James Kelman - A Disaffection

What is it? she asked.

Nothing, just daft.

You keep saying you’re daft.

He smiled.

She stepped away from him, looking at him. It’s time to go home, she said. And she was out from the doorway glancing at him, continuing along in the direction away from Miller’s Bar. The motor’s back there, he called.

I’ll get a taxi Pat.

He sniffed and walked after her, strolling, keeping a couple of paces behind her. And she kept going although the direction she would be travelling lay in the direction opposite. A taxi appeared quite soon. She signalled it immediately. He stood to the side as she tugged open the door. Dont phone me, she said.

He nodded.

Okay? I would prefer ye not to.

Aye.

Thanks … She slammed shut the door; he couldnt see whether she was looking back when the driver drove off.

So that was that. That was her gone. The tail-lights in the distance. She was sitting there getting whisked home. Lighting her fag. The idea of jumping into the motor and racing after the taxi, catching it up at the next set of traffic lights.

At the interval next morning he went quickly to the staffroom and got his mug and his tea and was sitting on his chair across by the window, the computing magazine on his lap, before she entered. She was with Mrs Bryson and Diana. Pat gazed at the magazine and sipped his tea. Others came in, there was a queue at the urn. A middle-aged bloke called Martin Russell, who was attached to the Crafts and Arts department, leaned over and asked if he had read the Herald this morning. No, Patrick hadnt read the Herald this morning. The Herald was a thing he had not read any fucking morning. Martin said, On the Centralamerican assassination …

I dont know fuck all about it, replied Patrick. He raised the magazine nearer his face. Martin Russell sat back on his chair. Patrick had offended him. He had offended him and he shouldnt have. They had been sitting on these selfsame chairs for the past couple of years and he was not a bad bloke. Pat lowered the magazine a little, and he said, I’m trying to avoid the news at the moment.

Martin nodded but he was obviously a bit hurt. It would be horrible to arrive at middle age and still be capable of that kind of emotion as an effect of that kind of trivia. Patrick glanced at him. He was no longer reading his Herald , just smoking his cigarette and staring at a spot on the carpet by his shoes. Patrick could ask him about his family; he was lately become a grandpa and liked to talk about families generally. Martin was okay — very quick and skilful with modelling clay and plasticine and he had produced some nice sculpture work for different school festivals and functions. Patrick could say something about that. Plus there was this habit he had of allowing his tea to cool without drinking any of it, then when the bell rang he would swallow the lot in a couple of long gulps. Probably it had to do with the wish to prolong the moment, that time which was his time, his time alone.

Desmond had arrived and so had Norman the temporary English teacher. They were in their chairs along with Alison and the others who belonged to the main group of talkers; at present the topic centred on a television comic adventure programme about undercover military detectives in Australia. Out the top of the window you could see quite an okay morning indeed, bright and sunny. It would soon be April. Maybe head down to Eric’s for the Easter break. The two of them could set sail for Scandinavia. If Eric’s wife came along she could maybe bring a pal to make up the foursome; nothing too forceful, just the break for Easter, a wee holiday away from the problems of everyday living in this time of technological, desanitized

Patrick had laid the magazine on the coffee table and stood up. He stepped to the window which was frosted but for the upper pane. Outside and across the playground lay the Renfrew Hills and beyond them the sea. If you dived in and swam due west you would end up probably in Greenland or northern Labrador. If you got that far. Probably you would drown first. In parts of Labrador and Greenland you can travel for days and not see a soul, a living soul. What like would that be. Not seeing a living soul, travelling across the icy wastes of Antarctica. Desmond was watching him. Patrick acknowledged him with a nod of the head. No doubt he had read Patrick’s mind and was scoffing at his daydream. Ach no he wasnt for christ sake. He had just looked away from the company for a moment towards the window, at which Patrick happened to be standing, and that was that. And he was now back listening in to the group’s conversation once more. Plunging through the glass window as in a highdive, landing feet first on the playground and making a dash for it through the gates, surprising the two polis who would probably be having a sneaky smoke while nobody was looking. But of course if he did want to leave he only had to walk out the door, because no one was stopping him, no one was stopping him.

Alison’s back was to him.

He sat down. He was actually quite tired. He hadnt slept too well. He had gone to bed as usual and went to sleep as usual but woke up at half-past two and from there on just dozed and woke up, dozed and woke up and gradually he lost all sense of reviviscence. When it was time to get up he felt in desperate need of a real and genuine sleep. So there you are and this explains the current lethargy of spirit. Unlike Alison who seemed to be fine. She seemed to be okay. She wasnt doing much of the talking but she had her rightful place in the group and was no doubt making a great contribution simply by the differing expressions on her face. Her face had differing expressions. You could cup her face in your hands and stare into her eyes. You didnt know what she was thinking though. In company with her she would be watching all that was happening but saying little and what was she thinking, you couldnt fucking tell. Alison, I desire to know precisely what you are thinking, at this very damn moment. Pat grinned, he chuckled, but stopped it. He frowned at the magazine and turned a page, and smiled, as if having found a thing there to be smiled at.

Martin Russell was still lost somewhere in the nethermost regions, perched on the edge of the chair and staring down at the floor, the carpet. Miles off. Probably on a different planet. That here he was thirty years on from the teachers’ trainers and what the fuck was it all about and why the fuck had he not just committed suicide with a straight good will all those years ago. And the skin having formed on his cup of lukewarm tea. Pat closed the magazine and dropped it onto the table, and he turned to him: Hey Martin, how was the weekend?

O — nothing startling Pat, what about yourself?

Eh, quite hectic I suppose. Up seeing the parents and the rest of it!

Martin nodded.

They’re great television watchers as well. If you dont like to watch the telly then dont go and visit them.

I know what ye mean. Mind you, sometimes there’s nothing better than putting the feet up and lying back there, letting it all wash right over ye.

True.

Switching off from everything.

Aye. I’ve no got a telly these days, I used to have one but I’ve no got it now. You think you’re watching it but you’re no, they’re actually watching you!

What?

Pat smiled, I’m saying when you watch the telly, ye aye think it’s you that’s doing the bloody watching but it’s no, it’s you that’s actually getting watched — the government’s got the fucking security forces all taking notes!

Martin nodded. He smiled briefly. Then he frowned for a moment and lowered his voice: You are leaving then Pat?

Aye.

Ah.

Ye heard?

Well, I was here when ye made the announcement last week.