by James Kelman
You could say that.
Ah. Fine. Pat chuckled and collected his mug from the side of his chair. Mind you, okay, in your position, there’s a lot of headcases going about – when you’re a woman I mean. I dont fancy it myself.
I wasnt suspicious in that way Pat.
Aw. Glad to hear it! You just thought a place as public as that would be good?
I thought it might make things easier.
Do ye mean in general?
Yeh.
For talking?
She smiled.
Mirs Houston …?
What?
Nothing. Pat grinned. Thanks for coming.
Och!
Naw but it’s appreciated, I was feeling a bit low. And then of course you’ve got the pipes.
There was a slight smile on her face.
The trouble is Alison I take the bloody things seriously.
In what way? how do ye mean?
Ach I dont know! He glanced at his wristwatch. Just sometimes I suppose, when I sit down and play them. When I sit down. And once I actually start playing. Ye forget things. That’s what good about it.
Therapeutic?
Eh aye, I suppose … He cleared his throat. It was high time she went now, definitely; and he looked at his watch again. It wasnt good for her to remain much longer than this. He had objections to crying in company. He had objections to doing most things in company. Although there again, most of his decisions, they all seem to be arrived at in such circumstances. As if he had to force everything onto himself. He smiled, gesturing at the mugs. My Auntie bought me four of them; she thinks when you become a member of the teaching profession you become a member of the government. Mind you, she’s no far wrong.
Alison shut her eyes. She didni like hearing such things. Too close to the fucking bone. An arse of a statement. He chuckled. But it probably sounded sexist. Affectionate, but sexist. You had to be on the look-out at all times. But what’s wrong with that there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s good. And it’s healthy. It means your world’s continually shifting its base, the greasy bit becoming that bit wider.
I apologise Alison.
What for? She frowned: You dont have to apologise to me.
He nodded.
…
…
…
…
…
He shook his head.
He got up from the bed and pulled down the blind, he undressed, got beneath the covers, because he had to try and sleep, life being exactly too much, that precise amount. His nerves were jangling. They began to settle. He was lying on the bed; the light was out and he was thinking and trying not to, he was trying to block out his brains from their eternal imaginings and maunderings. Definitely this being alone, this is what it was. He was not thinking about her, the woman, he was not. What he was doing was getting himself aware of it, of things. He knew better now. He knew more than he had done.
A while since she had gone. Okay. And funny that he wasnt going to be seeing her again. He would not be seeing her again except by chance. Nor the school! which was even more incredible. He felt strange and almost happy. Happy. But no; it was too easy, too straightforwards. Just not going back to school. It made you want to laugh aloud.
He was obviously going back. He smiled and turned onto his side, still with his face outside the covers. Imagine not going back. What would he do? What would he not do. He would not worry about the headmaster because he would not be going to see him. He wouldnt do this and he wouldnt do that. It wasnt what he would do it is what he would not do. All these things that he would not be having to do, he would not be having to do this and he would not be having to do that.
He would play the pipes. There was a positive move if ever I saw one. He would do that. What else? He would forget the past. He would go up and see his brother. What would he go up and see him about. You dont do that with brothers, you just go and see them and that’s enough, you just chat. What about politics, about politics and the nature of things in general – the Doyle family and revolution. How to negate the parents of the parents. The usual keech.
He would begin by staring the world firmly in the face. And with that to the fore he was now getting out of bed, and kicking his way into his shoes but he hasnt got his socks on so is kicking them off and getting back onto the bed to fucking look for them but there they were there just at the foot, at the fucking foot, of the bed. Because he was going to go out. He was going to go out for the night and that was that. High time he started enjoying life since here he was chucking it all in tomorrow morning. Christ that was a great holiday he had in West Yorkshire five years ago, on the coast at the seaside with the sun and the sand and having a laugh with the crowd. That was the Gillian Porter era. Ach Gillian was good. What had happened there? that was a pity. She was straightforwards as well, she wasni fussy about stupid things. Now here she was on the other side of Scotland. But christ almighty that was only sixty miles off. But she would be well away now, with other people. It was too late for him. As far as she was concerned. And why dwell on the past! But things did seem to be more straightforward then. People too. They seemed to be like that. But not now. Nowadays it was always as if everything was a big deal and you had to have or do something or something as if
It was just things had changed things had changed, it was years ago, the days of the teachers’ trainers, when people were students together and life was sweet ya fucking idiot. There is no point dwelling on the past. It is a thing he was wont to do. But this is because he was a single chap and single chaps are single persons ergo they dwell on the past and there is nothing wrong in dwelling on the past. How can you dwell on the future? There is nothing to dwell on! It doesni fucking exist. It is a fucking blank. Everything has yet to take place. This is what the future is, the place where things have yet to occur. So how can you dwell on that. You’re cheating. Okay but just think of it as an empty room. No. Well then think of ‘place’ as nothing. The future is the nothing. There is nothing to think about, so dont think about it. Do something else, something else altogether.
The time has gone.
The time has passed, is past.
There have been chances that Patrick has had. He has had his share of chances. He has simply failed, to take advantage of them. You take advantage of chances. Patrick didnt. He failed to.
Is there anything more to be said? And if so, why?
There is nought more one can say. Silensus. It would be nice not to think. Not to think and not to spoke. But he would have to spoke, because he was going out. That was the thing about going out, you had to spoke, you had to meet people and converse with them. He was putting on his good clothes. His going-out when going-out is not going-to-school clothes, that is what he was putting on.
What was he supposed to do. He was supposed to enter a shell and remain there moping, having an internal debate on the nature of the universe and specific feminine persona to wit the verb ‘alison’. I shall alison this evening. I shall, with a bit of luck, be alisoning this evening.
Bastards.
He left the motor where it was and walked right beyond it. He turned and glanced at it. He continued walking. He was very hungry and the chip shop was shut. This was undoubtedly the fault of patronne the elder Rossi, his insistence that the entire family should observe the traditional Sunday of the Scottish Christians thus the solitaries of the district had to forego the daily fries. Then the odd thing:
he saw what looked like Gavin and Nicola and their kids. They were heading his way. Where were they going? was it really them? It was really them and here they were coming toward him and in that next instant would recognise him and he moved extremely fast, right into the mouth of the nearest close and down to the stairfoot, he stood in at a bit of the wall that sloped, where he would not be easily seen from outside. He kept in until they had passed, waiting a few moments before returning to the front, and he looked out after them, seeing their backs, the man and the woman and the wee boy and t
he wee girl. He was not sure whether he was playing a trick on them or no. He wasnt. He was letting them continue in ignorance. He was going to allow a terrible charade to take place. He was going to allow his brother and sister-in-law to walk on past, to continue on past, unchecked. They would be on their way up to his place, a quick hello before paying the weekly visit to Nicola’s parents – maybe even to the maw and da, they could even be visiting them and maybe wanting to invite Patrick along; they wouldnt know he had been yesterday evening. He watched them turn the corner into his street. It was a very sad sight. His older brother whom he loved dearly. His sister-in-law whom he loved dearly. Then wee Elizabeth and wee John, both of whom he loved more than life itself. Because if it ever came to the choice between living and dying then christ almighty he would lay down his life, and glad to do it. They were great wee weans. Great wee weans. Even if they were horrible wee weans and selfish and spoiled brats, he would still have done it. And they werent, they were great.
And he was letting all of that go.
But it was his brother’s fault it was not his it was not his it was his brother’s, his brother’s fault; it was not Patrick’s fault. It wasnt. It wasnt his fault, it was his brother’s.
But what about the pipes? Were they things? Were the pipes things? A man was crossing onto the pavement from the other side of the road and he gazed to the front of where he was walking as though deep in thought. Going up to him and saying: Are pipes really things? A serious question. Heh you, Mister, are pipes really things? Or are they not? Are they just a figment is that what they are a fucking stupit dream, a stupit dream. The man looked deep in thought. Could he be genuinely thinking of something? Often you get folk – especially pedestrians – who kid on they are thinking but they arent, they are just having a sort of internal gaze into space. And such space! Patrick could imagine gazing into that guy’s space. Anaximenes – what’s he got to do with this if anything? Does he have anything to do with that? with gazing into the space of other people. What would you see? All sorts of things. If you looked into the space of other people.
The man turned the corner into Pat’s street which was funny. You could picture him being Special Branch and trailing Gavin and Nicola because they were visiting Pat who was being kept under scrutiny at all times, a threat to the current rightwing government of the greatbritishers, a poisoner of the minds of the flagellants. Imagine having a bugle and blasting a gigantic tootoooootoooooot! For fuck sack. Christ! Well well well, god and Pythagoras, Señor Goya, the lot of yous.
Was poor auld 24: 22 metamorphosising into something else altogether! He seemed to be. It was highly likely. This sort of escapade happened all the time. Take Gregor Samsa as a for instance. He was a poor unfortunate bastard though having said that of course it would take a Giant to squash him. A Giant. A veritable Mam-mothian. And there were none of these lurking in this man’s Glasgow, all of whose entities were so palpably impalpable.
Maybe he should get the motor. The motor could take him places. The motor could take him to the east neuk of England. There existed rowing boats tethered to small jetties. He could pilfer one and set sail for Scandinavia.
Set Sail For Scandinavia. Fuck sake.
And what about Mrs Houston. What about Mrs Houston? She was a thing of the past. No she wasni. Yes she was. She had proved it this afternoon. It was simply no longer here. And she was no longer it, whatever it was. It was not her.
It was himself from now on, that he was to think about and care about.
What.
Pat halted. This time of the evening on Sunday was aye peaceful. He was looking at himself in the window of a shop and seeing the face and the body and the rest of it. He was looking at a bloke who had difficulty in seeing himself. And he was wanting to see himself. He was looking at a bloke who was wanting to see himself and who was wanting to not be what he was because he could not be trusted to be doing it except by corruption of the hearts and the minds of the young. Fucking outlandishly sentimental, slavishly so, as if he’s fucking another Socrates, that’s what makes it so bad, so desperately bad and so desperately sad and perhaps evil, because of the ulteriority of the motivation, that he wishes to be King of the World.
Spring spring spring. Spring spring spring.
Spring is a time for change. Patrick has already changed. This was the year he had opted out, that he had, theretofore, said, No; I am not doing these things any longer, with specific reference to xmatic pantomimes. I am a happy man. Also sex. Patrick grinned. He chuckled and he shook his head, seeing his features creasing in this joviality, his eyes and his mouth smiling, and jesus christ it was good to see, himself smiling because for fuck sake it was simply not the done Doyle thing in life to smile, to laugh aloud my god for fuck sake on a public byway? almost a contradiction albeit that it is occurring in front of one’s own reflection in the window of a shop thus in public and not in public, at one and the same time. Which is surely the manner life is to be led, that a fellow or fellowess, that s/he should be in harmony, one’s figures in smooth control.
Children approach! Two males and a female. Second-year bracket. Smoking fags. One of the males is spitting through his teeth, making a tthhh noise.
At that age Patrick hadnt been a smoker. He had not been a smoker even then. That was it about the boy Doyle even then, him no being a smoker. A perverse wee bastard, let’s face it. Pat grinned. He was proud of himself as a wee boy. He had been perverse, so fucking ha ha ha and he was not going to change now.
The launderette. The light was on inside. Nobody was in except the lady who ran the place. She was a Muslim. She spoke very little English, especially to men maybe but she gave good smiles and was often amused at the ways of the world. Here she was in Scotland after having fervently believed she would become a moviestar in Delhi. And it amused her because life itself she found amusing, knowing fine well that men were created from clots of blood so why bother if here you are in Glasgow on a cold and quiet and fairly dreichlike Sunday evening in March, you were best just to get on with things and soon you would be home in front of the fire with maybe a video out on hire to relax to later on, when you had locked up the launderette and fucked off down the road.
Patrick had his hands in his trouser pockets; he had been leaning against the window. He glanced along to the corner of the street to see if the coast was clear, then walked off quickly in the opposite direction, being careful not to collapse in a vertigonoreac heap.
Early morning was a time he enjoyed reading. His mind was alert, the attention span seemed to continue indefinitely, right until he remembered about having to go to school. It was a nice time, a peaceful time. There was something about giving your best to the things you liked the best. And he quite liked reading. He really did quite like reading. He quite liked the things you get in books. In this book it was China and the treatment of cancerous diseases. There was much to be said in favour of China. Pat could motor south, down the Bay of Biscay and dive across to Morocco and head straight left along the northcoast of Africa, bypassing the whole of fucking Europe because he was sick of it, the whole thing, its politics and its history. Even this kind of thinking was a malaise, a western malaise – a luxury. Far better to think about sitting in a desert without the energy to lift a beetle to your mouth. It was 5.47 a.m. And still dark. He could go down to the backcourt and sit right in the middle of that, next to the midgies and where the rats and mice and cats and dogs scrabble for the edible scraps. If nothing else it would affirm a general braveness of spirit and mental control. The animals would be quietly surprised by the human presence but would no doubt get used to it. How would it be to go spiralling at a furious rate upwards into the sky towards that ethereal spindle. Copernicus seems to have been a similar sort of personality to Schopenhauer but perhaps that’s being unfair. Probably Patrick’s largest error was the purchase of the petrol-powered automobile. He missed out on experiences because of it. The unexpected. His unexpected was just the occasional mechanical breakdown and that wa
s hopeless, freezing cold and total boredom unless the breakdown chanced to take place near a pub. And then you ran the risk of being drunk when the mechanic arrived to right the wrong. Near to a brothel would be better. As long as you had the dough. This is another thing about being rich, how you take money for granted. So many of the predicaments of the Reverend Doyle MA (honS) are the effects of having no financial worries of any kind whatsoever. If he was skint for example he would never even consider a brothel, nor a pub for that matter. And all chatter on the subject of motor cars a mere bagatelle, a trumpery, a flumpery, a frumpery, fump. Arse is a better word than fuck. From now on Arse is Fuck. Fuck off. What does it mean. Hey you ya wee second-yearers! You’re all snug in your wee kips! Little do yous know the trouble in store this morning! Heh heh heh he intoned evilly. In fact though it would be a fine thing to enter Old Milne’s office with a trusty Dobermann Pinscher and a big fucking double-barrelled shotgun. I mean that really would be something. Good morning Mister Milne.
Good eh morning Mister eh eh ahh eh
D you mean the beast?
Yes ah eh ehhh ah ah
The fucking double-barrelled shotgun?
Yes eh
Because ye see ya auld fucking conniving bastard ye I’m resigning my commission and then after my dog’s fucking bit ye I’m gonni fucking shoot ye! Okay? So there! Stick that in your pipe and smoke it! But god, it would be nice to just leave the motor at home this morning, to just walk it the whole road there, and get the nut sorted out, a bit of mental equilibrium, get the fucking brains operating properly, some kind of fucking synchronicity. Because at the moment
At the moment! There was no at the moment. There was no at the moment. How could there be when it was so bloody damn difficult to gain any idea whatsoever of this coming fucking on-the-carpeting. If he could maybe work out a list of possible occurrences, a contingency list.
Patrick couldni find a pen. It is most odd indeed how objects disappear in rooms wherein the only moveable entity is oneself. Scary. And not at all the
