A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  Aye.

  It’s no that but if you’re gonni stand by your staff then you stand by them, end of story. But that boss of yours …! Mister Peters glanced from right to left, clearing his throat, as if seeking a place to spit.

  Patrick grinned. He’s your boss as well as mine!

  That’s as maybe son but he doesni treat yous the way he treats us.

  Eh … Patrick cocked his head to one side.

  The janitor waited.

  That depends.

  Och. Dont give us it.

  Well christ I wouldni say he was very good with us either.

  Mister Peters shook his head and walked off along by the side of the building.

  Pat stood there a few moments before entering the main school. He had enough time for a quick cup of tea in the staffroom. He smiled. He stopped it. But it was as if there was an odd feeling to the day, maybe the sensation of momentous deeds being already to the fore. He could imagine that. He could imagine momentous deeds appertaining to himself, that these deeds were set to occur. He walked along the corridor. He continued on up the stair. He walked along the corridor beneath the one that led to the staffroom. He walked to the offices of the clerks and the headmaster. When he reached the threshold he tugged at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, smiled at Ms Thompson, the headmaster’s secretary, a woman of some forty-five summers with black spectacles and a pleasant smile. She was wearing a maroon jersey this morning with a metal cross dangling from her neck. Is he in? asked Patrick.

  Yes.

  Ah.

  Are you wanting to see him?

  I think he might be expecting me.

  She frowned.

  I was actually supposed to be seeing him on Friday afternoon.

  O yes of course …

  I eh couldni make it.

  Ms Thompson rose, she went ben the headmaster’s office, leaving him alone, to gaze on the furniture, the electronic typewriter and computer and sheaves of paper and pens, and various calendars. A moment’s reflection during this slight break in time. The presence of oneself. That age-old unity of thought and being, the cornerstone of a certain method of conducting your life in the face of the world. Is that correct? Perhaps not. Hegel is a devilishly hard fellow to comprehend. Some of what he has to say for himself is so positively disbelievably believable, disbelievably believable. Spell believable. Capital ‘b’

  Ms Thompson.

  Old Milne looked surprised. There was the wrinkled forehead and the glasses slightly down on his nose. Patrick nodded. I have to apologise for Friday, he said.

  Well ye know eh Mister Doyle I waited on until the half hour for you.

  Sorry.

  Old Milne continued gazing at him, scrutinising him, and Patrick said: It was really I just wasnt feeling very well. I had a sore stomach.

  But you should have advised us of it; myself or Mrs Thompson.

  I wasni really, to be honest, feeling capable.

  Old Milne made no movement. He had one hand on his desk and the other on his lap; he was sitting in such a way that he may have been looking into one of the desk drawers prior to Patrick’s entry. He was wearing his usual clobber, the gown and the brown chalk-striped suit and a tie of three shades of blue which was probably of a university or a club or something. And a brisk white shirt. Tinted fucking glasses. A dangerous man. He would have been at home with BOSS or the Tonton Macoute. Patrick would just have liked to be at home – with the fire and a pot of tea, the books and the radio. That’s what he was cut out for, a life of academia, stuffed inside of an ivory tower, instead of being obliged to lead this life of revolutionary compromise all the time because he was fucking sick of it.

  What would the maw and da be doing at this minute? And Gavin. And Alison, who would be in with her registration class and speaking quietly but with authority.

  Fuck sake. Imagine being carpeted at the age of twenty-nine. He had only himself to blame. Old Milne was looking at him. Patrick looked back at him. Joseph K was thirty when the bad things started happening and Jesus of Nazareth was thirty when he started preaching. Who else? No one else, it’s a load of nonsense. It is all a load of nonsense. How come he hadnt even been allowed to sit down.

  Old Milne nodded. He said, Your transfer’s come through.

  Pardon.

  Old Milne lifted a sheet of A4-size paper, he glanced at it then pushed it across the desk, twisting it around for Patrick to see. Could you just sign eh …

  His name was on it right enough. It indicated the transfer was to take place at the Easter break. When he began the last term it would be at this other school – Barnskirk High. Barnskirk High was okay. It was out the south east side of the city and fair enough. But why was he to be going there. He couldnt mind asking for any fucking transfer. That was funny. He just couldni actually mind applying for it. He said: Is this how you wanted to see me?

  Yes.

  Pat nodded. He looked at the paper again. Eh Mister Milne, he said, I have to say this to ye: I dont mind ever having applied for any transfer. Are ye sure it’s for me?

  Old Milne looking at him.

  Are ye sure it’s mine?

  …

  I dont eh – to be honest I mean christ it’s no the sort of thing I do. I usually stick things out.

  …

  I do. It’s one of the traits I’m stuck with, my personality, its characteristics, I stick things out.

  Old Milne smiled.

  It’s no anything I’m proud of, I’m just stuck with it.

  He was still smiling.

  Patrick shrugged and he frowned; he put his hand to his brow; it was like the beginning of a sore head maybe or something like that.

  You must have applied for it.

  Pardon?

  I’m saying ye must have applied for it, the transfer, otherwise it wouldnt have come through. Maybe you put in and forgot.

  Forgot.

  It is possible.

  Okay.

  I forget things myself.

  No putting in for a transfer but you dont forget that.

  Well I havent put in for a transfer Mister Doyle.

  Well I dont think I have either.

  But you must have, otherwise it wouldnt have come through.

  Patrick’s armpits were aching and aching armpits are fucking hopeless. He smiled at the headmaster: Do you actually want rid me?

  Not at all.

  Well I dont understand this then.

  Mister Doyle … the headmaster smiled in quite a friendly manner … I dont understand this either.

  Ye sure ye dont want rid of me?

  Not at all. And Old Milne came sitting forwards on his leather chair, hands clasped and shoulders taut, the creased brow to indicate the worried but caring older person but do not trust it do not trust it because who could ever trust this devious old bastard, a sleakit auld fucking rascal.

  And this is another thing, this Old Milne shite, let’s have no more of it – so totally reeking in sentimentality – his name is Milne. His name is W. R. Milne. The W stands for Walter. His name is Walter R. Milne.

  And he was glancing at the clock on the wall. Was Patrick supposed to dismiss himself? Ha ha ha.

  How are your parents keeping?

  My parents?

  I recall your father wasnt too well.

  He’s recovered.

  Ah. Good.

  Patrick nodded.

  Milne smiled.

  Eh, how come ye asked me that?

  …

  As far as I can see it’s quite an odd thing to ask.

  In what sense Mister Doyle?

  In what sense eh, in the sense that you dont know him, my old man, so how come you’re asking after him?

  If my memory serves he was quite seriously ill.

  …

  Wasnt he?

  He was aye, but so what, what’s that got to do with it I mean what gives ye the right to be asking after him, you dont even know him, no as a man, as an actual ordinary man. So what gives you the righ
t, this is what I dont know. I really dont – the presumption. What gives ye the right?

  I’m sorry.

  Aye but what gives ye the right to think ye can just ask me about him I mean do ye think ye fucking own him as well? cause ye dont, it’s just me. It’s just me ye own.

  …

  You think ye own me. Well ye do, but ye dont fucking own him.

  I beg your pardon?

  Ye dont own my da.

  I dont know what you are talking about Mister Doyle.

  Course ye do. Because I’ve been bought you think it applies to my whole family well it doesnt.

  I am gibbering why am I gibbering, I am gibbering why am I gibbering. Poor old fucking Hölderlin. The headmaster is speaking what is he speaking about? Hush and let us hear hush and let us hear.

  But my brains willni let me my brains willni let me. That’s what happened to old Hölderlin. And what I want to know is, concerning your man, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, his boyhood friend,

  What is the headmaster talking about.

  I cannot hear. My brains have been silenced. In silenso. Dear o dear, maybe I should give him a kiss. I shall give my headmaster a kiss. I shall plant a smacker on his greasy heid. My dear fellow, the trials and tribulations of being the praetor of praetors

  a mistake it’s yours or else you’ve forgotten about it.

  What do you mean?

  If the department had simply wanted to transfer you on their own account they would have gone ahead and done it.

  I’m not eh … I dont know what you mean.

  Milne sighed. He looked at the clock.

  Look, it’s just there’s a certain hypocrisy going on here that I dont appreciate.

  …

  Being a teacher on behalf of a society like this yin, where the very last thing wanted is honesty or truth.

  O! The headmaster shook his head and that was definitely that and it was best to just sign his name and leave now immediately because Patrick could never win here and there was something in the air told him that, that here he was and he was being humiliated right under his very nose, he was being humiliated for christ sake, right under his own very nose. And he signed his name because it was best to leave. He put his left hand into his trouser pocket, opening the door with his right, an attempted coolness; and he walked from the office without acknowledging Ms Thompson though it wasnt her fault and had nothing whatsoever to do with her.

  And what to do what to do should he go to the registration class or just fuck off. More brave to go the registration. Or was it? It didni matter; he was walking towards the staircase, heading for his own corridor, to his own classroom. He didnt want to leave this school. He really didnt. He quite liked it. It was terrible that here he was having to leave. And not fair to the pupils either who were used to his particular style of teaching and were well on their way to a proper grounding in reality, the ways of the world, honesty and so on.

  He had stopped walking. He smiled and leant against the wall at the alcove next to the staircase. What a fucking pong! The science labs. It was the smell he aye associated with the entire profession, rotten eggs. But that sounded ominous. Maybe he was on his way out altogether. But how could that ever happen unless he himself instigated it? And he wasnt about to do any such thing. Let it be done, okay. But not by his own hand. He would never allow them that kind of satisfaction. Suicide fine but not fucking resignation.

  Down below in the assembly hall Margaret McNally the gym teacher was rigging up the stanchions for netball.

  He was into his own corridor and he stopped again. He did not know why he felt as bad as he did. It was actually crossing his mind to vault the rail and leap to his fucking death! He probably wouldni get killed but for christ sake how come he should be feeling as bad as that anyway I mean it’s daft. It’s no as if he was gonni get his bollocks cut off. And here he was by the railing and pausing a few moments as if he was looking down at Maggie who was quite a nice woman but just didnt move in the same circle as he did thus they didnt really know each other although she was a single party and would maybe be interested in going out for a meal or just to the Citz Theatre for a night for christ sake without any strings and not at all pressurised, without any worries about the future, just a night out together for a bit of company. She moved well Margaret, she was wearing a dark blue short skirt and her pair of trainer shoes and a thingwi top, one of these whatdyoucallits that you wear if you’re out training for fuck sake. Her whistle round the neck. It was always a nice sound, that harsh shrieking of rubber soles on the floor and the thumping of running feet, the whistle blowing and whatever christ. Gym teachers are divorced from the problems. Nonsense. They’ve got their own bloody problems, that’s all; and they’re every bit as fucking depressing in their own way.

  But for christ sake, is it actually conceivable that he could have applied for a transfer and forgotten all about it? Just is it conceivable. That is all. That is all he would like to know. Nothing more than that. Christ! But it seemed so amazing. Are there any quotations to help? What can be said if not done to alleviate matters. Some great wee witty saying that can allow Pat to ease himself out from under. Jesus Christ for example, what happened to him? Or Empedocles, did he have any sort of aphorisms to help?

  Patrick had continued walking. It would soon be time for 2e to depart the room. Ach well. Poor wee fuckers. He would be there in a second and that would be that. One solitary unique second. A momentous second. And the loud voices coming from the classroom. Patrick half expected to find MI6 lurking in the shadows, just to give due warning that he too was aware of the loud voices. O what a scandal. Loud voices in the classroom. O dear. A Monday as well for fuck sake when you’re supposed to be stuffing theological musings in beside the registrationatus. He clasped the handle of the door. Nostalgia. He shook his head, smiling. The sense of it, the nostalgia, being so acute it was almost a strange déjà vu.

  He stood in the doorway a moment, before shutting the door firmly behind himself.

  Good morning Mister Doyle.

  Good morning one and all. Okay, no time for denying the deities this morning. I’ve just been for an interview with Mister Big. So … Patrick clasped his hands together, then he unclasped them and clapped them twice … first question: What’s this fucking load of drivel all about?

  The hands of half a dozen.

  Kenneth!

  Eh is what this fucking load of drivel is all about is what this fucking load of drivel is all about?

  Fine, no bad – but mind that ‘eh’ ye shoved in and then missed out for christ sake. But fair enough, this time of the morning and it being a Monday and all that, okay, a good start to the week getting something like that because it means you’re on the road to understanding a very crucial aspect of this existence insofar as this existence takes place in a country like ours I mean for instance it’s something your parents’ll no understand because on the whole they’re a bunch of fucking idiots whose esteem of the ostrich is a byword in the corridors of high finance. Yous know what I’m talking about. Michelle!

  Please Mister Doyle it’s just Audrey’s started her period.

  Aw, okay.

  Michelle had risen and she went to the wall cupboard where the pillow and blankets were kept. She and Caroline assisted Audrey to the back of the room. They helped her stretch out along the bench, hidden from the view of the others.

  Is she gonni be sick? asked Patrick.

  She doesni know, said Michelle.

  What does she reckon?

  She should go home to bed and get two hot water bottles.

  Ah, fine, aye. Patrick glanced around the class; the pupils mainly stared to the front, apart from a couple of boys. Patrick nodded. The trouble with us, he said, we know almost nothing about bodies, especially female bodies. He focused his attention on the lassies generally: I mean we dont really know a damn thing about this pain yous all go through once a month, except that we can tell it’s really really painful. I know it just by looking, just by
using my eyes. And I dont need to know anything more. All I have to do is look. I just look truly and in doing that I see Audrey’s in pain. Okay. You just fucking bear witness to things, that’s how ye know what they are.

  Patrick shook his head. He stepped back to the stool, sat up on it, the elbows on the edge of his desk. Anybody want to say anything?

  James said: There was this guy on the TV last night and he said he was really pessimistic about the human race because they were all losing their faith in God.

  Mm, what a load of shite. Patrick nodded. Of course he’s telling lies. What like were his arguments?

  They wereni actually arguments he was just blabbing away.

  Did anybody else see this programme?

  Bobby Dodds said: The interviewer let him off. He just let him talk and talk. It was like an advert.

  Was it a programme for Christians or could anybody look in?

  It was a programme for Christians but anybody could look in that it was a programme for Christians.

  Aye. Pat grinned. That’s a difficult yin but and my head isni up to it this morning.

  A hangover? called a couple of others, and laughter.

  Not at all if yous must know I’ve given up the bevy. It’s just there to screw your brains down into pulp. It makes ye do things that are totally ludricous and stupit, stupit! I mean look at your parents, eh! Some of ye must’ve had horrendous experiences there. I just get sick of it myself sometimes; all that waste of time and effort; you can understand some of the auld socialists, the way they aye went on about temperance and the need to be at least a wee bit abstinent. Everything in moderation I suppose. From now on let that be the motto of 2E! Okay, anybody else?

  Hazel Jones said: Is shaving sore?

  Is shaving sore … Pat frowned.

  Hazel pointed to a boy behind her: He always says men get it to make up for periods.

  Fair enough aye but eh, naw, shaving isni really sore; it’s actually just fucking boring to be honest. I’d grow a beard except that’s even more boring and it makes ye want to scratch all the time. And I dont like having to scratch all the time. Patrick shook his head, he stared at the top of the desk. There was this uncomfortable feeling in bed as well when you’re lying in bed sometimes, you’re on your side and your legs are one on top of the other, except your fucking kneebones keep jarring each other and it’s fucking awful, an awful feeling and you put your legs out and away from each other but it never seems to be satisfying and you end up the only escape is to fall asleep or lie on your back. So these things arent fair either. But there’s so many things that areni fair you’ve got to start inventing different words altogether. Patrick shut his eyes. His head was gone. The old nut, it was fucking away with it. He was just feeling awful. Guilt right enough. And the class. He opened his eyes and he said: Listen, what yous have to remember above all is that I dont care. I dont. Honest. It is a load of dross. D R O S S. I mean ye shouldni even be here. If yous were my weans! Christ. Every last thing that goes on here in this classroom is utter and absolute dross. And I’m one of the ones that does it worst of all because yous all think I’m on your side and I’m no – even MI6’s more on your side than I am! I’m no kidding ye weans I’m really fucking, not to be trusted. I’m actually gonni chuck it in and start doing something else altogether. And yous should do the same I mean there’s no point hanging about here cause it’s all a load of rightwing shite. Facta non verba, from now on. Why dont yous go and blow up the DHSS office?