If it is your life

by James Kelman

  I liked her attitude to everything, and how she was, how she thought, it was always herself and not other people’s prejudices. If it was left-wing politics or right-wing, she would want to know about the person, what like was the person. That to me was important. In Glasgow it was where you came from. People were scared to be different. My mother was like that. My father was a bit; if it was somebody that was upper class or else the royal family, he hated all that and would not listen to it or read it and if it was on the television he would switch channels or get up and leave the room, it did not matter the person. When I told Celia about him she listened and then said a funny thing, Does he whistle? My dad did, sometimes Mozart and Beethoven. Imagine classical! We were talking about old people. Her father was an old man compared to mine. Really, he was like a grandfather and over sixty years of age. Mine was forty-four and my mother forty-three. Celia was surprised. She was saying how old people talked to themselves and it was a good thing. But it was only men who sang. Men did not suffer from a foolish self-consciousness. Women did. They had to break through a barrier. Even Celia. She memorized her lines and said them aloud but she did not sing. Women did not, not in public. And they did not whistle. Men whistled. They did it on buses the way Eric sang. It was nearly as embarrassing, especially if women were there because you were a male as well and it was childish behaviour. We did not all behave the same way. Men were men but we were not all the same.

  Women did not whistle. Had I ever heard one woman whistle? Never. It was a distinguishing feature. A very striking one. Here was a wee minor detail yet it separated the sexes, every bit as much as the sexual organs. Obviously not to that extent but it was a distinguishing feature. Yet I could not remember having read about it before.

  Women always watched themselves. Men did not, except in a showing-off way. But women showed off too, especially about sex and their bodies. I had sex with two women here; once the first time and then Celia. Celia was just so different. She was an only child. That could mean something. It could explain her lack of self-consciousness. No need for privacy. With wee sisters you watch so she does not see you dressing or catch you peeing in the bathroom. This means you are always aware of your surroundings, and aware of yourself within them, within your surroundings. You see yourself. You need to. But Celia would have done what she liked and just, she could just have undressed without worrying because nobody would have been there to see her, just wandering around, she could have, if she wanted. That was what she did. She took me to her room and other women lived there and she wandered around only in her pants and even no bra sometimes and the women knew I was there, they knew I was in her room, so I was seeing her. Celia did not bother and then if she came back to bed and we started doing things and it was not quiet. So I admired her too, as a human being. She behaved in a proper way. Human beings should be allowed that, to be the same. It is dignity. People have it. Women have it, and Celia with big breasts flopping, because they did, and heavy, if you put your hands under and held them and just if you held them. But it was dignity, it was a woman, although you could never have been a runner, unless they were strapped down. But women were runners, they were athletes, so they must have been. It was just dignity, it was just being a woman. That is what Celia was. She thought about herself and what she was involved in, she became engrossed in it and absorbed.

  So too if she was saying lines. It was the same with other people, they did not all want to be actors. Maybe they did. I doubt it. Probably they enjoyed quoting from plays, books and movies; that was that and nothing more. It could even be dialogue. Imagine doing dialogue out loud, saying different voices, asking questions and answering them, walking along the road by yourself! Some folk must have. If you saw them you would think they were having a real conversation, except it was with themself like in a movie with a psychological plot, maybe if it was a schizophrenic subject, say a guy had different personalities. Or it could be a woman; people trying to control her, and all inside her head all different personalities with all different names. It was quite scary. These personalities did not have to be fighting for supremacy. It could just be an ordinary conversation they were having. Just an ordinary one. And it could be any topic. Except the person whose head it was, the woman with the schizophrenic problem, she could not be the topic, not her herself; that was the one thing the different personalities never discussed, the only taboo topic. Imagine they all discussed the actual person whose head they were in! As soon as they done that the problem became acute, and what next? Madness? It would be a great story to read. That would be like Edgar Allan Poe or else Robert Louis Stevenson. Madness would be next. Although not necessarily, it just depended on the extent of the problem. Even if it was a problem. Maybe it was not or they had yet to discover it was a problem. That condition happens to people and they fail to realize it is happening. Until it does, right out the blue, some traumatic event; a murder usually, the person kills somebody, or one personality tries to kill another. That would be like suicide. But it would not be suicide. That is the amazing thing. It would be the opposite, so what is that, murder, although people would say suicide; they would think it was because it was the one human being. Theoretically no, it would be murder. And they would have to use poison because it would seem like it was happening to somebody else whereas if they used a knife the personalities would know immediately. Jesus Christ I am stabbing myself! Why am I doing it! Why is this happening! You would be murdering yourself except you would not be. You could imagine an actor doing it, a good actor, and all the facial changes.

  I was not keen on drama before. We got it at school. To me it was the worst kind of arrogance. Ego, ego. I changed my mind because with Celia. She loved the actual plays. This is why she wanted to do it, not like the other ones. They also acted but it was just stupid; the whole thing was stupid, and nothing to do with great plays and literature. People kidded on it was. It was not serious, just amateur rubbish like you got on television. Celia was in two theatre companies; one at uni and one in the town where her parents lived. The students’ one was Shakespeare and the town one was murders or comedies – they were called comedies. I read a couple and they were diabolical stupidity.

  She asked me to do it. The students’ company wanted fresh faces, especially men and if you were macho. I was not macho but it was nice she said it, quite like a compliment. I knew it was the Scottish accent, ‘rough and ready’. She wanted me to go to a practice ‘read-through’. This was one by Henrik Ibsen, the Norwegian author. His plays had great parts for women, Hedda Gabler. I quite wanted to because with her there and just being part of it. The company did practice ‘read-throughs’ by other authors apart from Shakespeare; Arthur Miller was one. Sometimes people did not turn up, especially at exam time. If I came it would be helpful. I nearly did go but then no. I could appreciate the play and it was a laugh doing it. I did the English accent and got it quite good. But why did it have to be the English accent if it was Norwegian, why not Scottish? ‘I am sorry Mrs Hedda, but I fear I must dispel an amiable illusion.’

  People would smile when I said it. But why? If it is Norwegian it is Norwegian, so it should be any language.

  Because I was the only Scottish person.

  That was not much of an argument.

  Celia did not care. It was only a read-through anyway.

  But what did that mean? If it was an actual play and people were doing proper acting, would it have to be English?

  The habit she had was beautiful. She put her hand on the side of my face and stared into my eyes as if looking inside me. She only cared that I said the lines when we were outside and walking down the street.

  But I could not, even for fun. ‘I fear I must dispel an amiable illusion.’ I could say the lines in her room quite easily but not outside. I had to not see people’s faces. Oh but surely I could mouth it.

  No, I could not. I would have got a red face. I got red faces everywhere. I always got them, just blushing all the time. In tutorials or wherever, it was
terrible.

  And of course I wanted to be involved because it was obvious because how one thing was how it led to sex, if it was inside or outside. I noticed how she ended up and it was wanting me, wanting sex with me. Ohh. She pinched my arm. We were going along the road and she finished her lines and she did it, maybe just saying Ohh, and then pinching me on the upper arm and turning half on to me as we walked. It made me hard, and walking along the street, I told her, how I was to walk, she laughed. That was a thing how she laughed. She did not laugh at much but me and sex, I made her laugh. She liked me because I got hard. Just thinking about her, jeesoh. Wherever, I could not sit down, or stand up, having to disguise it all the time. She laughed at that and walking along the street and her hand in my pocket, she did that just to get me and she always did, always, she did not care, just her hand.

  I got jealous. That was a problem. She did not like jealous people. I did not think I was jealous and when she said I was I thought it a wee bit of a compliment but it was not a compliment. It meant I was naive and ridiculous. Because there had to be other people in her life, the world was full of people and that was freedom, she needed freedom.

  It might sound daft but maybe doing philosophy worked against me. I was aware of myself too much and what I thought: what did it matter what I thought; but it did, and in the world too, how my thought mattered in the world; how it mattered to other human beings, and the one source of truth and the absolute base, that was all humanity, and I was part of it and of course Celia herself, what we two thought as separate human beings. She was so honest but if she said something and it was not what I thought I had to say it or else just not talk, better not to talk, so it was better I did not talk.

  She never got angry, it was me. But her face went red and she stared right into me seeing what it was, what did I want, it was up to me.

  It was up to me. That was right enough. Even if she wanted me to do something, and I knew she did: I did not have to do it.

  It was me stopped it. I had not seen her for a while but it was me, my fault. She was with somebody else. I knew she would be. Some rich guy, way out of my league; Oxford or Cambridge or whatever. He would be rich, talking about mummy and daddy all the time; diddums and middums. One did speak like that. Unless she was joking. That was her, diddums and middums. Big mummies’ boys. That was what she said. She might not have been telling the truth. Are you jealous? Why are you jealous? There is nothing to be jealous about.

  You could only be jealous if you were the same as somebody else. She said people were all unique and individuals so how could you be jealous, it was nonsensical.

  Sometimes she was like a snob. Other times she was the most unsnobbish person you could meet. If she liked people it did not matter lower class or upper class, only if they had a certain view of the world to do with being free and relaxed or all wound up and roped into society’s social spheres. You had to rise above society. The people she admired were above it. It did not matter their background, even royalty. Individuals were unique and could do anything, and not be hidebound. Class did not enter into it, lower or higher.

  What did that mean, lower or higher?

  I almost laughed when she told me that. It was my father. I should have laughed. I was too respectful. I should have been more – something, different anyway, different to myself. If I wanted to be. But I did not want to be. I would have said the same as her if it was to my dad. But hearing Celia say it made me into him. Okay Celia was interested in people. But only if they were interesting, that is what I thought. Or if she liked them, it was because they were likeable. But who were they likeable for? Her. Who were they being interesting for? Her.

  Some of them were pure bastards. I thought that. I did not know them but knew I would hate them.

  It is working-class. Not lower-class. Not lower-class, working-class. I told her that and swore.

  Why was I so angry?

  I was angry just because, just because, that was why I was so angry, yes and so so angry. She did not mind me swearing. If I said ‘fuck’ and apologized she was like why apologize. Do not apologize, not if it is the way you talk.

  I talk however I talk, it is up to me.

  Yes, she said. And the way she said it, really, it was patronizing. I knew that. So did she. Her face flushed red. She knew she done it. She saw my face. She knew I knew. She did. She would never have cried in her whole life. Never, just looking at me so I wanted to hold her, of course I did. I wanted to hold her and just hold her and if I did it was too tight and she disliked it and disliked me doing it and I had to stop and control myself. I held her too tightly, it was too tightly, far too tightly, and hurt her. Only because I wanted her so much, that was the trouble. I had to calm down. She told me that too. That was the trouble, she was my one and only friend. I could have had more but I did not want them. Maybe I would in future, if I went back. I had not decided to go back. That was the wee germ inside me. Now that I thought it I knew it was there. I had a stack of books and two essay workings in my backpack; maybe I would take them out and dump them. Out the window. Except a bus. Who cares.

  Celia said it to me about calming down. Not to do with her but in general, I became too angry and emotional. But I felt angry and anger is emotional. There was only one academic I could talk to in the entire place and that was Rob Anderson. Every other one was an elitist shit. The whole place was elitist. He was even elitist. He was talking to me and I did not know why he was talking to me; asking about football why was he asking about football what did it matter about football, he did not care about it. It was for me, for my benefit. There were these Scottish working-class things and people said them to me. Which one do you support, meaning Rangers or Celtic. I hate the two of them. They just looked at you, they did not know what you were talking about. Somebody like me, you had to be one or the other, just stereotypes all the time.

  It was incredible how elitist it was. People did not know how bad it was. Most students were elitist. Black as well as white, and Asians, foreigners, everybody. I found it shocking. The entire bunch. Celia was the only one I could relate to. Not because she was a woman. What did it matter, women or men, it was just how they treated you. I did not have an idealized view of women. She said I did. I did not think so. It was competition, I was not in competition. Anyway, not with her.

  But for her. I could not compete for her. I did not want to.

  I did not know about this world. I had my place in it. It did not matter what I did. It would have been great to go away someplace, take a year out, if I could work a bar somewhere like in Australia or New Zealand. If I just finished the year, I had to finish the year which meant going back after the break. Probably I would, just study hard and finish the essays. Who cares. My reflection in the window reminded me of a movie. None in particular.

  Here was a young guy travelling on a bus, from one large city to another, a longer than usual trip and the bus did not have a toilet. The driver drove into services along the motorway, and also dropped off passengers, picked other ones up. The last stop in England was always good. People got off, the ones that smoked smoked. It was always freezing cold. It was! That was funny. I was always freezing, and shivering, glad to get back in the bus.

  What if I did not! Departing forever. He departed the bus. The young man departed the bus. What if I just got off again, and did not come back?

  There was nowhere to go. No money to spare. I had a part-time job and needed every penny to help my parents. University was dear.

  I preferred long journeys. I did not want to get to places. What if your journey lasted forever? The young man was seeing his face in the window and smiling but then it was not, it was evil and terrified and horrible, a face in the dark shadows of the window.

  It would be a French movie, not American. But it could be American, depending on the director. But French was the more likely, or East European, or Southeast Asian. That fitted more, if it was under the yoke of a foreign power. I wished I knew more about politics. I wa
s going to take a class but then did not. People thought they knew about politics but they did not, only about parliament. If I was with Celia and her friends they were cautious because of me. But I did not care. They could say what they liked. Anyway, I did not know about the Scottish Nationalists. My parents were socialists. My dad especially but mum too. They knew about politics. Older people did.

  But other stuff was important. How one thought about things was important. That was my opinion. My dad spoke about working-class struggles and it was not like from a book, or students talking in the union bar but even with him, if he had known some philosophy, I think it would have helped him.

  Why did people not know philosophy? If they did it would be good.

  Old people saw politics in action. My last time on this bus was returning to uni after the Christmas break. An old man sat beside me and that was what he talked about; battles with the police, getting battered by them. My dad talked about it too. But this old man was way older than dad, he was elderly; going to stay with his daughter in Kent. You could not get farther south. He smiled when he said it. He meant it was farthest away from Scotland. If he had had his time over that is what he would have done, got as far away from Scotland as he could. He said that to me. I just smiled but he meant it. He was interested in me talking. What did I have to say? But I did not have anything to say. Except personal stuff and I did not want to say about that. It was not anybody’s business, him or anybody else. I had had a fight with Eric Semple before getting on the bus. He came to say cheerio then he said about Hogmanay too, the same as my mother, imagine not staying for Hogmanay. My goodness that was all I needed was him. Really, I was sick of it, and mum staying in the bedroom, that was the last thing I needed was Eric. Even my dad, he was just looking at me: what like it was my fault it was not my fault. That was unfair.

  Elderly people want these conversations with you. I found that with them, as if they are close friends. It is a nice characteristic. They take things for granted and do not care about minor details. Like bodies, knees. His knee kept banging into mine and even lying against it. How did you react to that? I did not know except just relax, what did it matter, even if the person was gay, you just had to not worry about stuff. He did not care, probably did not even notice. Maybe old people lose a sense of touch. Imagine I had banged my knee into the woman in the seat beside me? She would have slapped my face. Maybe not. Your bodies have to touch when you sit together. Bodies are bodies but do not make a fetish of them. That was Celia; fetish. She had relationships with women too and these were ambiguous, they really were. One time in the union bar she was lying with her head in another woman’s lap. She was. What did that mean? Not sex surely. But if ambiguous was the word then surely that is what it meant. If a thing is ambiguous there is a sexual connotation. What other word could it be? The elderly man’s knee was not ambiguous, not for one minute, he was just a good old guy. I thought he was, he did not care about bodies.