James Kelman - A Disaffection

not well perhaps. As if Patrick would end up not well.

Fucking not well! He was fucking not well right now. Right fucking now. He was christ almighty in fucking bad trouble. Bad trouble. What did it take! What did it fucking take! Here he was about to resign from school in order to play the pipes. Play the fucking pipes! In the name of christ. Fucking predicament and a half that was. For somebody who was supposed to be not off his head, somebody who was supposed to be not cracking up.

Alison.

My god. She was holding a circular tray with the drinks standing aboard. A smile on her face: yet downcast, in her gaze — not to be looking at one if not at the other. Being equal to the pair of them in other words, the two men.

That was typical. That was what like she was. But this type of equality, it was surely a way of sounding the death-knell. Patrick stood to his feet and saluted as she sat down; he then bowed.

Such a gentleman, she said.

Just apologising for the last faux pas.

She nodded.

Total sexism, you were dead right to pull me up for it.

I know I was.

Of course I earn more money than you.

What?

I earn more than you do.

Dont be stupid.

‘I’m no being stupid Alison; I earn more than ye; it’s to do with responsibility payments and these exam study group reports.

What?

Patrick shrugged. We’re no supposed to tell anybody.

You’re being stupid.

I’m no.

That’s unpaid work.

That’s what you think.

Alison made no response for a moment, then she said to Norman, See how rumours can start!

Norman looked from her to Patrick and back to her again, smiling.

And she said, God Pat sometimes you can be a real pain.

He grinned and raised his glass of tomato juice: Slàinte! He tasted it and grimaced.

Serve ye right, she muttered.

The temporary English teacher chuckled but became serious at once. He said, I applaud you for it. I used to drive a motor myself but I found it nearly impossible to keep off the bevy. I mean properly. At the wind-up I more or less had to chuck it all the gether, the driving I’m talking about. It was a case of either/or, the drink or the car.

Patrick gaped at him. Is that the truth?

Yeh.

For fuck sake.

It would be impossible for him! said Alison.

Ah well it isni easy, replied Norman, the temporary English teacher. He grinned and raised his tumbler. All the best, he said to the two of them before taking a drink.

Patrick watched him follow it up with a sip of his half-pint of beer. It was the action of the strong drinker, the comfortable drinker. Something Patrick was not. He wasnt a comfortable drinker; and nor was he a strong drinker — not particularly, not in comparison to others. You only had to see others to appreciate the point. Although maybe if he didni have a motor he would drink a bit more. You married? he asked Norman.

Yeh.

Patrick nodded.

And Norman frowned, then smiled.

Dont pay him any attention Norman! Where marriage is concerned Mister Doyle is inclined to get things into his head!

Aw thanks Alison thanks a lot.

Well so ye are.

Am I.

Yes! Alison chuckled and flicked her lighter at a new cigarette.

Thanks.

For god sake dont take things so seriously Pat.

Alright but I just wish you wouldni go around making explanations on my behalf I mean fuck sake it’s terrible.

Sometimes you need explanations.

Okay but you still dont need to bloody christ you know what I’m talking about! Patrick shook his head; eventually he glanced at her; she was staring at him. He muttered, Sorry.

If you would just calm down.

I know.

Alison was looking at her wristwatch. I think we better go soon, otherwise they’ll be wondering whether we’re going to turn up at all.

Patrick said nothing. There wasnt anything he wanted to say. He footered with his drink. He lifted it to his lips, returned it to the table. Norman had started talking. That was good, it was good that he was talking. And in a friendly manner he was acting as if he was including Pat in the conversation although obviously he wasnt thank christ because it was really boring — it was to do with being a teacher. And suddenly there was that awful feeling, that awful feeling; it was a feeling

what was it like it was like as if, as if, just as if things werent going aright, not going aright. It would be great being whisked straight home on a magic carpet. One of Goya’s things. But it was definitely the sort of situation, the kind that it was burdensome to remove from, to just carry on within, it was even just carrying on in the company for fuck sake that was difficult and to be able to reach freedom, to be able to get out from under this and away, away, gone, freedom, liberation, flying high in the fucking sky, away way up so high, out of reach. He raised the tomato juice to his mouth, right in front of his nose, and attempted to taste it with relish, an act of great heroerism. He grinned and said to Norman: This stuff is only palatable with vodka.

Norman nodded, breaking off from what he had been speaking about.

Alison smiled. She said: I think it’s good you showing this new-found resolution Mister Doyle.

Patrick did not look in her direction for several seconds. When he did he chuckled.

Alison had her bag in hand and was arising from her seat. Maybe she would float straight up with a pair of angel wings flapping. He shook his head, grinning; returned his empty glass to the table although there again the glass could hardly be described as empty with all the dregs of tomato it contained. He stood up alongside Norman. They followed her to the car, Patrick waiting until both were inside; he shut the passenger door, strolled round to the driver’s side.

When he eased off the handbrake he was not going to the arts centre. He turned to inform Alison but she was listening to Norman who was telling her something Mister Mills had said. Mister Mills was the second headmaster, otherwise known as MI6. Once more it was pretty boring stuff but probably he should have taken note of what was being said if only for the sake of future reference to do with social obligations in a freemarket economy, but he had the road to watch, being the driver and all that ergo having to take care not to crash the fucking machine. And it appeared as though Norman, the soon-to-be-erstwhile, was no longer even pretending to seek his attention. He was now swivelled sideways on the seat, actually straining to see into her eyes it looked like. And him being married as well, was his marital state satisfactory? did he have children? sitting here chatting away with Mirs Houston in this fashion. It was strange how married folk aye seemed to rush headlong at each other. Here you had millions of single people all crowding out the gravitational waves and all anybody was interested in was another married person. It was actually unfair. Daft as it may sound, it was unfair. I’m not going to bother going, he said, glancing sideways as the car approached a junction. He glanced to the other side then to the first side once again.

Neither of the pair answered until the vehicle’s path had been manoeuvered safely onto the main road. You’re not going to bother going? said Alison.

The arts centre I mean, I’m no going.

O Pat.

Nah it’s just all the faces christ you know what I’m talking about, ye see them all week and then at the weekend you’re supposed to meet them all again during the leisure time. Sometimes I find it hard. Desmond and them, Mrs Bryson.

Mrs Bryson just goes home on Friday evenings.

Ah but Desmond’ll be there and so will Diana and Joe Cairns.

Alison didn’t respond. Patrick glanced into the rearview mirror: she was peering out the window.