James Kelman - A Disaffection

Although he had a bath in his own place, at certain times of the day there was something about bathing there that did not appeal. It had to do with the imagination. Then the rituals. He was aye having to perform rituals, such as counting to thirty before getting up out the water, counting another thirty once he had dressed and was about to unsnib the door. The light switch for the bathroom was through the wall, in the lobby. Sometimes he found himself having to step out backwards. Other times he forced himself to stay in the bathroom and reach round to switch it off. And the idea of his wrist being grabbed by an unknown assailant whose intent was murder! And of course the obvious point: how come he snibbed the bathroom door if there was nobody else in the house? Because he was frightened. It was simple. He was just actually frightened. Not badly, but just that wee bit. These old tenement buildings were erected more than a century ago. What had they not seen? What had they not borne witness to? And with him having been locked away in the bathroom for almost an hour all these auld memories were becoming the more palpable. That outlandish image he kept getting of something like a crowd of masked stormtroopers, shadowy dark figures, who rode slowly ben from the kitchen; muffled conversations were in progress, desultory, matter-of-fact; they were just travelling on their way maybe and he was observing from a different dimension, neither able to be seen nor to influence any event that might take place. Daft of course. What’s the point in dredging up these mental things. People dont. They keep quiet. Quite right too, it’s fucking stupit. Grey figures. And not evil though definitely spectral. There is no question about Patrick’s being an atheist but, however, when one

All-powerful deities have got nothing to do with it.

Also, using the bath in his parents’ place was a nice and peaceful method of exploiting them and they enjoyed being exploited by him. They would like it if he moved back into the family home, into the spare room. But he wasnt about to do that. It was not a possibility.

Chocolates are a nonsense to give to a grown adult. But she was so hard to give presents to, she just didni like them. You give your maw a present and then you’re in playing with the wee boy across the stair and you notice his maw’s got the selfsame present, the one you had saved the pennies to buy, your maw’s given it away to her. What a psychological slap on the gub that was for a kid! Uch was it fuck it was good experience. It made you feel a wee bit hurt at the time mind you but that’s good, good training. And weans need to learn; if they never learn they’ve never discovered. O dear. Patrick closed his eyes, but opened them again. If he could stop all this internal and external sighing the world would be a more upright place.

The football had been good. Amazing how much he still enjoyed it — the actual game itself, never mind the getting-out-and-about and seeing folk and being part of a crowd. It was a good and interesting game to watch. He had been yapping about that with Joe Cairns the other day and Joe asked him if he wanted to help out with the school teams. It was sincerely meant. But it would entail one more evening per week, plus of course almost the whole of every Saturday.

Ach as well, no use sighing over juvenile dreams. When he went to kick the ball during training it would bounce off his knee, bounce off his cheek when he tried to head it; never mind all his fucking theory. Rotten auld bastards, Zeus and his fucking henchmen; all sitting there on Olympus cutting cards on the individual fates of wo/mankind. If Patrick could only get his big toe wedged in the cold tap a plumber would come and rescue him and if in Russia or Eastern Europe or someplace else where female plumbers

Alison Alison Alison

Are you the woman for me

I’ve been lying here sinking

A rhyme for ee apart from pee?

The penis floats on the sudsy surface of the water.

Mirs Houston.

Mirs Houston.

She wears an illfitting blouse, having neglected to don the bra, her brassiere, that underbodice women wear to support the breasts.

My god, the pathos.

No but that would be the way of it. It would be. Her breasts. The texture of the skin so different from his own. Her nipples probably that dark reddish brown you see. Dear dear, the pity of it: Patrick has never really actually ever, never really actually ever, been, the way that the female and the male are with each other, lying side by side in broad daylight during entire stretches of time such as days, days, whole days, body to body, just kissing and lying, lying there. He can imagine for example cupping one of her breasts in his hands the way that maybe an artist would, just testing its weight and substance, its texture; while being watched by her in an amused way, her being kindly and gently amused by him, by how he is so interested, so fascinated — in a sense not even erotically as such but even fuck it’s terrible to say, aesthetically. Aesthetically interested in tits. But tits are wonderful. In the name of christ. Poor old Patrick. P for Pat. P rhymes with pee. And p for pipe so fuck off. And p for prick of course what about p for ptarmigan.

His feet moved in the water; he waggled his toes, disturbing the surface, causing ripples. Masturbation could never be a possibility here in the home of his parents. That was one thing about P. Doyle. That was one tried and true thing about him. This is how come he’s the man you see today. What the fuck does that mean. It just means that eh etcetera.

Fried fish in eggy breadcrumbs; chips and tomato and sweetcorn. The sweetcorn was an innovation. They had never had such luxurious delicacies when he was a boy! Sweetcorn by christ! Mind you it was tasty. Why did he never buy fucking things like that? sweetcorn. He would have to remember it.

His bloody damn maw had set the table properly, the nice tablecloth and so on, its creases well apparent; fresh linen from the drawer! And the condiments: salt and two flavours of sauce, tomato ketchup and the brown stuff; a clear vinegar and a wee jar of mint dressing for the fish. The cups and the saucers and a plate with biscuits. Cut bread and a dish of actual butter as opposed to margarine, something they insisted upon. Table setting was a dying art. But no grace was spoken nowadays. It had been when Gavin and Pat were boys. It had all stopped. And no analysis. Okay, but a nice kind of general thanksgiving would be no bad thing. Get rid of the silly theological aspect but surely there had to be room in this planet for secular appreciation? Surely there had to be a place for good fucking atheists who wanted to say thank christ I’m no starving to death and I’m able to sit down amongst friends and relations! Or was there? Maybe there wasnt. Maybe the very idea was a load of sentimental drivel.

He had sliced the fish and was isolating the bones. A fact to be admitted: he preferred fish à la chip shop because they always contained far fewer bones. He liked to pretend that this preference had to do with saving time in the course of eating, but it was nothing of the kind. His maw looked at her plate as she ate. She had glanced at him.

Good fish, he said.

Whiting.

Yeh, I thought it was actually haddock.

Too wee for haddock, replied his da.

I wouldni be too sure nowadays, said Mrs Doyle. At one time you might’ve said that but no now.

Of course ye know if you’re buying your fish at the pier it’s twice the size of what you get here in Glasgow, Mr Doyle said, I mean dont think because it’s whiting it’s got to be a wee fish. Some whiting ye get’s big. But the best of the catch aye gets sent down south to England. The posh big restaurants, it’s them that buys it all up. Mr Doyle glanced at Pat: Yous go on and on about Scotland’s oil, well they’ve been stealing our fish for years.