James Kelman - A Disaffection

A big group of workies in from a tenement renovation site a few closes along from the pub. They chatted loudly, shouting comments to one another. Patrick stood at the end of the bar, borrowed a newspaper from the barwoman, read the sports and entertainments. He drank three whiskies and two and a half pints of beer. It was too much but on the road home he knew he was just befuddled enough to last the afternoon. Then he was starving. Absolutely fucking starving. Because he hadnt eaten. When was his last fucking meal christ almighty. A fish supper was what he felt like. A nice piece of haddock and a stack of freshly fried chips. But he didni have the time he would have to survive without. Three familiar figures ahead: Desimondo and Joe Cairns, and the temporary English teacher — old Norrimanno, a great wee fucking guy, and any resemblance to Bob Cratchit is an absolute misnomer, a disaster, something that is wrong and not the case at all, in fact, Norman is fine, fine. And deserves a fucking job the guy, he deserves a full-time start in the teaching racket. In fact the three of them were okay blokes. Pat liked them. As colleagues go he got on fine with them. It would be an idea to keep in touch with them once he had gone; they could go for a pint together, discuss the past and so on. He paused, staying where he was, he bent as if to examine his shoelaces, then unknotted and knotted them.

Weans went zooming by.

Two minutes to the bell the bell the be ell ell! Patrick chuckled. He watched the weans as they dodged in and out the pedestrians, making for the gates. They were funny the way they carried on. And so much better than their parents, so much more honest and lacking in hypocrisy. Even their self-interest was so much more fucking healthy. That is what he would miss, the weans, he would miss them. No really anything else. If he was being honest there never had been much of the camaraderie you might have expected, back from the teachers’ trainers, what you might have been expecting from there, it never happened. Of course he had his own ideas on that, the whys and the wherefores, to do with — well, why even bother articulating such things. Although obviously bad faith does have to come into it.

Ah christ, Patrick was going to survive. His life might be finished but what did that matter, it didni mean he was totally dead and out of things altogether. All he had to do was play the pipes, if he could just concentrate on them, even just as a form of temporary measure. And temporary measures can be healthy. You dont have to look upon things as permanent all the time in order to judge their merit. A common error that.

A trio of bastards was waiting for him. They had spotted him and were waiting. It was fucking funny how the vultures start hanging about your deathbed. He set his face to a serious expression i.e. a frown, and said gruffly: Tell me this chaps, do yous think it a possibility one could apply for a transfer and then fucking forget all about it?

I know this sounds daft, began Joe Cairns quickly, and then he hesitated.

Naw it doesni, said Pat, come on, I need to hear somebody else talking. Tell me.

Joe nodded and glanced at Desmond.

Desmond continued: The thing is Pat we were actually talking about this a wee minute ago. And eh Joe was just saying about a similar sort of experience, from the dressing room.

Yeh, said Joe, it was a pal of mine.

And Joe Cairns went on to relate this banal yarn about

it wasnt so much banal as irrelevant: it concerned this quite good football player who was suddenly told he had been transferred for a five-figure sum, just like he had wanted — only he hadnt really wanted such a thing at all but seems to have been gabbing away about something in the communal bath one day and the manager had been eavesdropping or some such keech and then thought he would do the guy a favour and had secretly dropped a circular to a variety of clubs he thought might be interested, including Newport County, which is where the guy found himself on Monday afternoon. It had nothing whatsoever to do with Pat’s case and it was almost like a strange form of sarcasm. Pat watched Joe and Desmond but could spot nothing suspicious, then he looked at Norman who smiled benevolently and remarked, Stories about professional football players, I could listen to them all day!

Pat nodded. He said to Joe: Is it genuine what you’re telling me?

Yeh.

Honest?

What … Yeh.

Because it doesni sound it I mean it actually sounds eh, quite hard to swallow.

It’s ridiculous the way athletes are treated, said Desmond to Norman.

Ah well football especially I suppose. Norman glanced at Joe Cairns: It’s a bit of a cattle market Joe eh? Still and all but that’s the way capitalism works in any field — football or whatever, it doesni matter.

Och come on, said Desmond.

Sure it is, the individual worker just doesnt have a say.

Desmond jerked his thumb at Norman, saying to Pat: He’s a Marxist.

Pardon?

Norman’s a Marxist, grinned Desmond.

So am I a fucking Marxist, so what?

Desmond smiled. I am not saying a word.

Norman said to Pat: You’re a Marxist as well?

Pat looked at him.

Are ye?

What?

I’m just asking if you’re a Marxist as well?

As well as what?

Seriously.

Seriously; you’re just asking me seriously, if I’m a Marxist, in a school like this, in a society like this, at a moment in history like the present.

Norman grinned and Desmond laughed and shook his head. Joe Cairns had adopted the role of friend however and he was merely smiling politely while attempting to appear sympathetic to Patrick. Whereas it was poor old fucking Norman needed the sympathy.

I’m actually a fucking nothing, said Patrick, I used to be a something but now I’m a nothing. Being a nothing’s preferable to being a something but no much.

I take the point, said Norman. I agree with ye as well. We were talking about this earlier on.

Amongst yourselves?

Norman grinned.

He’s got a fine line in sarcasm, said Desmond in jocular tones.

Not as fine as you but Desmond.

Ah. I wouldnt underestimate yourself Mister Doyle.

Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind. Pat glanced at Joe Cairns: Okay Joe?

How do ye mean Pat? Joe frowned.

Pat shrugged. I just thought there was something up with you.

No.

It’s just the way he stands, grinned Desmond.

Norman had opened a small pack of tobacco and was rolling a cigarette and smiling at the same time. It would be good to wipe the smile off his face. But that wouldnt be easy to do because he was probably a better fighter than Pat. Pat glanced at Joe Cairns: This guy ye were talking about, him that got transferred to Newport through a misunderstanding.

Joe nodded: It was a misunderstanding. And we had quite a good team too; this kind of broke things up and we never managed to replace him. He’s still around — Micky Jamieson.

Mansfield Town? said Norman.

That’s right Norman, yeh. He played with us for three-quarters of a season. We were wondering if the board were just wanting to earn a few quid before it was too late. But it turned out it was the manager. He and Micky got on well together and he had honestly thought he was doing him a favour by shoving him on the transfer list. It wasnt too long after that that I went myself. Because like I say, the team had broken up, it was time to move on.

That was to Carlisle you went? said Norman.

Naw, I went to Carlisle later Norman.

Aw.

Pat said, So it’s all gospel Joe? about this guy getting transferred and so on.

Of course.

The great skeptic! said Desmond.

Skeptic fuck all, said Pat. People just like to know what are facts and what areni facts. What is there something fucking wrong with that? christ sake I mean what, tell me?