James Kelman - A Disaffection

So: what was he going to do he was going to write out a list of things to do, that he could do, this afternoon:

1) Football match; Clyde versus Raith Rovers. Always a good game between these two so that was a real possibility.

2) Phoning up Gavin to see if he was doing anything. He could be going to a game — maybe to see the Thistle, but if Clyde were at home the Thistle would be away. So that’s that. Gavin doesnt stray too far because it means leaving Nicola with the weans. In fact, these days, Saturday afternoon was becoming a time when they did things together, these two. He could phone up and offer to babysit, then they could make a real day of it.

3) He could do something else. He could go out and maybe go to the Art Gallery or else go up the town and see if he could buy himself a pair of shoes. O dear, why is life so exciting. He could go and sign himself in at a highclass hotel and kid on he was somebody else. People did that. They signed themselves into hotels under assumed names and had a laugh, pretending they were members of BOSS and the CIA and so on. So fucking belaboured with boredom but that was the problem. Pat grinned. He crumpled the notepaper. Life was daft at times. He uncrumpled the notepaper. In fact the football was not a bad idea. He ticked it off.

And Yoker Athletic was playing at home today. The sign had been up when he passed along Dumbarton Road yesterday evening. He could go and see them. He had a soft spot for the Yoker since working in Clydebank and an expupil had played for them, a good midfield player with a tremendous shot. He used to take their penalty kicks and their free kicks. It was a couple of years since he had left the team for pastures unknown. Patrick never saw his name in any team lists, so probably the boy had just not made the grade. But Yoker was a good wee team at present and they were playing the Perthshire; a tough match was in prospect. Okay. Or else he could fix the car! That was an outstanding chore. Chores. What the hell job did he tackle first? The rust or the fucking hinges of the door. He could maybe start by giving under the bonnet a good cleaning and oiling, then sand down some of the panel rust and consider using the Cataloy. He would have to buy the Cataloy. Okay then. Also there were some wee jobs needing done about the house. That terrible draught coming in the kitchen window so a putty round the frame wouldni go amiss. Dirty washing to the launderette of course but that was a Sunday job. He could go up the Barrows and have a look through the secondhand books and records, and also their antiques. He knew fuck all about antiques but this maths teacher by the name of Bill Todd went regularly and was supposed to be making a small fortune, finding stuff which he then resold to dealers apparently. It was a good hobby and with luck he hoped to finish with teaching forever. Good luck to him for christ sake you had to wish him well. But on a Saturday afternoon! Browsing among antiques! The guy deserved to succeed with that kind of tenacity.

Have a bath and listen to the sport on the radio. Take in a couple of books, maybe blast out some music.

No. And the one omission from that list of course suicide! Imagine failing to mention suicide. Plus he could maybe buy a wee something for his maw’s birthday. He should at least have sent her a card. The da would go in a huff about it — very subtly of course, it would take Pat the rest of the week to appreciate it had actually happened. Ah well, it was his own fault. If people wanted to go in the huff then they could go and fucking fuck themselves.

Maybe there was an artshow on somewhere. But what if he had been an artist himself! Being an actual painter! Or sculptor! What age was Meurier when he kicked the bucket? What a fucking stupit expression! And why worry about folk’s ages. That is the problem with being lonely, dwelling on the advantages and disadvantages of living on into a ripe old age. And most of these painters lived forfuckingever — never mind Goya, look at auld Pablo and Renoir. There again but, it is perfectly laudable that such as the elder Rossi should retain his overriding interest in the affairs of the family business, that, okay, such as Goya should remain so interested in the fate of humanity, Picasso spending all his latter years on sex and female beauty in general, and the old Eubie Blake still tickling the ivories at a fucking hundred odd years and telling everybody if he knew he was gonni live so long he’d have taken better fucking care of himself.

They were all dead now right enough — apart from auld Rossi. Maybe Pat could murder him and get in the good books of the rest of the family.

He picked a book down from the shelves to the side of the mantelpiece. When he opened it at his mark he was aware of the cold in his fingers and he saw himself as Ebenezer Scrooge with death impending, the icicles spreading up the joints of his old bones. Christ that was a horrible way of seeing at yourself at the relatively young age of twenty-nine. Twenty-nine! Christ almightly he’s a boy, a boy — what’s this talk of death all the time! Just turn up the fire full blast and if you really are cold then switch on the oven and leave the door open. The place’ll be hot in seconds. There isnt any point in being economical in these matters. Hypothermia isnt the property of the elderly. Other people can have it too. Normally he wasnt a skinflint by any means but lately, lately it could seem to be the case if other folk had chanced to witness his actions in particular monetary situations. Take for example the manner whereby he allowed the temporary English teacher to buy him drink after drink and then be content to have Alison buy him the next yin, without getting a further round in on his own behalf. But there again mind you, he never ever charged petrol money for all these trips in the motor. It was aye him having to drive everybody else about, a chauffeur without the uniform. On ye go James and dont spare the fucking horses. And nobody thinking to say O here ye are Paddy my boy, a couple of bob towards the price of a gallon or three — plus the wear and tear on the engine and bodywork for christ sake because all that running about costs dough. And then the time involved.

A bang on the landing outside. The neighbours’ door.

Patrick was in the lobby and listening at the keyhole. With a wee spyhole affixed things would be even more interesting. He could have witnessed the actual intruder! All so fucking fascinating! Was it a murderer out there? less than four yards from where your man was now crouching … sshhh … hear that muffled breathing … ssshhh … a beautiful and enigmatic woman … a door-to-door seller of evangelical merchandise.

That creak on the lobby floor! It was another oddjob he might undertake; two or three nails in the floorboards and that would be that. But this kind of task was doomed to be ever beyond him. Especially after these past few days. In fact, when it comes down to it, last week was a bastard, and worse was to come — the future!

And yet the temperature had to be rising surely. March for fuck sake I mean things like sleet are a joke, a joke. March is the basic spring according to many, the month wherein that season begins, that month which blows away the last of wintry chills and coughs and sneezes. There was of course something he could do right at this moment in time, he could turn the fire on fullblast like he said he would and also the oven fullblast with the door open and in general be turning this place into a fucking hothouse cum sauna, a really cosy place to be. He did have it in his power to make of this kitchen a warm and very pleasantly habitable abode. Not even bothering to go out the entire weekend but just remaining here at home, nice and comfortable, going about in the semmits and the swimming trunks, the summer sandals, beating nature at its own game. What was it Schiller said in reference to that? Or was it Heine? To do with defeating it, nature, overcoming it, developing your own aesthetic. And the irony of it was of course