James Kelman - A Disaffection

Is there a party at whose door the blame can be lain. Apart from the fucking obvious. The schoolweans dont seem able to comprehend the obvious. Although no doubt they go rushing straight home each day to inform their parents of the day’s indoctrination who then pass on the information to the proper authorities, the name Doyle P., being filed under something or other which is not very good in terms of promotion e.g. Subversive Blasphemers: One Who Seeks To Overthrow The Present Government And Do Away With Plutocracy And An Hierarchical System Based Upon Monarchy. Plus other things as well of course, not excluding the daily denial of the deities. Which deities? Any fucking deities. When it comes to deities Doyle isni fussy. For christ sake even blowing the pipes could get him listed; an early-warning sign of senile dementia — coupled with that suspicious state of bachelordom while in charge of the nation’s children; a bloke who would probably, if the truth be told, be much more at home sitting in the queue of the local DHSS office. What the fuck was Old Milne wanting to see him about? Whatever it was it would include some paternal advice of course. Old bastards like him seized every possible opportunity for dishing that kind of stuff out. Aye well Patrick has plenty of paternals of his own. That was the last thing he needed, another of the bastards. Plus what he didni need, what he did not need, not at all, was another Alison. In the cold light of day, when sexual gratification has receded into the distant horizon, when he is once more of the disposition

In fact, she is not even what can objectively be described as ‘good looking’. Dark hair and dark eyes. She has been described as ‘beautiful’ but at certain oblique angles at certain times of the day, Patrick has been totally flabbergasted to see

Fuck sake she is just woman and that’s that. No paragon there. Nothing to get all het up about. Also her political stance, it is somewhat innocent — naïve is a better word. She believes the future exists! Unbelievable! So why then does he have this urge? Even in the cold and watery light of a late winter’s morning, a day such as today, he can imagine her speaking, actually imagine her speaking, listening or looking right at this very moment, and that smile she has, which is sentimental tollie, all adding up to the following:

Alison Houston has been available for some long time now but having become scunnered by the procrastinatory nature of potential lover number 1 (Doyle) she has opted for potential lover number 2 (Desmond). And at this moment, at this very moment, while her husband is out of town on a selling jamboree, the two of them, they are sharing a bed maybe, lying beneath the big quilt, her just absent-minded there and smiling at nothing at all, moving slightly, her

When Patrick was a boy

Get out of the house.

The house is not a place to be. Get out of it. There is the great temptation. It is not to be spoken of. Because once stated it has become part of something or other — reality. Patrick stood to his feet, of course, smiling. He turned to face the kitchen door and he began to walk to it, to place his hand on the handle, opening this door, this door that can lead into the parlour wherein lie the pipes, or else the front door if he wishes to don an outer garment and he is continuing beyond it and into the parlour, this room wherein the pipes, in their constant temperature of let it be known roundabout the fifty-six to sixty-two degree mark Fahrenheit and this thinner of the two which he has lifted and seems to be examining is in fact the one his fancy aye leads him to but this morning it is the other, the thicker and the heavier, that is demanding the playing, that is requiring a form of attention. This thicker pipe was more enjoyable to paint, its space being vaster. Patrick now sitting on a dining chair, the pipe propped onto the left toe of his shoe. Once balanced correctly he covered the top opening with both hands, his mouth compressed into the right one, and the barest fraction of a gap only, and if he could stop that up too he was looking to do it, but it

and he had begun the sound high in his mouth, back near the gullet and up at the roof, and it was a kind of soh; and he lowered it, the sound now nearer the gums, a deeper note which he continued till his breath was giving out but he broke it off calmly before arriving at the gasp and he breathed in deeply but regularly, eyelids shut, no frown etched into the forehead and no smile. No nothing. Just getting on with making this sound he was making as if it was definitely everything in itself just to accomplish.

It took a wee while to reach beyond the moment because reflection not being possible and it being something he had to take absolutely for granted, no smiles even; not to take any risks because there was not anything at this stage worse than not getting it properly, not getting the thing done in its proper fashion, the nature of it not being sustainable, not sustainable, and then he was standing, now across to the window, no rain but looking set for it later, summing up how this winter had been, everything about it, even solid snow would have been better than continual rain, sleet, slush, soaking into everything and keeping folks huddled into coats and anoraks, hats and umbrellas so that they even found difficulty in seeing each other let alone engaging them in conversation. Maybe that was a basic explanation for Patrick’s state of mind. It would be good practice just to slow things down, just to take it more easily, be less aggressive with ordinary everyday details, petty items that cannot be helped. He shivered. The room was quite cold for people if not for pipes. He smiled, returning ben the kitchen. A coffee. Heat the toes at the fire.

A coffee, yes. It was not a bad kitchen. It was quite not unhomely. People wouldnt call it unhomely. Would a woman call it unhomely? Maybe a woman would call it unhomely. The last time his maw was here she shivered. What was wrong with that, everybody shivers now and again. In the middle of a fucking heatwave! Nah it was actually November, on her way back from visiting the da in the death ward at the Western which he had fortunately given the go-bye and got well and so on and left his cares behind, including death, ha ha.

Escape from the head, that was the best policy. The weekend had begun a while ago. It was almost Saturday afternoon. Okay. A time of the week for enjoyment. Of course it was. A time people anticipate with great pleasure. Certainly not a time for thinking: what the fuck happens now! or roll on next Friday so’s I can go for a publunch with a bunch of fucking schoolteachers. He had reached to the mantelpiece. What for? For a notepad and a pen. He was catching himself in the act of writing a letter to Eric. Imagine writing a letter to Eric? on a Saturday morning, only minutes away from Saturday midday, that great time of magic throughout the football-speaking world, when you hit the boozer for a couple of jars just prior to heading off to Ibrox or Parkhead or Firhill or Love Street or old Shawfield if the Clyde ever return. Well well well, and here he is about to write a boring letter. How are you and here is how I am and the school and do you ever do this and that and the next thing because it reminds me of when a few years back and the rest of it when it seems as if life was occurring whereas now for christ sake the very idea of writing to Eric. He was long overdue a reply but so what. Fuck that, a fucking Saturday, and you’re writing letters; he’d be as well returning to school and marking a stack of ink exercises. Okay. So

but poor old Eric, two letters and no response, he probably thinks P for Patrick has taken the huff at something because he used to be no a bad correspondent and now here he is, never a peep. So what. Who wants to fucking peep. Pat has never peeped in his fucking life and he doesni fucking intend to start fucking now, if it’s alright with you I mean d’you know what I’m fucking talking about I mean you dont have to fucking bloody damn christ you know what I’m fucking talking about — right. So