James Kelman - A Disaffection

On ye go.

When he began speaking to Ms Thompson he assumed what he was saying was more or less untrue but then he realised it was the truth: he had not been feeling well; he had been aware that it would prove impossible to make it through the afternoon without having some sort of something or other, a thing that would be not good.

Her position was simple; if he had advised her at the dinner-hour then she could have made provision. Since he had not advised her she had been unable to make that provision. Apparently the janitor overheard a couple of kids talking during the changeover from first to second period and this had alerted him to the situation. Then as he was heading to the classroom itself to check he had been approached by Mrs Houston who had informed him that Mr Doyle had the beginnings of what looked to her like the flu but whatever it was he had gone home in physical discomfort.

It’s true, said Patrick, I felt really bad … And while he was speaking he started smiling at the receiver. He was thinking of Alison. That was really sharp of her. He would have to phone to apologise. Plus auld fucking girny gub the janitor, he would have to say sorry to him as well. Fucking auld bastard. Some janitors were good but he was not good. But what was he? He was just a guy with a job he didni like and he couldni help showing it, he just couldni act as if he was enjoying himself. So what. That was no reason to call him an auld bastard. Poor auld bastards, what had they done to deserve such universal acrimony. And what was a bastard anyway but a guy or guyess whose parents had not been married in a socially sanctioned manner? What a load of fucking hegemonic shite.

Was he going into school tomorrow was the question. No he was yes he was. He was. He would be fine tomorrow. After a good night’s rest. If by any chance he wasnt although that was very unlikely, he would phone, and phone early; but in terms of how he was feeling at this moment in time yes, he would make it tomorrow, so that was that. I apologise for the inconvenience Mirs Thompson.

It’s not me Mister Doyle it’s only the fact that if we had known we could have made due provision. And with your evening duty this evening on the under-thirteens’ Exam Paper Study Group …

I’m sorry.

Which just makes it that wee bit more difficult to rearrange matters you know; it was the same three weeks ago when you missed the Talk on the new Dental Programme.

Yeh I know, I’m sorry about that.

It’s just that someone else has to do it for you Mister Doyle.

After a moment Patrick said, I just as I say felt I needed to get home to my bed as soon as possible. It was that feeling where you start wanting to lie down on pavements. It was just good I had the motor car as well otherwise it would’ve been terrible having to wait for a bus. I would’ve been able to take a taxi right enough. Patrick frowned at the receiver, which was not Mirs Thompson. When he replaced it his nephew was standing next to him. Pat winked at him.

Uncle Pat …

Aye John?

Can I show you a picture I did in school?

Aye, course … He took John’s hand and they went into the living room. The television volume was still down fairly low and wee Elizabeth looked as though she was falling asleep, still squeezed in beside Gavin. The whole house was warm and cosy. If he liked he could just sit down and remain for as long as he wanted, except not forever.

The smell of food now wafted ben from the kitchenette. Nicola was finishing off the meal which Gavin had prepared earlier on. Patrick was staying to eat. He enjoyed eating with them; they were good at doing food and while he was sitting pretending to be watching a television programme for adults about English country villages he was sniffing away at this aroma of casseroled ox liver. Mirs Houston might be a vegetarian but that was her problem, she probably only did it in a silly attempt to offset the dangers of lung cancer. Henceforth, whenever he was to see that woman in the staffroom he would just march up in the most straightfoward of manners and say

what would he say though? He could think of nothing at all. His mind was devoid of thought; there was nothing that he was thinking of that there was nothing that he was thinking of; nothing that his mind was in control of but that nothing that his mind was in control of — the country upper-class english squire is chatting to this upper-class english woman about the impending show of

but his mind is never in control. No one’s mind is in control; that is not necessarily a function of the mind, to be in control, not necessarily.

Patrick did not want children of his own, not necessarily. He loved John and Elizabeth. But that did not give him the desire to have some of his own. Okay if he happened to be involved with a woman who was desperate to have a couple then he would obviously have to consider the matter very seriously indeed, but if left to his own devices no, no. And tie that in with the lurking wish to become vegetarian. How does it get tied in but. Fair enough; just perhaps that there are incredibly fucking massive feeding problems in the world at this actual moment in the movement of things insofar as toty wee weans are dying of starvation so that if meat-eaters of the wealthy West all stopped and cut out such obscene extravaganzas like feeding herds of animals on stuff that would stop these weans, that would halt

No more meat.

Horrendous.

And yet it was not possible to say such a thing to Gavin and Nicola — maybe Nicola but not Gavin. Gavin would just tell you to fuck off. Quite right and all. No it’s not. But you could speak to Nicola. Whereas you couldnt speak to him. Nicola would listen. She had some respect for Patrick’s viewpoint whereas his brother didni, not really. But fuck sake did he have any respect for Gavin’s viewpoint!

Is that the problem. No. That is not the problem. Whither it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and the arrows. Shakespeare. What can we say of him. Well, here you have a chap who is an actor turned playwright. Okay? Fine. Cheerio.

One sits and one says nothing. The brother and the niece and the nephew, whose attention seems concentrated on the televised happenings in the land of fantasy. An old pal and former colleague of his believed the television was a device for people being watched instead of people watching; in other words while the poor old flagellants were gazing upon the magical events from the world of stage and screen there was an army of security folk taking notes on what was what in the world of the British living room. Patrick unscrewed the bottle and poured himself a minuscule whisky. That was why he wanted into computers before it was too late. He glanced at Gavin but Gavin was already shaking his head in anticipation of the offer. Patrick nodded. The whisky had a slightly sickening quality about it which could mean only one thing; that he had drunk a fair amount of the stuff yet remained totally sober, a sobersides, an old sobersides of a chap. If intoxicated the whisky would have tasted fine but in this condition it tasted only of a retchingness. A quick sip of super to drown it out. And that would do it. He pushed the drinks away. Nothing further. And maybe after the good and plentiful meal he would be fine for driving home; to be on the safe side he could sit on for an extra hour or so, just yapping maybe.

Who with.

Nicola.

It is fucking distinctly funny peculiar and most odd how come one’s brother can sit with you and say fuck all. I mean it is absolutely fucking the dregs. What can be said about it. Fuck all. What did Wittgenstein have to say on the subject. Who wants to know. Me. Him and these brothers of his. In the name of the holies. One thing was for fucking definite: he couldni remain here forever. He needed his own wee house. He needed his own wee house and his own wee pair of pipes. Ye joking! Without these pipes his fucking life has yet to begin, it has yet to even begin.