by James Kelman
You never know.
Christ! Imagine being suspected of dishonourable intentions! It’s almost a compliment!
Is it – well it’s not meant to be.
Naw; right; I was actually meaning, just thinking, of myself I suppose, the act itself, the forceful sort of way. You’re right but it is sexist. Stupid. Sorry. Daft.
It’s okay.
Thanks for coming.
Och!
Naw I mean honest, really, thanks.
She nodded, twisting her body slightly to see more fully out of the side window. The car was stopped at a set of traffic lights. A pair of wee boys stood at the corner; one with newspapers under one arm, the other held a bottle of ginger. In the rearview mirror he saw the driver of the van parked behind picking his nose, an alsatian dog was sitting in the passenger sear. People have a different type of awareness in the presence of animals, and maybe even it all depends on the species of animal as well – if it had been a parrot for instance, he might have used a fucking hankie. Alison was still staring out the side window. It was stupid. Idiocy. Everything should have been straightforward. Having a woman beside you in the motor should be no big deal. When she came into the thing in the first place he should just have driven to some secluded niche where they could have conversed in intimate fashion, after which they each would have sought the other’s lips with their own lips, each’s own lips, his or hers for fuck sake even getting it into language is difficult.
She was definitely not at her ease.
But what had he been hoping for? Just what exactly? How could there be anything? There couldnt really be anything. She has suspected him of kidnapping! A joke of course but even so. If this had been East Anglia that would never have happened. In places like East Anglia there are certain events, a finite list of them, that may or may not occur and this was the event that would never occur. Plus also, if in East Anglia and further, a citizen of that fair shire, then his whole experientiality would differ. I am cracking up. In the presence of Alison Houston née Mirs whose right breast is noticeable, its bulge beneath her coat, I am cracking up. And in the offside wingmirror a driver signalling. These drivers who begin a whole carry on with you for no reason but that you have driving in common you’re supposed to be some sort of fucking soulmates! What was he signalling for?
Pat, where are we going?
Eh well I thought we would just go into town, up Glasgow Cross way, the Trongate, that area. There’s quite a few cafes there, near the Barrows, that open on a Sunday.
She tapped ash into the ashtray. She was nervous. It was him making her nervous. He was trying too hard and putting her off, getting her uncomfortable and so not able to assist the way she should, the way that was normal, when two people are alone together and attempting to communicate.
The driver who was signalling had just moved out into the opposite lane and was speeding past and giving an angry look. Well fuck him. A Sunday and you’re supposed to break the world all-comers landspeed record. Patrick cleared his throat. He said, What time are your parents coming then? I mean this afternoon.
4 o’clock.
Aw.
Actually they’re Drew’s parents, not mine.
O I see.
I get on fine with them though – better than Drew does; he’s always having rows with them.
What about?
Everything. It can be an ordeal at times, just being there in the same room. Ye never quite know what to do, what’s expected of ye.
Patrick nodded. He looked at her and started to blush when he met her gaze and he turned his head immediately as if to see out his side window. He wound down the window a fraction.
It’s too smoky, said Alison.
Uch naw it’s okay it’s just eh … He felt the blush now full on his face. It could only level out then decrease. He stared ahead. It was just that of their eyes meeting. It must have been the first such encounter since she had entered the motor. It was funny to think of somebody kissing her lips, touching her face, his fingertips maybe on her cheek just gently, it was funny to think that. There was a feeling in his chest or lungs, a rough sort of feeling – all that smoke from her fag right enough. Over the parapet of the bridge was the Carrick. Diving off into the Clyde. Catching a fish between your teeth. There was no rain in the sky. That dense white grey. They were going along to the Saltmarket. I dont even think the pubs are open yet, he said.
Alison made no answer.
Actually anyway I’m no even feeling like a pint, to be honest; are you?
No.
He grinned. Beer drinking’s overrated. That was how I suggested the Art Gallery, just for a change and that, keeping away from pubs.
It’s only that I have to watch the time Pat.
Of course, aye, I know – I just thought the surroundings, because they were different. I mean the Commodore Cafe! All these weans in for their Sunday brunch with the sherbet lollipops and coke etcetera, all giving us the eye!
Alison smiled.
The Commodore had offered security. Now she had none.
Dan d ran dan. What was the point. He shook his head. He noticed a cafe and signalled to park, and parked, putting the handbrake on and switching off the ignition – all of that, before looking at her.
Just to the side of the cafe entrance a man was standing, he was near enough a dosser as far as his clothes and general configuration could imply anything as to the nature of day-to-day existence and how a person makes progress, these small steps of advancement coincidental to the passage of the moon, the stars and sun, entire galazactic galazacticus. The actual cafe itself looked pathetic. I dont really fancy this place, he whispered as she prepared to get out of the car.
I dont either! she said.
Patrick laughed. But it wasnt a good laugh and the guy was watching them. He switched the ignition back on and as the motor moved out to the outer lane he said, He’s actually the owner’s nephew. His story’s quite sad. A few years back he was the maître d’hôtel at the Albany and a disaster struck during a banquet he was preparing.
Alison was listening. Are you talking nonsense? she said.
No.
She was waiting.
I’ll no say anything more but because I dont like gossiping.
She smiled, opened her handbag but closed it at once. I like to see you cheery Mister Doyle.
I’m always cheery Mirs Houston … Patrick swung the wheel, the motor passing through the lights and on up High Street. If only, and then they could have driven to some secluded niche near the Mediterranean seaside.
She looked at him. He smiled: Do you want to visit the oldest house in Glasgow?
No. She gazed out the window. I’d like to be able to sit down and drink a cup of coffee.
Pat frowned. What about just going to my place? having a coffee up there? Fancy it?
Okay. She nodded.
But why not; it was the ideal place. No worries about being seen by schoolweans or colleagues. It was one of the things that was bad, how it was so awkward just talking to members of the opposite sex, without the business being taken for something it wasnt. Especially awkward for someone like Alison, a married woman without weans, plus whose husband appeared to be not always living at home through no fault of either but just his job, its actual nature, leaving her the time and maybe even the mental state, to become involved with outsiders. And of course she was very much a woman who enjoyed the company of her colleagues, the company of other intellects, those with whom she could discuss freely the politics of the world. And no irony to govern that. Patrick said; I see Northamerica’s being its usual fascist self. Did you see the papers? about the assassination?
It’s disgusting.
Aye, and the rest of us just stand back and watch them do it.
Alison sighed but not passively. She was unsettled by the topic and no wonder either it was astonishing what was happening in the world these days and nobody seemed willing to even ponder on it in any even vaguely ethical manner such as usually
fucking happened in the shitey west, amongst all these so-called powers who jumped to attention to offer a salute as soon as Washington so much as signalled an intention to fart. No point in talking. Sometimes you felt like making your own demonstration, like some of the monks in Asian countries, setting yourself on fire upon the steps of a public meeting house.
I’ll tell ye something Alison, sometimes I think I’ll just stop buying newspapers altogether, and just stop taking any interest in the news, in what’s going on.
O!
Ye dont agree?
Of course I dont agree.
Pat grinned. He shook his head. So, you dont agree eh! He was still grinning; it became a chuckle.
Soon he was swinging the wheel for the turn into his own street. Tricky corner this, he said, I nearly crashed into the lamppost last night.
Alison glanced across and nodded. She was obviously miles away and thinking of something else. And she could also have been slightly irritated. About different things. Imperialistic interventionism, the usual hegemonic practices, and his not wanting to read about them or even properly discuss them. But he was wanting to. He had only been kidding on. Surely she knew that. In fact, it was highly probable she was thinking: Here I am outside his close and what’s going to happen now. But really, it was out of order to think that about her because of the way it seemed to undercut the possibility of her total commitment to a political cause or stance, her own genuine perception of the world – a good perception of the world and very similar to his own i.e. she was opposed to hypocrisy and cant and fucking humbug. Patrick nodded. Actually Alison I dont really hide from things at all. I just said that there, about stopping buying papers and that. My fault is I take too much bloody damn interest and it gets me up to high doh worrying about it all, every last wee stupit bloody detail!
Alison smiled.
Good expression that! said Pat; up to high doh! DDooohh! My grannie used to say it.
Alison laughed.
Hey by the way, mind that pair of pipes I found at the back of the arts centre …? He had switched off the ignition and applied the handbrake while talking. And now he was reaching to open the door for her. He continued talking as he opened the door at his own side: I suppose ye know, he said, I suppose it’s really I suppose because I need some kind of escape, to give my brains a rest, that’s what I’m meaning! And he uttered the last bit simultaneously to his crashing of the door shut. And he strolled round to lock the passenger side. She was standing there gazing up at the roof of the building, perhaps allowing him to forget about the pipes for the sake of their common decency, their mutal face-saving, their unembarrassment, as if the pipes were an excruciatingly embarrassing subject and like a pair of bad-smelling underpants it was probably best to pap them straight out into the fucking midgy, instead of trying to get them clean.
Look at the weeds growing out of the gutter, said Alison, pointing upwards. The tall weeds could be seen way up there, their stems overshooting the edge of the roof.
Christ aye …
She had waited for him, and they entered the close together.
Is your close better than this yin? he asked.
Not much.
He gestured at the peeling paintwork as they ascended. He began whistling a tune, not pausing on any of the landings although he was aware she might be interested to see out into the backcourt – if only so she could gain time before having to enter his flat. In case he fucking grabbed her like one of these stupid Romeo and Juliet affairs of the silent screen. My darling, how I’ve longed for this moment! Smack smack smack. The sound of the kissing. And then too her somewhat sly wee insinuation of a comment to do with the state of the roof guttering which he was best to ignore – as if he was dutybound to start agitating over the probable build-up of rainwater or something.
There was a side to Alison, a sort of subdued sarcasm. It could be an attractive thing about her; there again though, othertimes – othertimes he could imagine being her husband and not liking it at all, not one wee bit. You would never be quite sure
On the top storey he had his back to her while unlocking the door and he stood aside to allow her entry. Inside he said, Monday tomorrow! as he closed the front door.
The weekends seem to get shorter dont they?
Yeh, aye. Patrick grinned. He breathed in deeply, smelling her great perfume so strongly. It was a good thing to have said, about the weekends. He hung his jacket on a hook, showing her into the kitchen. He walked past her to get to the electric fire switch. He shivered. It was bloody freezing of course and he should’ve kept the fucking jacket on till the place heated up. He frowned at Alison: You finding it cold?
A bit.
Yeh … he switched both bars on. Then he put on the gas oven, pulling wide its door to let the heat blast out. He rubbed his hands together, slapped them and blew into them quite fiercely. He chuckled at Alison. Her shoulders were hunched and she was making nervous kind of shivering noises. They didni have to be nervous of course they could simply have been natural responses to the cold. But no; of course they were nervous. Him as well, his actions, they were every bit as nervous. He turned and stepped to the sink, now with his hands in his trouser pockets, whistling once more. The kettle of course. He filled it with water, set it to boil. Alison had gone immediately to the books, her attention quickly taken by one; she lifted it from its shelf, and moved that wee bit nearer to the fire in a beautiful, absent manner. She was beautiful. It was funny. There was just no getting away from it, as a fact, even if he had wanted to. And the breakfast stuff still lay on the tiles in front of the fire, plus the empty mugs on the mantelpiece and the Observer fucking sections on the rug christ. It just meant he hadnt envisaged her presence. It meant he had never for one real and genuine minute imagined she could ever arrive here in this place, his house. Who could have imagined that? No fucker. And too, quietly studying the book in hand, taking the weight of her body onto her left foot, the right leg bent at the knee. It was one of these poses, good kind of poses, classic; he could imagine being a sculptor and motioning her to the side a little, and back a little, and so on, capturing the shadows of the folds in her coat, these long spiral shapes – curved cuboidals. Curved cuboidals? He strolled to clear the crockery and stuff from where it was lying, stacked it on the side of the sink; he put away the newspapers. He had no milk. The powdered stuff would be okay but he should have had milk because it would be better. I forgot to buy milk, he said. He smiled and shook his head. Daft – I forgot all about it.
It’s okay.
Are you sure? I’ve got powdered stuff; ye just mix it in; it’s fine.
I dont take milk in coffee anyway, she said and she grinned.
Pat chuckled. He stopped it and nodded. Alison returned her attention to the book. The room would soon be warm now, and comfortable. In fact he was feeling comfortable now himself. He was feeling quite the thing. Quite the thing, that is how he was feeling. He was feeling able to handle things, in an okay fashion, without any sort of
A shouting and bawling down in the backcourt. A gang of primaryschool-aged weans clambering across a big half-demolished dyke and they’d have to be fucking careful or it would collapse on top of them and fucking crush them. Cops and robbers they were playing, the Greatbritish Army versus the Evilsocialists, polis versus pickets, something like that. It was the same with the third yearers he had, there was something bathetic about them, a terrible ineffable something. What the fuck was that now was it a peculiar form of sadness? Nothing peculiar about it. Just a sadness. And nowhere near ineffable. They were just like their parents, the crazy flagellants, just fucking doomed. He grasped the tap and turned it on, washed his hands and dried them. Getting warmer now, he said over his shoulder, making his face take the form of a smile, a swift smile. Alison didni reply. But that was fine. The water in the kettle was good and audible now, close to boiling point. He stuck the handtowel back into his place, and he said: I dont see my parents all that much myself, do you? do ye keep in touc
h?
Eh … Alison half shut the book. I suppose we do really. Drew’s have the habit of dropping in. Mine dont, not unless they’ve been invited. Very formal!
Do you get on with them okay?
Well, yes and no I suppose, the same as everybody else. On the whole though I think I get on better with Drew’s. I seem to be able to relax more with them.
Is that right?
My own just seem to go on and on about the loveable idiosyncrasies I showed as a child. It can be embarrassing.
I bet ye. What age are you Alison?
Twenty-six.
Mm.
Alison looked at him for a couple of moments, and she smiled. Why d’you ask?
Naw it’s just I was wondering I mean I suppose really all parents are the same, when it comes down to it. Mine do it as well, with me and Gavin – my brother. Then too I think they’re always secretly trying to figure out how come they wound up with me! How come they wound up with a boy who went in for his Highers and then went to uni and became a member of the polis. Patrick grinned.
Eventually Alison nodded. She made as if to speak but said nothing. Patrick rubbed his hands together and patted the kettle and it was close to boiling hot. He glanced at his watch: The pubs’ll be open now right enough!
I’d prefer the coffee, said Alison.
Eh aye, of course.
She was smiling. She probably felt a bit sorry for him but not in a terrible way, just to do with his nervousness.
He snatched the kettle that instant prior to its full boiling point. If ye leave water to boil for too long you waste it … He raised his eyebrows and added, It’s true. Ye burn out the oxygen. That’s what all the bubbles are you’re bursting, oxygen. It was actually a Greek problem, part of their physics.
Mm.
Aye. You’ll actually notice though if ye boil your water for a long while and then ye pour it into a cup, you’ll see how it goes a brown colour, and it tastes bloody horrible.
Mm.
Very interesting eh!
