James Kelman - A Disaffection

A bit.

Yeh … he switched both bars on. Then he put on the gas oven, pulling wide its door to let the heat blast out. He rubbed his hands together, slapped them and blew into them quite fiercely. He chuckled at Alison. Her shoulders were hunched and she was making nervous kind of shivering noises. They didni have to be nervous of course they could simply have been natural responses to the cold. But no; of course they were nervous. Him as well, his actions, they were every bit as nervous. He turned and stepped to the sink, now with his hands in his trouser pockets, whistling once more. The kettle of course. He filled it with water, set it to boil. Alison had gone immediately to the books, her attention quickly taken by one; she lifted it from its shelf, and moved that wee bit nearer to the fire in a beautiful, absent manner. She was beautiful. It was funny. There was just no getting away from it, as a fact, even if he had wanted to. And the breakfast stuff still lay on the tiles in front of the fire, plus the empty mugs on the mantelpiece and the Observer fucking sections on the rug christ. It just meant he hadnt envisaged her presence. It meant he had never for one real and genuine minute imagined she could ever arrive here in this place, his house. Who could have imagined that? No fucker. And too, quietly studying the book in hand, taking the weight of her body onto her left foot, the right leg bent at the knee. It was one of these poses, good kind of poses, classic; he could imagine being a sculptor and motioning her to the side a little, and back a little, and so on, capturing the shadows of the folds in her coat, these long spiral shapes — curved cuboidals. Curved cuboidals? He strolled to clear the crockery and stuff from where it was lying, stacked it on the side of the sink; he put away the newspapers. He had no milk. The powdered stuff would be okay but he should have had milk because it would be better. I forgot to buy milk, he said. He smiled and shook his head. Daft — I forgot all about it.

It’s okay.

Are you sure? I’ve got powdered stuff; ye just mix it in; it’s fine.

I dont take milk in coffee anyway, she said and she grinned.

Pat chuckled. He stopped it and nodded. Alison returned her attention to the book. The room would soon be warm now, and comfortable. In fact he was feeling comfortable now himself. He was feeling quite the thing. Quite the thing, that is how he was feeling. He was feeling able to handle things, in an okay fashion, without any sort of

A shouting and bawling down in the backcourt. A gang of primaryschool-aged weans clambering across a big half-demolished dyke and they’d have to be fucking careful or it would collapse on top of them and fucking crush them. Cops and robbers they were playing, the Greatbritish Army versus the Evilsocialists, polis versus pickets, something like that. It was the same with the third yearers he had, there was something bathetic about them, a terrible ineffable something. What the fuck was that now was it a peculiar form of sadness? Nothing peculiar about it. Just a sadness. And nowhere near ineffable. They were just like their parents, the crazy flagellants, just fucking doomed. He grasped the tap and turned it on, washed his hands and dried them. Getting warmer now, he said over his shoulder, making his face take the form of a smile, a swift smile. Alison didni reply. But that was fine. The water in the kettle was good and audible now, close to boiling point. He stuck the handtowel back into his place, and he said: I dont see my parents all that much myself, do you? do ye keep in touch?

Eh … Alison half shut the book. I suppose we do really. Drew’s have the habit of dropping in. Mine dont, not unless they’ve been invited. Very formal!

Do you get on with them okay?

Well, yes and no I suppose, the same as everybody else. On the whole though I think I get on better with Drew’s. I seem to be able to relax more with them.

Is that right?

My own just seem to go on and on about the loveable idiosyncrasies I showed as a child. It can be embarrassing.

I bet ye. What age are you Alison?

Twenty-six.

Mm.

Alison looked at him for a couple of moments, and she smiled. Why d’you ask?

Naw it’s just I was wondering I mean I suppose really all parents are the same, when it comes down to it. Mine do it as well, with me and Gavin — my brother. Then too I think they’re always secretly trying to figure out how come they wound up with me! How come they wound up with a boy who went in for his Highers and then went to uni and became a member of the polis. Patrick grinned.

Eventually Alison nodded. She made as if to speak but said nothing. Patrick rubbed his hands together and patted the kettle and it was close to boiling hot. He glanced at his watch: The pubs’ll be open now right enough!

I’d prefer the coffee, said Alison.

Eh aye, of course.

She was smiling. She probably felt a bit sorry for him but not in a terrible way, just to do with his nervousness.

He snatched the kettle that instant prior to its full boiling point. If ye leave water to boil for too long you waste it … He raised his eyebrows and added, It’s true. Ye burn out the oxygen. That’s what all the bubbles are you’re bursting, oxygen. It was actually a Greek problem, part of their physics.

Mm.

Aye. You’ll actually notice though if ye boil your water for a long while and then ye pour it into a cup, you’ll see how it goes a brown colour, and it tastes bloody horrible.

Mm.

Very interesting eh!

Mm, it is.

I’m full of interesting facts.

It is interesting though.

Uch fuck it’s no really Alison. He snorted quietly, shaking his head. He spooned coffee granules into the two mugs; clean mugs he had taken from the cupboard and rinsed under the tap, to get rid of any dust inside they had been there that fucking long. They were nice china mugs but had been donated by his Auntie Helen and commemorated an affair of the monarchy which she assumed would fascinate him because he had become a member of the Greatbritish élite. Probably he should have smashed them at birth but he hadnt because he was mean. This was a signifier. It was

Do you take sugar?

No.

That’s because you’re a smoker. Your taste buds are almost out the game completely.

She frowned. He was handing her a mug and gesturing at the armchair. He said: Want to take off your coat now?

She took her coat off. He put his hand out and she gave it to him. His bed hadnt been made. He had been about to put the coat there and it would have lain on his sheets. I’ll hang it in the lobby, he said and he went into the lobby to do so. She had her cigarettes out when he returned:

Do ye mind if I smoke Pat?

Of course no, christ! He grinned. There was an ashtray at the bottom of the cupboard. He passed it to her. I dont think I could afford to smoke, he said.

Alison didnt reply. No fucking wonder either because it was an absolute piece of infantile tollie. Absolutely stupid and fucking mad, it being a downright lie which was the most absolutely important fact about it. He sprinkled the milk powder on his own coffee; he sat down with it, facing her, making a smile for her. He breathed in. Christ. He smiled at her and scratched at his head.

So, said Alison, she exhaled smoke, are you worried about seeing Old Milne?

Naw.

I would be I think.

Would ye!

I think so Pat, yeh.

Hh. I dont think I would. I mean I’m no … he grinned. I just eh, I dont fucking take it seriously.

She sipped at her coffee. She tugged at the cuff of the sleeve of the jumper she was wearing; a fawn and lightish green colour. It probably isnt anything serious, she said.

He grinned.

She looked at him: Do ye think it is?