James Kelman - A Disaffection

Alison smiled.

The Commodore had offered security. Now she had none.

Dan d ran dan. What was the point. He shook his head. He noticed a cafe and signalled to park, and parked, putting the handbrake on and switching off the ignition — all of that, before looking at her.

Just to the side of the cafe entrance a man was standing, he was near enough a dosser as far as his clothes and general configuration could imply anything as to the nature of day-to-day existence and how a person makes progress, these small steps of advancement coincidental to the passage of the moon, the stars and sun, entire galazactic galazacticus. The actual cafe itself looked pathetic. I dont really fancy this place, he whispered as she prepared to get out of the car.

I dont either! she said.

Patrick laughed. But it wasnt a good laugh and the guy was watching them. He switched the ignition back on and as the motor moved out to the outer lane he said, He’s actually the owner’s nephew. His story’s quite sad. A few years back he was the maître d’hôtel at the Albany and a disaster struck during a banquet he was preparing.

Alison was listening. Are you talking nonsense? she said.

No.

She was waiting.

I’ll no say anything more but because I dont like gossiping.

She smiled, opened her handbag but closed it at once. I like to see you cheery Mister Doyle.

I’m always cheery Mirs Houston … Patrick swung the wheel, the motor passing through the lights and on up High Street. If only, and then they could have driven to some secluded niche near the Mediterranean seaside.

She looked at him. He smiled: Do you want to visit the oldest house in Glasgow?

No. She gazed out the window. I’d like to be able to sit down and drink a cup of coffee.

Pat frowned. What about just going to my place? having a coffee up there? Fancy it?

Okay. She nodded.

But why not; it was the ideal place. No worries about being seen by schoolweans or colleagues. It was one of the things that was bad, how it was so awkward just talking to members of the opposite sex, without the business being taken for something it wasnt. Especially awkward for someone like Alison, a married woman without weans, plus whose husband appeared to be not always living at home through no fault of either but just his job, its actual nature, leaving her the time and maybe even the mental state, to become involved with outsiders. And of course she was very much a woman who enjoyed the company of her colleagues, the company of other intellects, those with whom she could discuss freely the politics of the world. And no irony to govern that. Patrick said; I see Northamerica’s being its usual fascist self. Did you see the papers? about the assassination?

It’s disgusting.

Aye, and the rest of us just stand back and watch them do it.

Alison sighed but not passively. She was unsettled by the topic and no wonder either it was astonishing what was happening in the world these days and nobody seemed willing to even ponder on it in any even vaguely ethical manner such as usually fucking happened in the shitey west, amongst all these so-called powers who jumped to attention to offer a salute as soon as Washington so much as signalled an intention to fart. No point in talking. Sometimes you felt like making your own demonstration, like some of the monks in Asian countries, setting yourself on fire upon the steps of a public meeting house.

I’ll tell ye something Alison, sometimes I think I’ll just stop buying newspapers altogether, and just stop taking any interest in the news, in what’s going on.

O!

Ye dont agree?

Of course I dont agree.

Pat grinned. He shook his head. So, you dont agree eh! He was still grinning; it became a chuckle.

Soon he was swinging the wheel for the turn into his own street. Tricky corner this, he said, I nearly crashed into the lamppost last night.

Alison glanced across and nodded. She was obviously miles away and thinking of something else. And she could also have been slightly irritated. About different things. Imperialistic interventionism, the usual hegemonic practices, and his not wanting to read about them or even properly discuss them. But he was wanting to. He had only been kidding on. Surely she knew that. In fact, it was highly probable she was thinking: Here I am outside his close and what’s going to happen now. But really, it was out of order to think that about her because of the way it seemed to undercut the possibility of her total commitment to a political cause or stance, her own genuine perception of the world — a good perception of the world and very similar to his own i.e. she was opposed to hypocrisy and cant and fucking humbug. Patrick nodded. Actually Alison I dont really hide from things at all. I just said that there, about stopping buying papers and that. My fault is I take too much bloody damn interest and it gets me up to high doh worrying about it all, every last wee stupit bloody detail!

Alison smiled.

Good expression that! said Pat; up to high doh! DDooohh! My grannie used to say it.

Alison laughed.

Hey by the way, mind that pair of pipes I found at the back of the arts centre …? He had switched off the ignition and applied the handbrake while talking. And now he was reaching to open the door for her. He continued talking as he opened the door at his own side: I suppose ye know, he said, I suppose it’s really I suppose because I need some kind of escape, to give my brains a rest, that’s what I’m meaning! And he uttered the last bit simultaneously to his crashing of the door shut. And he strolled round to lock the passenger side. She was standing there gazing up at the roof of the building, perhaps allowing him to forget about the pipes for the sake of their common decency, their mutal face-saving, their unembarrassment, as if the pipes were an excruciatingly embarrassing subject and like a pair of bad-smelling underpants it was probably best to pap them straight out into the fucking midgy, instead of trying to get them clean.

Look at the weeds growing out of the gutter, said Alison, pointing upwards. The tall weeds could be seen way up there, their stems overshooting the edge of the roof.

Christ aye …

She had waited for him, and they entered the close together.

Is your close better than this yin? he asked.

Not much.

He gestured at the peeling paintwork as they ascended. He began whistling a tune, not pausing on any of the landings although he was aware she might be interested to see out into the backcourt — if only so she could gain time before having to enter his flat. In case he fucking grabbed her like one of these stupid Romeo and Juliet affairs of the silent screen. My darling, how I’ve longed for this moment! Smack smack smack. The sound of the kissing. And then too her somewhat sly wee insinuation of a comment to do with the state of the roof guttering which he was best to ignore — as if he was dutybound to start agitating over the probable build-up of rainwater or something.

There was a side to Alison, a sort of subdued sarcasm. It could be an attractive thing about her; there again though, othertimes — othertimes he could imagine being her husband and not liking it at all, not one wee bit. You would never be quite sure

On the top storey he had his back to her while unlocking the door and he stood aside to allow her entry. Inside he said, Monday tomorrow! as he closed the front door.

The weekends seem to get shorter dont they?

Yeh, aye. Patrick grinned. He breathed in deeply, smelling her great perfume so strongly. It was a good thing to have said, about the weekends. He hung his jacket on a hook, showing her into the kitchen. He walked past her to get to the electric fire switch. He shivered. It was bloody freezing of course and he should’ve kept the fucking jacket on till the place heated up. He frowned at Alison: You finding it cold?