James Kelman - A Disaffection

I dont go on about the oil at all, but okay da I take the point.

Yous dont complain about things, that’s what I mean.

We do so.

Aye you , but nobody else.

It’s no as bad as that da … Pat grinned and he forked a chip into the sauce at the side of the plate. I’m no the only one that complains.

O naw, right enough, so does your brother!

Mrs Doyle sighed and gazed briefly at the ceiling.

Mr Doyle glanced at her:

I’m no saying nothing. What am I saying? nothing! Mr Doyle frowned at Patrick: I’m no saying nothing.

Two nos make a yes, said Pat, so you’re definitely saying something! He winked at his maw who sighed again:

Dont start him Pat.

He doesni need me to start him!

Mr Doyle stared at Pat then he smiled for a moment. How did ye no give me a phone? If I’d knew you were going to a game I’d have went with ye — I’ve no been to watch a match for months. Since Charlie died! Mr Doyle glanced at Mrs Doyle and his mouth curved in a manner Patrick couldni remember having noticed before. His da was saying, We went up to see the Jags at the end of last season — a no-hope league game against Queen of the South. They got beat too! Imagine that. Imagine getting beat by Queen of the South. At home? Ho! No way. Bad.

The Thistle have fell by the wayside, said Patrick.

And they’ll no come back, said his da. Charlie Murray’ll no come back either. He winked at Pat and gestured at Mrs Doyle: Somebody in the company’ll be pleased to hear that!

John, that’s no nice.

It’s no nice but it’s true.

The man’s dead, we dont want to hear about it.

She didni like him Pat, your maw there, she didni like him. Mr Doyle glanced at her: How come you didni like him?

I just didni, okay?

Mr Doyle winked at Pat. She just didni.

It was spur of the moment, said Pat, about going to the game. If I’d thought about it earlier I’d have phoned you.

Aw aye I know that.

I’ll mind the next time.

His da nodded, and he went on to ask about the game; they continued chatting about football generally and it encompassed the football fixed odds coupon Mr Doyle had bet upon. Nottingham Forest had been beaten at home and this had beaten the whole bet. Patrick found this not so much boring as undecidable and his brains were becoming fankled. His maw was still eating; she ate in a very painstaking fashion, unless she was maybe having problems with her dentures; it was almost like she had to break the food all up on the plate before inserting it into her mouth. For a brief period the talk returned to fish and the quality of fresh in comparison to frozen and back to how the best stuff ended up in the high-class kitchens of English eating establishments. A homely sort of prejudice this, hating the posher restaurants of England, the kind of prejudice you can relax into in a sleepy sort of way. Sopor soporifimus. As a boy Pat had the welcome habit of falling asleep at the table — except that his maw used to bang him on the elbow. The mastication process seemed to last eternally. Big long stringy bits of fatty mutton. One end was in your stomach and the other end was still between your teeth and if you gulped suddenly it sprang back out your mouth. Sleep was the only method of coping. It was surprising he never choked to death. His maw of course, banging him.

When you are a wean things do last eternally. Literally. That is a literal truth, about the nature of the eternal. And kids have apprehended it. When Pat was a boy he was a much better individual than he is nowadays, having lost a great deal. And his da was looking tired and drawn, his skin drooped at the jowels and around the eyes and he was looking a lot more than fifty-seven years of age it was terrible to state, but true. The maw was also looking tired and there was something else in her face, a fixed kind of irritated expression. She had come into the conversation now; it had got round to football hooligans and she mentioned something in reference to himself so he would have to become involved. It was not too difficult, a case of clearing the throat and speaking. At a point in the future he would get the conversation round to revolution, its efficacy or otherwise in reference to the vagaries of childrearing, and the single man. She did look tired. That was because she was having to attend to him, Pat’s da. But here she was on about that hoary old prejudice, the mollycoddling of today’s school-weans in comparison to those sterling youngsters of yesteryear. He laid his knife and fork on the plate and said, Maw, you’re prejudiced.

I’m no prejudiced at all, you just stick up for them.

I dont. I just tell the bloody truth, as I see it.

I’m no saying ye dont, but let’s face it as well Pat, ye do like to be different.

Naw I dont.

Your maw’s right, said Mr Doyle. The same with bringing back the belt, you’ve got to be different there too.

Tch da.

Nay tch da about it — you’ve aye been against the belt. But at least the weans’ll show some damn respect. And you canni deny it.

Aye I can.

What? Naw you canni. You canni deny it.

Of course I can, I can deny anything I like and I’m denying that.

Och … Mr Doyle shook his head and turned from him a moment. Then he said: Aye well it never done anybody any bloody harm.

Da, it never done anybody any bloody good either.

It never done anybody any bloody harm!

Aye but it never done anybody any bloody good!

Wwh!

Less of the argy-bargy, said Mrs Doyle.

It’s no argy-bargy maw it’s conversation.

Aye well, conversation, it’s noisy … She looked at Patrick. He had lifted his fork; he pierced a chip and ate it. His da said:

Your maw doesni like noisy conversations. Dont ye no Kate?

That’s right.

See! His da gave Pat a false smile.

Mrs Doyle sniffed slightly: Yous’ll end up arguing.

Patrick nodded. After a pause he swallowed a mouthful of tea and resumed eating. He took another slice of bread and wiped up the sauce at the rim of his plate. His da was looking at him. Pat glanced at him. They both looked away. It was quite sad because it was hitting old nerves or something and shouldni have been causing such a big kerfuffle. He looked at his da again but there was nothing he could give him. He couldnt. He couldnt give him anything. He didnt deserve to be given anything. So how come he should be given it? People get what they deserve in this life. Even parents. Maws and das. They dont have a special dispensation. Except maybe from the queen or the pope or any other of these multibillionaire capitalist bastards. But no from their equals, they dont get any dispensation from them. So fuck off.

Sauce streaks on the plate. Crockery is a chalk-like substance. Clay, china; china-clay.

Well: at least he was freshly scrubbed and sweet-smelling. And he had minded to buy the fucking box of chocolates. And then too, also, he could leave soon, as soon as he was ready and it was decently acceptable within this stench of a society. Once that was done, once that was completed, finalised.

Bringing things from there to here. Moving from one position to the one that comes next. A sprinkle of magic dust and a boisterous abracadabra, the puff of smoke and Pat materialising back in his own kitchen, in front of the fire. He should have gone straight home after the match. He just shouldni have come here. How come he came? He shouldni have fucking came. It was stupid. Guilt probably. His first visit in three weeks — nearer a month in fact. Who cares. No point in worrying over it.

The fish was a dead animal. It had lain there on the plate open for inspection, eager to impress s/he who is about to partake. Just please devour me. I’m as good as the next thing you’ll catch. Whatever you do dont not do it, dont not devour me, I’m a good wee fish. Courageous and heroic. Its body sliced open for examination by the education authority. Give it a tick. A plus. Five out of ten. Fine for a Glasgow table but dont send it south to the posher restaurants of England.