James Kelman - A Disaffection

Alison’s husband always said nothing. He stood in the background. It was possible he had a deeply rooted inferiority complex. In the company of teachers a great many folk suffer the same problem. Teachers intimidate people. He was a funny sort of bloke in some ways and didnt remind you of a high powered salesman at all; he was more like something else, an undercover detective perhaps, working for the Economic League or Special Branch, or MI5 and the CIA. It was possible. Everybody knew they had all infiltrated the educational establishments of the entire country, and that includes primary schools and nurseries. If Alison

Ah christ.

He dropped the gear from top to third to second, slowing at the roundabout up from the Motherwell sliproad, returning back onto the M74, heading home to Glasgow.

How to progress through the rest of the night. He tried reading, different volumes, and then listening to foreign stations on his shortwave radio. It was all useless. His mind was just too totally crazy. At one stage he thought he was going to burst out greeting. He had been sitting with his toes toasting at the fire and had managed to read nearly two pages of a book, the memoirs of an old politician, and then he had to stop and start and stop and start and at last shut his eyelids so tightly, so tightly, to halt the tears. Now, that was something about Kierkegaard. Patrick had never quite managed to trust him for it; and it was that, it was to do with that; but just leave it there, just leave it; and dont even get it out, what you are thinking, close to thinking, dont even try it.

He shut the book and was fiddling about beneath his chair. What was he doing he was looking for his shoes he was going to go out again. Where was he going, to the boozer probably, he felt like a pint, a last pint, or maybe two, the two pints, if he swallowed that down he’d sleep alright, the sleep of the just. The just fucking knackered. Where’s the shoes. The shoes have walked. The shoes are over next to the bed. But he was fucking knackered. And why shouldnt he be, out fucking teaching all day. It was something that annoyed him, the way a lot of bastards scoffed at the work teachers performed in return for their time off, as if they didni deserve it. Bastards. Fucking bastards. He closed his eyelids and strode the three paces to the sideboard so that when he stopped and opened them and look straight ahead he would be looking into the wall mirror and seeing the two little fuckers there in front of him, his eyes: look into my eyes, especially when they’re fucking your own, look into them, see the sharp lines of light, the way they mock you, the little bastards, your eyes, what the fuck do they look at all the time, what do they see, do they perceive, when they are not honest and not steady, when they are fucking dishonest and always fucking not being steady.

The pipes. In all their majesty of colour. The bright silver and red and black. Shiny and fine. The painting had been a good idea. It was a freshness. Perhaps as well as if he blocked up the ends so that the sound would be more correct, without any too much

There existed very long saxophones from years ago. The player sat on the chair like a cellist; that same sort of feeling to it as well — unlike for example the way a harpist would be: the whole act differing in a very fundamental sense. Although harpists are fine. There is nothing to be said against harpists by any means whatsoever.

Patrick lifted the thinner of the two and he returned it to the floor and he lifted the other and carried it, in leisurely fashion, across to the bow windows, there being a pair of them in this room, the front room, what the old folk referred to as the parlour, what his grandparents had referred to as the parlour, the room wherein nothing occurred but the dusting of irrelevant objects twice weekly or monthly as the case may be, in that of Doyle P., never. Would his grandparents ever have had sexual activity in the parlour? Did this type of query take the form a family would acknowledge as valid or would it be recognised at once as unsound, an inauthentic entity that already proved beyond the shadow of a doubt the massive gulf between on the one hand this university-trained younger son of the household

And yet, he does precisely the same. This room has no function. It is an appendage. There are large numbers of homeless people and Master Patrick Doyle has this room wherein nothing takes place.

Sentimental drivel.

No it isni.

Sleet again, pelting the windows. He liked to stand here staring out but aye took care to have the curtains partly drawn so not to be witnessed from below. A lassie used to stand at one of the windows across the street. It’s not that he was a peeping tom, but if she happened to be standing there then Pat enjoyed seeing her, but kept back so not to be seen; it would be awful to be seen. Imagine the headlines. Singleman found peeping out window. Patrick Doyle, schoolteacher and bachelor was today found guilty of being a peeping tom. Such improper conduct cannot and will not be tolerated, said Mr Milne, headmaster of the school in question. No excuse for it either. But it was just one of these aspects of the single, the solitary — probably if he had been a married man he would have spent half his life jumping up and down in broad daylight, naked.

He replaced the pipe next to its mate. He went out into the lobby and picked up the telephone receiver and dialled seven digits and after a short delay his brother had lifted the other receiver and said: Hullo?

Gavin?

Aye.

Pat.

Aw hullo. How’s things?

Fine. How’s things yourself?

Okay. No bad … Want to speak to Nicola?

Okay.

Hang on and I’ll get her.

Alright. Patrick took the receiver away from his ear but was still listening carefully, gazing at the coat and jackets on the pegs facing the front door. Then movement and Nicola:

Hullo. Pat?

Aye hullo eh I was just …

Everything alright?

Fine, aye. Naw it was just, I was trying to phone the parents earlier on but I kept getting an engaged tone.

Did you?

Aye and I was just wondering if you’d heard anything yourself.

Is that recently?

Well it’s about an hour ago.

You should try again.

Aye, I was just thinking it was a wee bit late.

It’ll be alright Pat, it’s no even eleven yet.

True.

And they’re usually up till midnight.

True.

…

…

So how’s school?

Aw fine, fine. How’s the wee yins?

Elizabeth had the cold.

Christ.

It was just a cold.

Is she okay now?

It was just a cold Pat, aye, she’s fine.

Is she back at her playgroup?

She was only off for one day! You know what like she is.

Yeh …! Patrick smiled. And how’s wee John?

Aw! Need ye ask!

Okay?

Yeh.

Good.

…

…

So when you coming round for your tea!

When am I coming round for my tea, I’m coming round for my tea any time ye like!

You always say that and you never do, you make excuses.

I do not.

Yes you do.

Patrick laughed.

Listen, we’re having some friends up a week tomorrow. Nothing fancy. Bring your own bottle.

Sounds good.

So you’ll come?

Aye.

You can bring somebody as well of course I dont have to tell ye.

Great; good.

So you’re definitely coming?

Yeh.

I’ll hold you to it then.

Fine.

Tch, Pat, you’re a pest.

Pardon?

A pest.

What do you mean?

I mean you’ll no come, that’s what I mean.

I will.

No you wont.

…

It’s a week tomorrow. Any time after eight o’clock. But you could come at teatime and get something to eat.

Great.

You’ll let me down if ye dont come.