by James Kelman
That fucking bastard Milne, when you thought about it. Here was an arse, a total arse, a total shite, an absolute fucking piece of tollie. Here was a fellow who disbelieved in the great teachers. Here was a congregationalist who was not to be trusted, who would sell out his staff and his pupils and his fucking grannie, who
And yet these fuckers were being set in front of you. They were placed there on the mantelpiece to be looked upon and admired ye mighty. There they were, stopping you from doing it; using everything in their power. Hardly worth talking about except that it was, because for christ sake ye know there was something approaching evil lurking somewhere within.
Even poor old Desmond was better than that. He might be a bit sarcastic but none could describe him as evil. But the headmaster. And the second headmaster. These two males – one hesitates to call them men, if we accept the term as one of merited achievement but is it fuck, it’s just a fucking fact. Two men. Things with bollocks and a prick. A pair of rascally fuckers, paid by a sick society, accountable to themselves on behalf of a corrupt government. Well then, what is to be done. Move the motor for a kick-off. Find the gear and fucking etcetera, get it going. Some wee boys and girls are watching. If you give them a wave they’ll throw stones. Quite right. Just fucking turn the ignition key properly. Fine. With the in-car entertainment this form of shenanigan would not entail. One would simply drive along carelessly, the hand tapping the wheel in accompaniment to the tune being heard on the airwaves.
Uch indeed, life life life.
Fuck off.
He was returning home he was returning home, but decided against it and drove to his parents, rejecting the notion of a pint along the way although Partick and Finnieston were chokablok with good pubs, or at least not bad yins. He stopped at a newsagent to buy a big box of mixed plain and milk chocolates, for the maw’s birthday. He liked her. He did. There was something good about her. His da as well. He could be grumpy and he could be huffy but at the base of it all he was okay and Patrick liked him. He liked them both. They were a pair. They were happy together. They had their ups and downs of course but who didni for christ sake we’ve all got to go.
Ssshh.
Patrick’s relationship with his parents can be described in this way: no irony as the basis of it. And if you cannot be ironic with your parents life is no dawdle.
What did Hölderlin say about parents?
Fuck all. He never said nothing about parents, he fucking knew better with that maw he had. What did he say about brothers? did he say anything about brothers? Sisters-in-law, what did he say about them? Because sisters-in-law are a different breed altogether. Patrick would have married his if his brother hadni got there before him. She was special. She had to be with him for a husband. He definitely had faults. A huffy bastard so he was. Mind you she was no paragon and once told Pat she had slept with other men before getting married to Gavin. But of course so had Gavin slept with other people for christ sake they never got married until their fucking mid-twenties, what do you expect!
So; that was the two of them.
The maw answered the door. She gave him a beamer of a smile and he stepped in the doorway and kissed her on the cheek. Hiya maw!
Pat … she smiled and shook her head.
Bloody chocolates for your birthday! He gave her the packet. Then from the kitchen his da shouted: Who is it Kate?
Pat!
Pat? Aw! And then the da’s baldy head poking round the door, a frown of a grin at him from the opposite end of the lobby: Where’ve ye been hiding yourself young man!
Ah!
Seriously but?
Patrick shrugged. His maw shut the outside door. So that was that and this was him. His da came forwards and placed his hand on Pat’s right forearm, holding him there, and he said to Mrs Doyle: I dont have to tell you what he’s in time for! His bloody tea!
Mrs Doyle smiled. Leave the boy alone.
I’m actually no that hungry, said Pat.
Aw well that’ll be the first time! Mr Doyle relaxed his grip on Pat’s forearm, stepped aside, gesturing Pat on ahead.
There is extra fish, said his maw.
Are ye sure?
Mr Doyle laughed briefly: Dont give us it! Are ye sure! You’d eat my head if I laid it on the table!
John! That’s bloody disgusting! Mrs Doyle frowned at him.
Ach I’m just kidding Kate for god sake … He smiled, tapped Pat on the back: On ye go, we’re in the living room.
But Patrick hesitated and he said to his maw, Alright if I ran a bath?
Of course.
Great.
Did you no bring your dirty washing as well! said Mr Doyle, smiling.
I’m no that bad!
Although he had a bath in his own place, at certain times of the day there was something about bathing there that did not appeal. It had to do with the imagination. Then the rituals. He was aye having to perform rituals, such as counting to thirty before getting up out the water, counting another thirty once he had dressed and was about to unsnib the door. The light switch for the bathroom was through the wall, in the lobby. Sometimes he found himself having to step out backwards. Other times he forced himself to stay in the bathroom and reach round to switch it off. And the idea of his wrist being grabbed by an unknown assailant whose intent was murder! And of course the obvious point: how come he snibbed the bathroom door if there was nobody else in the house? Because he was frightened. It was simple. He was just actually frightened. Not badly, but just that wee bit. These old tenement buildings were erected more than a century ago. What had they not seen? What had they not borne witness to? And with him having been locked away in the bathroom for almost an hour all these auld memories were becoming the more palpable. That outlandish image he kept getting of something like a crowd of masked stormtroopers, shadowy dark figures, who rode slowly ben from the kitchen; muffled conversations were in progress, desultory, matter-of-fact; they were just travelling on their way maybe and he was observing from a different dimension, neither able to be seen nor to influence any event that might take place. Daft of course. What’s the point in dredging up these mental things. People dont. They keep quiet. Quite right too, it’s fucking stupit. Grey figures. And not evil though definitely spectral. There is no question about Patrick’s being an atheist but, however, when one
All-powerful deities have got nothing to do with it.
Also, using the bath in his parents’ place was a nice and peaceful method of exploiting them and they enjoyed being exploited by him. They would like it if he moved back into the family home, into the spare room. But he wasnt about to do that. It was not a possibility.
Chocolates are a nonsense to give to a grown adult. But she was so hard to give presents to, she just didni like them. You give your maw a present and then you’re in playing with the wee boy across the stair and you notice his maw’s got the selfsame present, the one you had saved the pennies to buy, your maw’s given it away to her. What a psychological slap on the gub that was for a kid! Uch was it fuck it was good experience. It made you feel a wee bit hurt at the time mind you but that’s good, good training. And weans need to learn; if they never learn they’ve never discovered. O dear. Patrick closed his eyes, but opened them again. If he could stop all this internal and external sighing the world would be a more upright place.
The football had been good. Amazing how much he still enjoyed it – the actual game itself, never mind the getting-out-and-about and seeing folk and being part of a crowd. It was a good and interesting game to watch. He had been yapping about that with Joe Cairns the other day and Joe asked him if he wanted to help out with the school teams. It was sincerely meant. But it would entail one more evening per week, plus of course almost the whole of every Saturday.
Ach as well, no use sighing over juvenile dreams. When he went to kick the ball during training it would bounce off his knee, bounce off his cheek when he tried to head it; never mind all his fucking theory. Rotten auld bastards, Zeus and his fucking
henchmen; all sitting there on Olympus cutting cards on the individual fates of wo/mankind. If Patrick could only get his big toe wedged in the cold tap a plumber would come and rescue him and if in Russia or Eastern Europe or someplace else where female plumbers
Alison Alison Alison
Are you the woman for me
I’ve been lying here sinking
A rhyme for ee apart from pee?
The penis floats on the sudsy surface of the water.
Mirs Houston.
Mirs Houston.
She wears an illfitting blouse, having neglected to don the bra, her brassiere, that underbodice women wear to support the breasts.
My god, the pathos.
No but that would be the way of it. It would be. Her breasts. The texture of the skin so different from his own. Her nipples probably that dark reddish brown you see. Dear dear, the pity of it: Patrick has never really actually ever, never really actually ever, been, the way that the female and the male are with each other, lying side by side in broad daylight during entire stretches of time such as days, days, whole days, body to body, just kissing and lying, lying there. He can imagine for example cupping one of her breasts in his hands the way that maybe an artist would, just testing its weight and substance, its texture; while being watched by her in an amused way, her being kindly and gently amused by him, by how he is so interested, so fascinated – in a sense not even erotically as such but even fuck it’s terrible to say, aesthetically. Aesthetically interested in tits. But tits are wonderful. In the name of christ. Poor old Patrick. P for Pat. P rhymes with pee. And p for pipe so fuck off. And p for prick of course what about p for ptarmigan.
His feet moved in the water; he waggled his toes, disturbing the surface, causing ripples. Masturbation could never be a possibility here in the home of his parents. That was one thing about P. Doyle. That was one tried and true thing about him. This is how come he’s the man you see today. What the fuck does that mean. It just means that eh etcetera.
Fried fish in eggy breadcrumbs; chips and tomato and sweetcorn. The sweetcorn was an innovation. They had never had such luxurious delicacies when he was a boy! Sweetcorn by christ! Mind you it was tasty. Why did he never buy fucking things like that? sweetcorn. He would have to remember it.
His bloody damn maw had set the table properly, the nice tablecloth and so on, its creases well apparent; fresh linen from the drawer! And the condiments: salt and two flavours of sauce, tomato ketchup and the brown stuff; a clear vinegar and a wee jar of mint dressing for the fish. The cups and the saucers and a plate with biscuits. Cut bread and a dish of actual butter as opposed to margarine, something they insisted upon. Table setting was a dying art. But no grace was spoken nowadays. It had been when Gavin and Pat were boys. It had all stopped. And no analysis. Okay, but a nice kind of general thanksgiving would be no bad thing. Get rid of the silly theological aspect but surely there had to be room in this planet for secular appreciation? Surely there had to be a place for good fucking atheists who wanted to say thank christ I’m no starving to death and I’m able to sit down amongst friends and relations! Or was there? Maybe there wasnt. Maybe the very idea was a load of sentimental drivel.
He had sliced the fish and was isolating the bones. A fact to be admitted: he preferred fish à la chip shop because they always contained far fewer bones. He liked to pretend that this preference had to do with saving time in the course of eating, but it was nothing of the kind. His maw looked at her plate as she ate. She had glanced at him.
Good fish, he said.
Whiting.
Yeh, I thought it was actually haddock.
Too wee for haddock, replied his da.
I wouldni be too sure nowadays, said Mrs Doyle. At one time you might’ve said that but no now.
Of course ye know if you’re buying your fish at the pier it’s twice the size of what you get here in Glasgow, Mr Doyle said, I mean dont think because it’s whiting it’s got to be a wee fish. Some whiting ye get’s big. But the best of the catch aye gets sent down south to England. The posh big restaurants, it’s them that buys it all up. Mr Doyle glanced at Pat: Yous go on and on about Scotland’s oil, well they’ve been stealing our fish for years.
I dont go on about the oil at all, but okay da I take the point.
Yous dont complain about things, that’s what I mean.
We do so.
Aye you, but nobody else.
It’s no as bad as that da … Pat grinned and he forked a chip into the sauce at the side of the plate. I’m no the only one that complains.
O naw, right enough, so does your brother!
Mrs Doyle sighed and gazed briefly at the ceiling.
Mr Doyle glanced at her:
I’m no saying nothing. What am I saying? nothing! Mr Doyle frowned at Patrick: I’m no saying nothing.
Two nos make a yes, said Pat, so you’re definitely saying something! He winked at his maw who sighed again:
Dont start him Pat.
He doesni need me to start him!
Mr Doyle stared at Pat then he smiled for a moment. How did ye no give me a phone? If I’d knew you were going to a game I’d have went with ye – I’ve no been to watch a match for months. Since Charlie died! Mr Doyle glanced at Mrs Doyle and his mouth curved in a manner Patrick couldni remember having noticed before. His da was saying, We went up to see the Jags at the end of last season – a no-hope league game against Queen of the South. They got beat too! Imagine that. Imagine getting beat by Queen of the South. At home? Ho! No way. Bad.
The Thistle have fell by the wayside, said Patrick.
And they’ll no come back, said his da. Charlie Murray’ll no come back either. He winked at Pat and gestured at Mrs Doyle: Somebody in the company’ll be pleased to hear that!
John, that’s no nice.
It’s no nice but it’s true.
The man’s dead, we dont want to hear about it.
She didni like him Pat, your maw there, she didni like him. Mr Doyle glanced at her: How come you didni like him?
I just didni, okay?
Mr Doyle winked at Pat. She just didni.
It was spur of the moment, said Pat, about going to the game. If I’d thought about it earlier I’d have phoned you.
Aw aye I know that.
I’ll mind the next time.
His da nodded, and he went on to ask about the game; they continued chatting about football generally and it encompassed the football fixed odds coupon Mr Doyle had bet upon. Nottingham Forest had been beaten at home and this had beaten the whole bet. Patrick found this not so much boring as undecidable and his brains were becoming fankled. His maw was still eating; she ate in a very painstaking fashion, unless she was maybe having problems with her dentures; it was almost like she had to break the food all up on the plate before inserting it into her mouth. For a brief period the talk returned to fish and the quality of fresh in comparison to frozen and back to how the best stuff ended up in the high-class kitchens of English eating establishments. A homely sort of prejudice this, hating the posher restaurants of England, the kind of prejudice you can relax into in a sleepy sort of way. Sopor soporifimus. As a boy Pat had the welcome habit of falling asleep at the table – except that his maw used to bang him on the elbow. The mastication process seemed to last eternally. Big long stringy bits of fatty mutton. One end was in your stomach and the other end was still between your teeth and if you gulped suddenly it sprang back out your mouth. Sleep was the only method of coping. It was surprising he never choked to death. His maw of course, banging him.
When you are a wean things do last eternally. Literally. That is a literal truth, about the nature of the eternal. And kids have apprehended it. When Pat was a boy he was a much better individual than he is nowadays, having lost a great deal. And his da was looking tired and drawn, his skin drooped at the jowels and around the eyes and he was looking a lot more than fifty-seven years of age it was terrible to state, but true. The maw was also looking tired and there was somet
hing else in her face, a fixed kind of irritated expression. She had come into the conversation now; it had got round to football hooligans and she mentioned something in reference to himself so he would have to become involved. It was not too difficult, a case of clearing the throat and speaking. At a point in the future he would get the conversation round to revolution, its efficacy or otherwise in reference to the vagaries of childrearing, and the single man. She did look tired. That was because she was having to attend to him, Pat’s da. But here she was on about that hoary old prejudice, the mollycoddling of today’s school-weans in comparison to those sterling youngsters of yesteryear. He laid his knife and fork on the plate and said, Maw, you’re prejudiced.
I’m no prejudiced at all, you just stick up for them.
I dont. I just tell the bloody truth, as I see it.
I’m no saying ye dont, but let’s face it as well Pat, ye do like to be different.
Naw I dont.
Your maw’s right, said Mr Doyle. The same with bringing back the belt, you’ve got to be different there too.
Tch da.
Nay tch da about it – you’ve aye been against the belt. But at least the weans’ll show some damn respect. And you canni deny it.
Aye I can.
What? Naw you canni. You canni deny it.
Of course I can, I can deny anything I like and I’m denying that.
Och … Mr Doyle shook his head and turned from him a moment. Then he said: Aye well it never done anybody any bloody harm.
Da, it never done anybody any bloody good either.
It never done anybody any bloody harm!
Aye but it never done anybody any bloody good!
Wwh!
Less of the argy-bargy, said Mrs Doyle.
It’s no argy-bargy maw it’s conversation.
Aye well, conversation, it’s noisy … She looked at Patrick. He had lifted his fork; he pierced a chip and ate it. His da said:
Your maw doesni like noisy conversations. Dont ye no Kate?
That’s right.
See! His da gave Pat a false smile.
