James Kelman - A Disaffection

The janitor waited.

That depends.

Och. Dont give us it.

Well christ I wouldni say he was very good with us either.

Mister Peters shook his head and walked off along by the side of the building.

Pat stood there a few moments before entering the main school. He had enough time for a quick cup of tea in the staffroom. He smiled. He stopped it. But it was as if there was an odd feeling to the day, maybe the sensation of momentous deeds being already to the fore. He could imagine that. He could imagine momentous deeds appertaining to himself, that these deeds were set to occur. He walked along the corridor. He continued on up the stair. He walked along the corridor beneath the one that led to the staffroom. He walked to the offices of the clerks and the headmaster. When he reached the threshold he tugged at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, smiled at Ms Thompson, the headmaster’s secretary, a woman of some forty-five summers with black spectacles and a pleasant smile. She was wearing a maroon jersey this morning with a metal cross dangling from her neck. Is he in? asked Patrick.

Yes.

Ah.

Are you wanting to see him?

I think he might be expecting me.

She frowned.

I was actually supposed to be seeing him on Friday afternoon.

O yes of course …

I eh couldni make it.

Ms Thompson rose, she went ben the headmaster’s office, leaving him alone, to gaze on the furniture, the electronic typewriter and computer and sheaves of paper and pens, and various calendars. A moment’s reflection during this slight break in time. The presence of oneself. That age-old unity of thought and being, the cornerstone of a certain method of conducting your life in the face of the world. Is that correct? Perhaps not. Hegel is a devilishly hard fellow to comprehend. Some of what he has to say for himself is so positively disbelievably believable, disbelievably believable. Spell believable. Capital ‘b’

Ms Thompson.

Old Milne looked surprised. There was the wrinkled forehead and the glasses slightly down on his nose. Patrick nodded. I have to apologise for Friday, he said.

Well ye know eh Mister Doyle I waited on until the half hour for you.

Sorry.

Old Milne continued gazing at him, scrutinising him, and Patrick said: It was really I just wasnt feeling very well. I had a sore stomach.

But you should have advised us of it; myself or Mrs Thompson.

I wasni really, to be honest, feeling capable.

Old Milne made no movement. He had one hand on his desk and the other on his lap; he was sitting in such a way that he may have been looking into one of the desk drawers prior to Patrick’s entry. He was wearing his usual clobber, the gown and the brown chalk-striped suit and a tie of three shades of blue which was probably of a university or a club or something. And a brisk white shirt. Tinted fucking glasses. A dangerous man. He would have been at home with BOSS or the Tonton Macoute. Patrick would just have liked to be at home — with the fire and a pot of tea, the books and the radio. That’s what he was cut out for, a life of academia, stuffed inside of an ivory tower, instead of being obliged to lead this life of revolutionary compromise all the time because he was fucking sick of it.

What would the maw and da be doing at this minute? And Gavin. And Alison, who would be in with her registration class and speaking quietly but with authority.

Fuck sake. Imagine being carpeted at the age of twenty-nine. He had only himself to blame. Old Milne was looking at him. Patrick looked back at him. Joseph K was thirty when the bad things started happening and Jesus of Nazareth was thirty when he started preaching. Who else? No one else, it’s a load of nonsense. It is all a load of nonsense. How come he hadnt even been allowed to sit down.

Old Milne nodded. He said, Your transfer’s come through.

Pardon.

Old Milne lifted a sheet of A4-size paper, he glanced at it then pushed it across the desk, twisting it around for Patrick to see. Could you just sign eh …

His name was on it right enough. It indicated the transfer was to take place at the Easter break. When he began the last term it would be at this other school — Barnskirk High. Barnskirk High was okay. It was out the south east side of the city and fair enough. But why was he to be going there. He couldnt mind asking for any fucking transfer. That was funny. He just couldni actually mind applying for it. He said: Is this how you wanted to see me?

Yes.

Pat nodded. He looked at the paper again. Eh Mister Milne, he said, I have to say this to ye: I dont mind ever having applied for any transfer. Are ye sure it’s for me?

Old Milne looking at him.

Are ye sure it’s mine?

…

I dont eh — to be honest I mean christ it’s no the sort of thing I do. I usually stick things out.

…

I do. It’s one of the traits I’m stuck with, my personality, its characteristics, I stick things out.

Old Milne smiled.

It’s no anything I’m proud of, I’m just stuck with it.

He was still smiling.

Patrick shrugged and he frowned; he put his hand to his brow; it was like the beginning of a sore head maybe or something like that.

You must have applied for it.

Pardon?

I’m saying ye must have applied for it, the transfer, otherwise it wouldnt have come through. Maybe you put in and forgot.

Forgot.

It is possible.

Okay.

I forget things myself.

No putting in for a transfer but you dont forget that.

Well I havent put in for a transfer Mister Doyle.

Well I dont think I have either.

But you must have, otherwise it wouldnt have come through.

Patrick’s armpits were aching and aching armpits are fucking hopeless. He smiled at the headmaster: Do you actually want rid me?

Not at all.

Well I dont understand this then.

Mister Doyle … the headmaster smiled in quite a friendly manner … I dont understand this either.

Ye sure ye dont want rid of me?

Not at all. And Old Milne came sitting forwards on his leather chair, hands clasped and shoulders taut, the creased brow to indicate the worried but caring older person but do not trust it do not trust it because who could ever trust this devious old bastard, a sleakit auld fucking rascal.

And this is another thing, this Old Milne shite, let’s have no more of it — so totally reeking in sentimentality — his name is Milne. His name is W. R. Milne. The W stands for Walter. His name is Walter R. Milne.

And he was glancing at the clock on the wall. Was Patrick supposed to dismiss himself? Ha ha ha.

How are your parents keeping?

My parents?

I recall your father wasnt too well.

He’s recovered.

Ah. Good.

Patrick nodded.

Milne smiled.

Eh, how come ye asked me that?

…

As far as I can see it’s quite an odd thing to ask.

In what sense Mister Doyle?

In what sense eh, in the sense that you dont know him, my old man, so how come you’re asking after him?

If my memory serves he was quite seriously ill.

…

Wasnt he?

He was aye, but so what, what’s that got to do with it I mean what gives ye the right to be asking after him, you dont even know him, no as a man, as an actual ordinary man. So what gives you the right, this is what I dont know. I really dont — the presumption. What gives ye the right?

I’m sorry.

Aye but what gives ye the right to think ye can just ask me about him I mean do ye think ye fucking own him as well? cause ye dont, it’s just me. It’s just me ye own.

…

You think ye own me. Well ye do, but ye dont fucking own him.

I beg your pardon?

Ye dont own my da.

I dont know what you are talking about Mister Doyle.

Course ye do. Because I’ve been bought you think it applies to my whole family well it doesnt.