James Kelman - A Disaffection

Desmond made no reply.

Hey d’you want a couple of cloves? said Norman. He was already bringing out a wee paper bag of them from an inside pocket, and he handed a couple to Pat. Pat took them and stuck them both under his tongue:

I’ve only had the one pint, he said.

And Norman replied something or other while the other pair didnt say a word, but just were fucking who knows what, mounting another conspiracy probably.

Dring dring; dring dring.

It was the fucking stupit bell the bell the be el el. And Patrick was still standing there when the other three were not. The other three were going up the steps of the main entrance. Desmond paused and gestured at him to come on. But Pat stayed put. Then he strode after them, calling: So yous’ve heard then?

They nodded.

The so-called transfer request!

Pregnant pause.

Well Mister Doyle, said Desmond, as you are aware, nothing remains a secret within the education department of Glasgow. It’s always open season on teachers, was and will be, always. Barnskirk’s not the worst of all possible destinations by the way, a friend of mine heads things in matters historical across there.

What d’ye mean by ‘matters historical’?

Desmond shook his head, chuckling.

O by the way, said Norman, Alison was looking for you.

Pardon?

Norman hesitated.

Are you talking about Alison?

I’m just saying she was looking for ye.

Patrick nodded. He glanced at Joe Cairns — the inscrutable. And Desmond seemed not to be hearing things.

If the world truly was a magical place.

Norman and Desmond were now off along toward the staircase and Joe Cairns had turned the corner in the direction of the science laboratories where shortly he would be leading a class in the dissection of a frog. This frog would be prostrate and its legs would be fucking chopped off the poor wee bastard. It would never again manage a jump but would have to waddle about on its elbows. But it’s no fucking got elbows. Or has it? This is the problem with inferior educations, one fails to

He actually felt like going to sleep. If only he was the type of guy who could resign from things unofficially. That was the type of guy he would wish to be, if ever he managed to come this way again, if transmigratory souls proved more than a wayward explanation of the possibility of déjà vu. He felt like going to sleep. He was tired. He hadni slept last night. Nor the night before, not properly. And nor the night before that for christ sake so no wonder he was tired now. Mrs Bryson at the end of the corridor. She didnt see him. Then he fell, tripped; he tripped, a sort of stumble, banging his right shin on the edge of the step and it was a bloody crack okay it was painful. Mrs Bryson still hadni seen him and had gone from view now. Nobody else had seen it either. Unless they were keeping quiet. Pat walked on at once. He would only have to last it out this one period because the one after it was spare and then the interval. His chest was sore when he breathed; and where were the fucking cloves because they wereni in his fucking mouth. Unless he had swallowed them, maybe he had swallowed them. It could have been worse he could have cracked his chin or his nose, or his jaw, and broke his teeth; that would have been terrible.

The quietness! The classes having all begun by now. That Hollywood movie where people wished they had never been born. His chest was actually sore in this sharply painful way, sharply painful. Christ. It was cheery but. Good old pain.

Patrick sat on the stool and became alert. Fourth year. World weary. Raymond Smith was staring at him. He was a boy who worried. It was his parents’ fault. Hey Raymond, what does your da do for a living?

He’s on the broo just now Mister Doyle.

Aw aye. What was it he worked at last?

Eh he worked in a factory.

What doing?

Eh I dont know.

You dont know. Quite right. Well done. Patrick nodded; he looked at the rest then back to Raymond: My da’s been working in a factory for the past twenty-two year — that’s when he’s no having fucking heart attacks. He’s a real yin so he is, a right fucking numbskull. He’s got a wee baldy heid and sometimes I feel like giving it a brush with a brillo pad.

LOUD LAUGHING.

In the name of christ. Pat clapped his hands very loudly; then he had to do it once again. They all stopped their laughing as soon as they could.

Okay, he said, there’s no need for that carry on just because I told you something of the way I feel about my auld man — especially because we were talking about somebody else’s auld man. Eh Raymond?

Raymond nodded, his face reddening into a large blush. What age was he? fifteen. Mind you, the truth of the matter is that Doyle P. is also a blusher; he too has a face that reddens. There is nothing you can do about it except forgive yourself.

Raymond Smith, said P. Doyle, you’ve got to forgive yourself. Look at me: I forgive myself. And I’m okay.

Muffled giggles. Which was not good at this late stage.

Sardar Ali had his hand aloft: Is it true you’re leaving Mister Doyle?

Aye.

How come?

The fucking powers-that-art have decreed it. And being absolutely honest and truthful about the subject, I really wish not to discuss it, if yous dont mind.

It’s your obligation to tell us, said Sardar Ali.

Pat gazed at him, then generally: I want a girl to state the same question.

You’ve been bevying, said Peter MacFadzean.

I’ve aye been bevying.

No you’ve no.

Aye I have.

Have ye?

Aye but look for christ sake if we go on like this it’ll become sentimental maudlinity of the first order. What I want to know is if the lassies arent talking as an affirmation of something. Eh? Will one of yous tell me?

Silence. Then Debby Munro looked away when their gazes met. Patrick continued to gaze at her and she started to blush immediately. She had a more purplish colouring than Raymond Smith. Pat’s blush was akin to his rather than Debby’s. All in all he probably had a lot in common with the boy.

Most bachelors have an awkward existence, he said. I’m talking strictly about those bachelors who are single men. But I think it may be true for most single women as well.

A head could be seen passing along the corridor: and slowly, going slowly, as though in an attempt to overhear the slightest piece of untowardity. Patrick indicated the head and the class turned to see it. Notice that head! he called. You’re probably all thinking it’s a spy from Mister Big’s office. And fucking right ye are cause that’s exactly the case, the way of things, how matters are standing, at the present, the extant moment. Arse.

Arse; o jesus christ; and he was about to blush. Arse. Imagine saying it out loud at this exact moment. What could he do now, to get beyond it, to get beyond it, everything. The magic carpet, if the world was indeed

I apologise: he said, his eyelids shut now and he placed his palms on the edge of the desk for support.

…

…

There was nothing that was happening.

But now he was to do something else all would be lost.

Are you leaving school altogether Mister Doyle? Are you stopping being a teacher? William Moreland.

Are you stopping being a teacher altogether? Sardar Ali.

Muffled giggling.

Patrick glanced at the gigglers at once. Well well well. Muffled giggles and here yous are in fourth year! I mean fuck sake, surely it’s high time ye threw the heid back and bellowed a big horselaugh — whatever that might be! Did anybody ever see a certain Marx Brothers’ picture where the auld Groucho fellow played this doctor of horses?

Several hands aloft immediately, including a few girls’. When I am dead. What happens when I am dead.