even bothered reflecting on it, all these lecturers and students, so smugly satisfied and content to let you say what you wanted to say and do what you wanted to do, just so long as it didnt threaten what they possessed, and what did they possess why fucking everything, the best of health and the best of fucking everything else. It was a joke, just a joke. But it was pointless being bitter. It was pointless being bitter. Being bitter was fucking silly. Patrick had stopped being bitter. What it did was just fucking stopped you from doing things. At uni it stopped him from doing things. If he had stopped being bitter he might have done things. What might he have done? He might have done things. Obviously he canni be expected to say what exactly these things are. But there are things he would definitely have done and that means he would not right at this fucking moment be a fucking damn bloody bastarn schoolteacher, one who does fuck all in the world bar christ almighty nothing at all. It was them wanted him to go to uni and no him, his parents and his fucking big brother. It was all so stupit. Really, so stupid. He had not wanted to go. And even once he was there it was something else he was after. Something else altogether. But how do you explain that to your family. What – explain what? Explain what you had wanted to do. Patrick had wanted to do something. That was fucking definite. But what had it been? What actually had that thing been, the thing he wanted to do. Something massive, that’s all, something massive.

  There was no tea left in the mug. He needed another mug, mugful. Or did he? Did he need more? No. What did he need? Nothing.

  8 o’clock on a Friday evening. Surely he needed something! No, he didnt need a thing, he did not need an anything, the thing that he did not need was an anything, there was not that anything that he needed in this world, that anything was not there, it was not here.

  Alison and the others would still be chatting the night away at the arts centre. Let them.

  He could go and get Gavin out for a pint. They had been going through a less than friendly stage this past while but so what. Go and get Gavin out for a pint. But Nicola isni too keen on Gavin going out for pints. Then go and offer to babysit so they can go out for a pint. Or to the pictures or something. Too late. But maybe he could get a couple of cans and a bottle of wine and just go and visit, have a yap – maybe even have a quiet word with Nicola about the certain Mirs Houston because if you canni speak to your sister-in-law who in the name of the holies etcetera.

  Or just go down to the pub for a quiet pint on his own, put the initials on the board for a game of pool. Patrick quite enjoyed a game of pool, as long as it didnt last too long because it got hell of a fucking boring seeing that fucking ball go zigzagging about the table all night.

  Coffee.

  It was pointless spending so much time and effort over Alison. Either he went the whole hog and asked her out or else he fucking let go altogether. She wasnt his last chance. He only acted as if she was.

  But that last time he went to a disco was pathetic. He wandered into this place along Sauchiehall Street and it was all kids from the fifth year. O look, there’s auld Doyle in to spoil the fun. A slight exaggeration. But most of them did look around the eighteen-years-of-age mark. The only place to go was a pub. But when he went to pubs he drank and he was sick of bloody dranking because you end up doing things that are most odd indeed and also your brains become deceased.

  What about a woman of the streets? Was that something to consider? No.

  He could renew his membership for the hostels and go tramping across the highlands once more. That was quite a happy time. That was the thing that made uni a less than hopeless place to be. But what about outdoor clubs, maybe there were outdoor clubs, for adult males and adult females. Where you just went for walks and to be meeting each other. And now that spring approached walks up Goat Fell or The Cobbler or Ben Lomond, just to get back in action again. He and Eric used to do a bit of climbing. It was good. Why not start doing that. Why not indeed, but not just fucking now, 8 o’clock on a Friday fucking night.

  What he could do was play the pipes. No! He didnt want to play the pipes! Not just now. Not just now.

  He had marked the time out for it already. 9.40. Twenty minutes to ten p.m.

  There were also clubs where people went. They existed for single parties, divorced folk and widowed folk but not necessarily older folk. And the beauty of it was that those who went to such clubs went to meet others in a similar situation to themselves which meant the initial hurdle had been jumped, and the woman would be there to give the man every encouragement. She would be well aware of the difficulties men can have in establishing that first contact, that fucking leap you always had to make to begin things. Christ, sometimes it could really fuck you the way that worked. But with the woman there to help you along. It was definitely something to consider seriously. He was sick of wanking. It just made him aware of his age all the time. He did not wish to dwell continually on the passing years. Here he was turning thirty years of age. Thirty years of age is regarded as a landmark, a watershed, a stage of departure. At that age Jesus Christ entered the teaching profession and Joseph K worked out his guilt. So here you have Patrick. But to be honest about it the idea of age doesnt worry him greatly. His brother is thirty-three. His sister-in-law is thirty-one. Desmond is fucking ninety-nine! No he’s not he’s forty or forty-one or something, poor bastard. And the da’s fifty-seven and the maw fifty-six.

  And then there’s Goya!

  And Hölderlin, poor auld fucking Hölderlin.

  But why wait until twenty minutes to ten to play the pipes? Why not whenever he likes? Why not right bloody now? At this exact moment. Because he was not wanting to do it on a full stomach, his lips covered in grease and his belly full of fish and buttered rolls and chips and oceans of tea. He put two hours as the period of proper gestation. The fish would have drowned by then, and the chips would have merged into his very parts, his very being; it would all have become part of his very flesh, forcing its way into his very character, his very psychology and personal traits being heightened by this solid mass of fish and fried potato. And his very breath.

  Not to be charged of fried food when the blowing took place, this was the object. He was after a form of purity in the act itself. A clear wind and a freshened breath – unclouded by the fats of dead animals.

  He would have to stop thinking like this. This business of the body. Was he becoming fetishistic? That could be Alison’s fault. Before you knew it he would be signing on as a religious convert. It was really unhealthy. This again was bound in with why he wanted out. But did he want out? Really? Did he really want out? It was a jump. It really was. A fucking jump and a half. And one a person had to be sure about christ you really had to be sure about something like that and Patrick was not yet absolutely there on the brink of it, not yet – the pathway perhaps but not the actual brink. Not really. Not at this juncture. He had things to live for.

  Things to live for.

  These many things.

  Alison could of course save him by simply having left the arts centre. She could simply have made her excuses and marched out, head held high and not giving a fuck about the scandalmongers, she just had to see Patrick and didnt care who knew it. Even Desmond.

  Could Desmond be described as a scandalmonger? Probably no. The cynical little smile if somebody drew his attention to an article of gossip but he wouldni mind when all was said and done. He would maybe even appreciate it. Maybe he was a guy who wished folk well – even fellow males. Maybe he just had trouble showing his true nature. Poor bastard. It is even possible he wanted to be friends with Patrick. When had Patrick ever asked the bloke if he fancied a pint? Never. Not once. And yet Desmond had t
wice invited Patrick. So it was definitely his turn. So why didnt he? Because he couldnt fucking be bothered, it was too boring; there was an incompatibility between them. They could never be bosom buddies. And that was a fact. And part of growing up is the ability to admit facts. A fact is a fact. A fact is indeed a fact. A fact, this is what a fact is, a fact. Facts have to be admitted. So let us admit them.

  But the truth is it was even doubtful if Desmond was truly interested in Alison. Maybe she would just add to his problems, another woman. Yet it was guys like him usually ended up with the women. Funny that. What could it be about cynical bastards? Was that it their fucking cynicism! Surely not. That would be bad. Maybe he could ask and find out. He could ask Gavin, maybe even Joe Cairns who was also married yet scarcely to be described as cynical, whereas Gavin might well be. Joe Cairns! the tall and silent type but when he lets drop that one word or phrase everybody is supposed to faint with fucking gratitude, just so the pearl of wisdom can be heard the more clearly. A good footballer; that cannot be denied. So what! Nothing except Pat is fond of football, both playing and watching; his preference are the Juniors and he might in fact go and see a game tomorrow afternoon if he fucking feels like it. Joe is probably just silent because he is resigned to his lot, he has settled for secondbest but without confessing it. But is a confession necessary? Maybe a confession leads to suicide. Maybe guys like Joe Cairns are only alive by virtue of their absolute refusal to give in and confess. Why the fuck should he confess. In the whole school he is one of the few persons with an actual belief in his/herself as teacher, and this a silent belief, an assumed thing, not to be spoken of, a faith. And maybe there was a total absence of smugness in this silence. It could simply be a form of good well-wishing. One who has seen the light, hoping that others may too, but not via their direct intervention, i.e. one who leads by example and not by fucking command, by dictum, e.g. the fucking teacher who is a bad influence, who is going about in this unhealthy manner, these unhealthy relationships being entered into between himself and all the pupils, the great magician and all his disciples. Time to play the pipes, time to play the pipes. And Patrick was up onto his feet then bending, crouching, down onto his hunkers, his hands vertically to the bars of the fire, staring in at them, the bars, their orangeness now bordering on whiteness, occasionally crackling at the ends as though about to explode. These dangers of electricity. An inherent danger. Danger inhering in the article, the magnet, being caught between the poles, being caught between the poles. It would be nice to be left that way forever.

  Caught between the poles? Not exactly. But yet

  Caught between the poles. Would that be death automatically? Or is there a halfway house? a state of total

  nothingness for fuck sake. Old stuff. Not worth the bothering.

  The healthy; the doing. A well-being; a good-to-be-alive-ness. All such terms for general states of spiritual nourishment. In other words get out the house and stop fucking worrying about oblivion. I mean how unhealthy can you get! How fucking un-of-this-worldness! Time to cut out all forms of sentimental drivel. And nostalgia. Nostalgia is

  Desmond was quite correct. In his usual blunt fashion he hit the nail on the head. The trouble with Patrick Doyle: an inclination towards the sentimental. He would get up off these fucking hunkers immediately and march straight ben that fucking parlour and grab a hold of the pipes! He chuckled and rubbed his hands together, still crouching by the fire.

  And the chap at the door!

  Loudly as well. Now followed by a flap of the letter-box. Who the hell could it be could it really be actually Alison? no. No. Could it really be? Could it really be Alison. Flap of the letter-box again. And one of these

  di di di di di

  di di

  Who the fuck? Gavin maybe? His father had had another stroke and been rushed to hospital. Poor maw, poor old fucking maw and that was him because his fucking smoking and drinking but mainly that stupid fucking smoking after all the fucking warnings.

  Patrick waited a moment by the outside door, his right hand a fraction away from the handle. Then a bustling movement from without and he opened the door at once. A polis. A big guy about 6’ 6”, rain dripping off the great waterproof coat he was wearing. He stared at Patrick. He said: Is that your car at the foot of the close? After a moment he sniffed and wiped at his nostrils with the back of his hand.

  Pardon?

  I’m talking about the blue yin. Guy down the stair said it was yours. The polis squinted at Patrick. It’s just you’ve left your headlights on.

  Aw aye, god!

  The polis was already moving back now, his hand on the railing; he paused at the stairhead. Your battery’ll be knackered, he said.

  Aye, thanks.

  The polis nodded. A wee word about your tax …

  My tax!

  It’s alright, you’ve still got two or three days.

  I forgot all about it christ I meant to get it.

  The polis was gazing in his direction in such a way that their gazes could never meet; and he swung himself around by the banister to begin the descent.

  Thanks, called Pat.

  The sound of the footsteps clumping down the stairs and then the man’s whistling in a kind of loud breathless style so that the whistle itself could not be heard, just this loud harsh breathing, a song from the current pop charts.

  Patrick closed the door, returned to the kitchen and sat down immediately but then jumping to his feet immediately afterwards and lifting his keys from the mantelpiece and going back out into the lobby. He frowned at the outside door, then lifted his anorak from its peg. Into the kitchen, he switched off the electric fire and checked the other electrical points, the gas cooker and oven. He rubbed his chin, to feel the stubble but it would do until the morning. He couldnt be bothered with shaving. He was getting sick of such things. What else? He glanced about the room; he needed his money of course and that kind of stuff.

  There were no worries about the battery at this stage, it would be fine, it would start first time. Maybe if the lights had been left on all night but not just the hour’s worth. It was where to go he was thinking about. He didnt want to go to the arts centre he was not going to the arts centre; but where else? a pub up the town and look for a bit of company. Drive out to Cadder and visit Gavin. Or the maw and da. He hadni seen them for three weeks. He had forgotten the maw’s birthday. She didnt like presents anyway but still and all, a wee box of chocolates or something. That tune the polis was whistling, quite a catchy sort of thing; the weans were all playing it on their walkitalkies. A dancing song. Maybe an omen. Head for the disco young man! Find yourself a healthy young lass who is single and in search of a healthy young lad with a reasonably bright stance in this economic land.

  There was pastry down his shirt. Where had it come from. The soon-to-be-elderly bachelor. Drops of decayed food down the shirt-front. Next thing he would be drooling at the desk, becoming senile under the steady gaze of the kids.

  But where to go where to go. He was driving along Dumbarton Road in the direction away from the city centre. At this rate he would end up in Dumbarton and that wasnt a place to go. Maybe it was right enough. Dumbarton was the kind of town you passed through without paying any heed and no doubt it would prove to be the brightest spot in West Central Scotland. Plenty of whisky of course. That was one thing about it, the capital of whisky. He could go and get blootered in a strange hostelry and then try and wing his way home, just get into the motor and point the bonnet on a southerly course. And if steering clear of accidents he would arrive in England. Go and see Eric and have a sail in his fucking boat. Anything was possible. He had plenty of petrol and oil and so on – enough to last. Enough to last!! If it ran out all he had to fucking do was buy some more! He was rich. He was a fucking schoolteacher with bankers cards and limitless credit and a fair fucking tidy wee fucking sum in hard paper currency. He was nobody’s fool the fucking Doyle fellow. What do you think he went to fucking uni for! That was the thing about se
ttling for twelfth-best, the capitalists paid you a fortune, they fucking showered you with gold. Shite. Luxuriating shite. Absolute fucking shite. Keech and tollie. Keech and absolute fucking tollie! Wooaa there. Wooaaa. The needle on the speedo hitting the forty-five to fifty m.p.h. mark and very heavy rain a-falling. Plus these polis. Thank christ the car was blue and no red.

  And Yoker he was now passing through and on, on to Clydebank wherein his first post had arisen upon leaving the teachers’ trainers. Happy memories right enough. But reasonable yins; no need for sarcasm. Clydebank is an okay place. Patrick could walk into a couple of pubs and find folk to talk to, expupils and their parents and maybe even a couple of excolleagues.

  If this had been the summer it would have been grand indeed. To have been heading nowhere in this set of circumstances, a blue blue sky and a nice mellow sun, still a couple of hours till nightfall, and perhaps heading all the way north with a weekend to spare – that kind of freedom, and maybe a tee-shirt-clad female hitchhiker. No: these fantasies are not good. Cut them out. They border on a very, a very dubious perception of the world. P. Doyle has no need of them. And to see him in the mirror you would probably not take him for more than a young chap of some twenty-three or -four summers. He had nothing to worry about when it comes down to it. See these eyebrows, their devilish set once the corners rise. Imagine looking into the mirror and seeing Goya’s self-portrait, that one from the black period, and you had painted it of yourself. You were Goya in other words. You could see into your own soul with total honesty of vision and find the wherewithal to get it down, that steady hand. At fucking eighty damn bloody years of age! That is it! That is surely it. What more is there to be said. Just pull the ladder up behind yous and pause, let us just pause, and consider what such a thing amounts to.