James Kelman - A Disaffection

Behind the counter and well away from the possibility of sneaky little fingers lay a fair selection of chocolate bars and sweeties and Patrick added a variety of them in on the order for wee Elizabeth and John. There was a strangeish kind of smell breaking through that of the diverse spirits and wines. A sweetly kind of smell which didnt seem to have much connection with chocolate bars. It was maybe the guy serving, wearing a strong after-shave to disguise the pong from his socks. Or maybe he smoked a pipe with that funny Dutch tobacco that smelled of myrrh and frankincense.

Or was it carbolic soap and incense?

Death was close at hand!

It cost him an extra five pee for a plastic carrier bag. The man stared craftily at him while asking for the dough, then he looked away. Patrick had already signed his cheque for the sum and had to dig into the pockets for the coin. But he brought his hands out his pockets, even though there was money there, and he said: Look this is out of order, charging me for a carrier bag after I’ve spent so much on the actual drink itself I mean let’s face it, you should be quite happy to give me one for nothing.

I dont make the rules son, it’s the boss.

Son? I’m actually thirty-three years of age.

The man gazed at Pat.

So I mean what’re you calling me son for?

I call everybody son, it’s just an expression. I’m no meaning anything by it.

Patrick shook his head but he laid the five-pence coin on the counter and pushed it beneath the grille to him. Well you better tell your boss it’s out of order charging folk for a daft carrier bag when they’ve spent a fortune on buying his drink.

I’ve telt him before.

Aye well you better tell him again then.

The man frowned as he packed the cans into the bag. He sniffed, pushed the bag through the space in the grille; then he passed out the bottle of Grouse and the packets of chocolate and sweeties which Pat stuffed into his pockets. It was ridiculous. The idea of charging for carrier bags was just so absolutely fucking ridiculous. And obviously the auld bastard pocketed the five pences for himself. What chance could there ever be for the world when dirty skunks like the latter were in positions of power! Durty skinks like the latter, having arrived via the flagstones of Vulcan, armed with a bunch of fish suppers à la the good Rossi, whose pathway through the hordes of hysterical flagellants

Goya. Goya said that. O did he. Yes, he fucking did. I never knew he was noted for his witty sayings. Well he was, take my word for it; I’m an authority on Goya who was three years older than Johann Wolfgang von Goethe whose love affair with the beautiful Kathchen Schonkopf

fuck off. That includes Werther.

Here we are up a close. The close as an article of faith. A nice-sounding guitar was coming from somewhere — Gavin’s place obviously. Patrick climbed the stairs two at a time, but took care not to stumble with such booty in his arms. The front door was ajar. He must have done it himself. Does the world fit together or is that purely sentimental.

Davie Jordan was yapping. Patrick deposited the bevy and stuff on the dining table. He was being watched by big brother who said nothing and pretended a full interest in the yappings of Davie. Pat sat down and listened also. Davie was speaking of his relations. They lived up around the Kyle of Lochalsh area and were well known for their surprising movements here on Earth. Patrick opened a can of superlager and concentrated. This guy who was an astonishing bevymerchant and practical joker who earned his living on the ferry to Kyleakin which without any question had to be regarded as the finest job in all possible universes

Patrick smiled. But it definitely was. Imagine working on the ferry that sailed across the sea to Skye!

Gavin was watching him once more. Patrick grinned: I’ll tell you something but and I’m being serious — Davie, that cousin of yours, that job he’s got on the Skye ferry — it must be about one of the best jobs in the entire universe.

Good when the tourists are about Paddy, but no so hot in the winter.

No so hot in the winter! Arthur shook his head.

Davie smiled. It was unintentional.

Skye isni cauld in the winter, muttered Gavin, wet aye, but no cold.

That’s what you think, said Davie. He swallowed homebrew beer; swallowed more of it, and smiled and nodded at the record player. Hear that guitar!

Skye’s wet, said Gavin, but dont turn round and tell me it’s cold.

Everywhere’s cold in winter, said Davie.

The islands areni, they’re wet. They dont get any fucking snow either. Did ye know that?

Davie looked at Gavin without saying anything.

They dont, said Gavin to Arthur, and he glanced at Patrick.

And Patrick said suddenly: See that auld shite in the licensed grocer! he charged me five pee for a stupit carrier bag! I mean christ almighty I thought he was kidding.

It’s bad in there, muttered Arthur. They dont even let the weans get a cash return on their bottle deposits; they’ve got to buy something for the amount.

That’s against the law, said Davie.

Ah well you go and get the polis! Arthur laughed, and he shook his head; he started to roll another cigarette. He nodded at the drink on the table. We’re gonni be here for the duration by the looks of it!

Just a carry-out, muttered Patrick, getting to his feet. He unscrewed the whisky bottle and asked his brother if there were any wee tumblers. Of course there were wee tumblers. There were wee tumblers in the kitchenette, as he knew fine well. He got them himself, filled a big jug with water.

Nicola’s no gonni be your pal, said Gavin, too much drink.

Bit of truth in that, said Arthur.

Davie chuckled: Tell the boy to take it away then! Never mind Paddy, at least I appreciate it.

Ach I’m wanting to drown my sorrows. Pat said, I’ve chucked my fucking job.

You’ve what? cried his brother.

Naw, just kidding.

Gavin stared at him then said to his mates: He’s no fucking kidding at all. That makes me really angry, so it does. He’s a bloody teacher and he earns a bomb, a single man, he can do anyfuckingthing he likes. Anything; anything at all. So what does he do he wraps it! It makes me sick so it does. I mean … Gavin gazed at Patrick and when Patrick said nothing he continued: That’s the daftest thing you’ve ever done, and you’ve done some fucking daft things in your time.

After a moment Patrick said, Will you listen a minute?

It’s the fucking limit, said Gavin.

He’ll no listen, Pat told the others.

Aye you’re fucking right I’ll no listen … Gavin shook his head and he leant back in the armchair and inhaled deeply on his fag and blew the smoke at the ceiling. Patrick had poured four whiskies and he handed them about and also gave out the jug of water. Gavin accepted his drink without reply. And Patrick said, It’s my life.

Dont say that to me.

Cause it’s the truth?

I dont want to hear that, it’s rubbish.

Patrick nodded, returning to the chair at the rear of the settee. Gavin was sitting forwards, sipping at his whisky and looking at the blank television screen — the set was to his right, standing on the appropriate section of a piece of tall wooden furniture. Patrick drank from his can of superlager. It wasnt so much that it was better than the homebrew — and it wasnt at all — it was just that it tasted so much thicker and sweeter; in fact it was quite sickly; the homebrew was better, tastier.

Davie Jordan was saying, The last job I had was when … when was the last job I had?

How the fuck do I know, muttered Gavin.

Arthur said, You had that wee driving job.

Och I dont count that that was murder so it was.

It was a job, Arthur said.