by James Kelman
Poor old Hölderlin. He was a poor unfortunate bastard. And Susette, poor auld fucking Susette, dying like that. It was a shame, it was such a shame, terrible, so pathetic, a downright fucking shame. He would be lying on her breasts.
How is the point arrived at it is arrived at by doing the things. He put a teaspoonful-and-a-half of coffee granules into his mug and exactly the same into hers. Then he worked off the lid of a tin he kept for biscuits although he knew fine well it was empty and the only biscuits were these stupit water efforts he kept in the cupboard and were only there for emergencies e.g. should he run out of bread and so on. And the dried milk sprinkled aboard, avast ye landlubbers, the crew of the jolly roger clambered aft the rigging. Fine, good. She didni take sugar of course. Why of course? Uch it was obvious. A woman like Alison. Far too fucking self-possessed for that sort of weakness. Yet she smoked like a fucking chimney! But that’s different. He grinned. He lifted her mug. He paused a moment and looked out the window. He turned and walked to her, saying, There’s water biscuits and cheese if you fancy it …?
No thanks Pat.
Because eh what I thought I would do and I dont want to embarrass you in any way at all but what I would like to do, or rather, what I thought I would do, only if you didnt mind right enough, obviously
She nodded.
It was just eh … He grinned and returned for his own coffee. He sat down with it on his chair. It’s these two pipes Alison, I know it sounds daft, but what I’ve done is kind of rigged them up into instruments. And what I’m actually doing is blowing on them, getting sort of musical sounds out them, a bit like eh – I dont really know, the concept I suppose is to do with improvisation, the way people take and use what they see lying about and I dont know just bloody christ use them, make music, like these washboard waistcoats the old bluesmen wore to make music. They used to strap them round their middle and strum away. Absolutely brilliant and crazy, just absolutely brilliant and fucking crazy!
He chuckled, and added, It’s a certain kind of nostalgia. A really valid kind of … nostalgia.
Alison had nodded.
Which was fair enough. Then when he didnt add anything further she made a quiet grunting noise that could have signified whatever was required. She stared at the fire. He could say something but he wouldnt. I just feel, he said and he stopped. She continued staring at the fire. It was as if she hadnt heard him or was just trying to ignore him. She gazed at the fire, the ash gone light grey at the tip of her fag, not bothering about the mug of coffee.
The silence continued. He was not going to breach it. If he did he would end up saying something daft and getting himself into knots. There were dangers in too much speechifying – that self-consciousness, and ultimate lack of faith in what you were up to. Silent folk aye gained the fucking advantage. Old Milne was an obvious example; he could stand for interminable periods, saying nothing in an attentive manner, as though you the speaker had only been halfway through your explanation when in actual fact you had finished the thing altogether. Which is how come the old dickie had wangled his way to praetorship. And this benign exterior he liked to assume: the wise old chap to whom one could march with the personal problems, no matter how unsavoury. Aside from that of course he was a rightwing fucking shite, a rightwing fucking shite, and it was best just to rise and in a swivel, in a swivel, of the palm of his hand on the arm of the chair, to be rising without having to raise his gaze to par, now on his feet and as though quite naturally, just staring ahead where ahead is the door into the lobby. Leave the coffee. Ignore it. Just fucking on ye go. He inclined his head a little to one side and muttered, Ben the parlour eh … that’s where I keep them.
Out in the lobby the obvious temptation to enter the bathroom and lock himself in. Yet it was so out of the question as to merit nothing at all so far as thought or consideration was concerned. And was she rising to follow him. And yet presently of course she would still be wondering if this is what was asked of her. She would still just be sitting there. Well fucking let her. It was her decision. Whether to follow him ben or not. I mean after all, he had made his intentions known, he had told her and implied the palpable, the glaringly fucking obvious, a fact for christ sake, he had given her to know she should follow him. So then.
The way a seated jazz musician gets him or herself and the instrument prepared, these wee glimmers of a smile to the fellow musicians, the friends and the acquaintances in the audience, but also taking great care not to confront directly the stares from members of the ordinary people – otherwise enter irony: the kind that leads to a lack of overall control. But it was no bloody good without her being there. The whole thing was her to be there as audience, as a sort of ordinary person, so he could play with her there spectating. And she would not come unless invited. And had he invited her? Had he fuck! Of course he hadni. The lassie was sitting ben the kitchen and she did not know what the hell to do, was she to stay or come for christ sake for all she knew he was in the lavvy. Patrick laughed.
He cleared his throat loudly at the kitchen door, then opened it. She looked at him when he entered, a book in her hand. Eh … he smiled: Are you coming ben Alison?
She rose, tugging down the bottom bits of her jumper. She put the book back on the shelf. She looked so worried, yet without showing it. He left her to follow on her own, to close the door behind herself and to come into the parlour and close this door as well, him moving straight onto the wooden upright chair he used, trying to establish an immediate aura of concentration so that she would comprehend the seriousness of it, that he was in total earnest over what he was doing; and he quite envied the guitarist for being able to footer about in a very meaningful way with the keys and the strings.
He cleared his throat. He had almost forgotten her presence, he was lifting the larger of the pair to balance its bottom rim on the toe of his left shoe, positioning his left hand round the top, covering the gap between his mouth and the rim, and he breathed in through his nostrils – there was a reason for this method but it did not demand any exposition; and too his method of blowing without the slightest puff of the cheeks, it also had a good reason, the same reason, but later, later. He began the sound at the back of the throat, controlling his breath that the note might be sustained without any break, without even the slightest alteration in pitch, nor in audibility, just that one note, evenly and all, the whole thing of it; and too when shading off, retaining the note precisely, and no sign that his breath is almost gone. And the pause too, that same sense of it not being an actual pause strictly speaking, or perhaps it was, a pause just as that, pause as pause and nothing to do with a need to stock up on oxygen; and into the next sound, the same note precisely; everything about it was to be the same, it was what he was after, the key to what he was after. He wanted it to always be the same, in every way, to the ordinary listener; that was plenty, he wasnt after any extra-terrestrial point of communication. It was just a straightforward sort of evenness be needed, constancy. He had begun the sound at the back of the throat, his breath under control, the note.
It didnt have to be the same pitch all the time. But he sought the same sort of thing each occasion he sat down to play, and the only part he really wished to vary was the pause, it was all that was important, essentially. It was simple. There is not much to be said about it. There was just a certain easing of the spirit, an easing of the spirit. That was it really, an easing of the spirit. Nothing more, he said modestly, an easing of the spirit!! Alison looked a bit cold and shivery. He laid the pipe into the crook of his elbow and said, That’ll do.
She nodded. She showed interest in them. He handed the thinner one to her and she felt its weight and looked along it and into its interior. Is it papier mâché? she asked.
I’m no really sure. I suppose it is. It’s the kind of thing an electrician uses to rewire a house; they run them at the foot of the wall. Or for thick cables maybe, I’m no a hundred percent sure, to be honest.
You’ve just painted them?
Aye. But I’ve never been quite sure about that either, about whether I would’ve been best to just leave them in their natural state.
Though who’s to say what their natural state really is, said Alison.
Aye christ, exactly.
Alison was still giving her attention to the pipe; he motioned with the thicker yin and she took it and returned the first.
It’s amazing the variety of sound ye can get.
Mm.
Just by the way ye actually breathe, and where ye allow the sounds to come from, the parts of your mouth and throat.
Most instruments work on that principle though dont they – wind instruments I mean?
Eh aye, I suppose so.
She passed the pipe to him; he returned the pair to their places. She said, D’you listen to a lot of music Pat?
Eh sometimes. Sometimes I dont. What about you?
I’m a bit the same. If Drew’s away I tend to listen more. I was borrowing from Desmond for a while, and taping.
Aye, he’s got some collection! Mind you, he doesni usually like people borrowing. It’s probably because he fancies you!
Alison smiled, but shook her head.
Ah well, either that or he’s just bloody mellowing with old age!
O come on Pat he’s no that auld!
Well he’s fucking christ he must be near forty!
Mm.
No think so?
Alison shrugged. I dont know … She had her arms folded and now she shivered. It was cold in the parlour; he seldom ever put on the fire. It wasnt meanness, he just never used the place.
Fancy a cup of tea?
I’ll have to be going soon actually.
Of course.
It’s only because Drew’s parents are coming.
Aye. Skip the tea!
I think I’ve still a coffee lying in your royal mugs!
It was my fucking Auntie Helen. I dont want to destroy her love by dumping the things in the fucking midgy! But I should, I should fucking dump them in the fucking midgy.
No ye shouldnt, she said.
Pat smiled at her and he touched her on the forearm, holding the parlour door open for her, and she entered the lobby, walking at a normal speed, her skirt swinging, maybe the way she still had her arms folded, having something to do with that. When he shut the kitchen door she was already at the fireside, rubbing her hands close in to the electric bars. She said: Do you have any dampness?
Eh I’m no sure.
It smells a wee bit like it. She shivered again.
Patrick nodded.
And that was that, that was to be it. That story of Joyce’s where the wife thinks about the boy who died of the flu. There was nothing to be said about it really. It was best just accepting matters, the way matters were. And you could say as well that for fuck sake at least she listened with a straight face. She hadni burst out laughing. That was something. It was, yes, but still better if she left immediately; ignore the tea. Patrick sniffed. He said, I’ve got to go and visit my brother’s family anyway, later on. He cleared his throat, turned to face the sink and filled the kettle after a few seconds’ silence. He cleared his throat and continued to speak: My brother’s kids are good; he’s got two of them, a wee boy and a wee lassie. I quite like kids. He grinned: What about yourself Alison, did you ever think of raising a family?
Yeh … After a moment she said, Later, rather than sooner. It’s not the best time.
Aw.
We’re a bit unsettled the now, Drew and myself.
Is that right?
Her nose wrinkled. Touch wood, she said, this year’s been a wee bit better but the last two were awful. The school I was at it was awful – really awful. She smiled: You’ve no idea. It was so good getting into here … She lighted another cigarette and sat on the armchair, sending a cloud of smoke into the fire, forgetfulness probably, thinking there was a chimney for smoke to go up. If you think Old Milne’s bad, the headmaster where I was …! she said.
Simpson, I’ve heard of him.
The way he treats teachers! It was just a constant battle. He actually penalised us for things. If ye forgot to turn off the light when you were leaving the classroom. He had the janitors patrolling just to see. O! Too many things, it was just really as if he had gone insane.
Old Milne’s insane.
No he’s not.
Aye he is.
He isnt really Pat.
Well, your definition of insanity differs from mine.
That’s as maybe.
Pat nodded. You’re right. What I mean really is about the actual role itself, the function of headmaster, that’s what’s insane. It’s an insane job. So that whoever has it has become insane, virtute officii – by virtue of the office. Even the way they aye prowl the corridors with their gowns on; you’re expecting to see them swirl it the way Dracula does, so that they vanish in a puff of smoke.
Alison chuckled. She continued talking about the difference between the two schools. It was good hearing her in this animated state and yet when all’s said and done she was usually like that, it was one of the great things about her, it was her usual self – whenever she was not in a state of extreme nervousness, like this afternoon. Because of worrying about him, about Patrick, about how he was and how the afternoon would turn out. Although it wasnt over yet, he could still turn nasty and do her a bad turn, kidnap her and set sail for the East Neuk of Anglia! Could she really have suspected him of something bad? It was awful to think that. She couldnt have. She must have been kidding him on. Which she does do. She had a good line in irony, a quiet kind, that fitted in entirely with her personality. It would be good just giving her a cuddle. Grabbing a hold of her and giving her a great big cuddle. Fuck penetration christ he just wanted to be close to her, to be holding her. Never mind her fucking body christ that’s got nothing to do with it.
But.
But what?
But she would probably
because he’d probably fucking get an erection, if holding her in a cuddle for christ sake her body fitting into his, he would get an erection. And she would feel it, obviously. And it would fucking make things awkward. So she would have to push him away. Else things would just – move on. And from there; well it would have to be the possibility of bed, jumping into bed together.
So:
one thing he had learned this afternoon:
playing the pipes was not a substitute for sex! Eh, christ, and that in itself was worth all the hassle, that in itself would be worth giving her a cuddle for, just a cheery one and a friendly one, between two friends, one of whom has just helped the other through a bad time. Okay. I just canni cope sometimes, he said.
Alison was looking at him. She had said something requiring an answer. It was about school.
You’re talking about your last school but I’m talking about this yin – in fact I’m no, I’m just trying to get away from the idea of making things particular, or even worse, specific.
Yeh but it’s about individuals, said Alison, so it cant help but be specific. It’s about individual teachers and it’s about individual children.
Well okay but you’re saying it in general plurals.
I dont know what ye mean.
Patrick nodded.
Could you explain it?
You’re trying to insist on the individuals and yet you’re doing it yourself with your pluralistic generalising.
After a moment she replied, I think you’re nitpicking.
I’m no.
I think you are.
He nodded. She continued watching him because she was expecting him to proceed with an attempted explanation, but he wasnt going on. He had lost the thread anyway, of the argument. Or maybe the actual truth is that he just couldni fucking be bothered. Which is a terrible thing to say. He stroked the brow of his head and he sighed, turned to the sink once more. She didnt want coffee though or tea because she was about to be going. The window was steamed up. The tobacco fug wasnt helping matters.
He was not going to get into her head at all. That was that. It didni matter what he said it was as if something was missing and what it was it was just that basic interest in him, she did not have it. That was it. And did he have it in her? So far no, it was as if he was only interested in himself, just going over and over about himself all the time, about what he was doing and what he was wanting out of life. But never a word about her. Had he even asked her a question? A true question I’m talking about; one that concerns the other person, one to shed some real spark of light on the subject. It was doubtful if he had. Otherwise he wouldnt have forgotten about it already. Being so bloody damn taken fucking up with his own problems. And he was fucking sick of it, his own problems for christ sake you get sick fucking hearing about them. The trouble being of course that they do not go away. The closer you get to them the likelihood of their disappearance does not diminish. You get surrounded by them. Everywhere ye look you see the same things, like the shadow-lines down in the back close, they’re always there no matter the time of day, the way the light hits, electric or otherwise, they are always there, like a greasy spot on the windscreen right in front of your fucking nose and everything you see is filtered through it, through the fucking grease, so there’s a greasy tree and there’s a greasy lorry and there’s a greasy pedestrian and so on and so forth.
Three years is it you’ve been married? he asked.
Just going on to it.
It’s a while.
Mm.
Patrick smiled. Tell me this, he said, seriously I mean: how come ye wanted to meet at that stupit bloody Commodore Cafe? Were ye actually I mean … suspicious?
