James Kelman: A Disaffection

Patrick Doyle is a twenty-nine-year-old teacher in an ordinary comprehensive school. Isolated, frustrated and increasingly bitter at the system he is employed to maintain, he begins his rebellion, fuelled by drink and his passionate unrequited love for a fellow teacher.

James Kelman was born in Glasgow in 1946. His books include Not not while the giro, The Busconductor Hines, A Chancer and Greyhound for Breakfast , which won the 1987 Cheltenham Prize. His novel A Disaffection won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. How Late it Was, How Late won the Booker Prize in 1994. His collection of short stories The Burn , won a Scottish Arts Council book award. James Kelman lives in Glasgow.

PATRICK DOYLE WAS A teacher. Gradually he had become sickened by it. Then a very odd thing happened or was made to happen. He had been visiting the local arts centre and having a couple of drinks, found himself round the back of the premises for a pish, and discovered a pair of old pipes. They were longish and reminded him of english saxophones from a bygone era, the kind that reach to the floor and are normally performed on by seated musicians. Now by no means whatsoever would Patrick have considered himself a musician — if anything his secret hankering was to be a painter, doing fairly large murals. He could imagine covering the gable ends of tenement buildings, or even better, the interior walls of tenement closes, inserting various nooks and crannies and twists and corners; evil shapes and sinister figures — different things: but always inclining toward Goya’s work of the black period.

The pipes were strange kind of objects in the response Patrick had for them. It was immediate to begin with. As soon as he saw them it was, christ! And he shook his head, still just standing there, staring at the two of them. He picked the thinner one up and glanced about but nobody was watching. It was still winter yet. It was dark and it was cold. People seldom wandered round to here. Patrick scratched his head; then, without smiling, proceeded to blast out a long deep sound. He stopped. And now the glimmer of a smile did appear on his face. Again he glanced about: still nobody. He took a very long deep breath and once more he blasted out this long, very deep sound. It was really beautiful. Of a crazy sort of nostalgia that would aye be impossible to describe in words, and not in oils either. He noticed the other pipe but already the decision was made and it would make no difference one way or the other how it sounded, he was taking them both, the pair of them.

They were not heavy, nor particularly bulky. He carried one under each elbow, back via the fire-escape door and along the corridor into the main lounge. He was of the company of a group of teachers which was discussing the Christmas Pantomime they had produced at school a couple of months ago. This year Patrick had opted out of it and was aware of being slightly excluded from things. One of the women chuckled. She was recounting an incident that had occurred between herself and a boy pupil during rehearsals. Patrick watched her. She was called Alison and he thought her something special. If she had not been married he would have asked her out ages ago. And that something as well in the way she communicated with people, the way she addressed them, a quick flick of the head which seemed to indicate she was noticing everything, every single thing that was going on.

He turned to see if the bar was still open for business and a pipe clattered to the floor. The company peered at it then at the one he was holding. He nodded downwards. Aye, he said, I found them round the back, they’ll come in handy.

He reached to collect the fallen one, he balanced it and the other one against the side of his chair. He smiled and stood up, walked across to the bar and ordered a tomato juice. It was one of those things: he would be driving home and already he had taken far too much. He was meaning to cut out this drinking and driving carry on altogether. Alison occasionally commented on it. Tonight she had made a joke about it to him but obviously she wanted the point taken seriously. He would take it seriously. She was dead right. Maybe the tomato juice would meet her approval! He sipped at it while the barmaid was getting his change from the till. It was really fucking virulent tasting stuff and he grued. This was part of the problem of nonalcoholic drinks, how they were so untasty. Without vodka tomato juice was almost not to be spoken of.

Back at the table a nosy bastard by the name of Desmond was examining the pipes. He nodded at Patrick as he sat down, pursing his lips in an ironic manner, as if to say: Quite a nice pair of pipes.

Patrick shrugged. They’ll come in handy.

Somebody else in the company was yawning and muttering about having to get up early in the morning for the swimming beginners so it was time to hit the road home. And soon chairs were being shifted and folk were swallowing the last of their drinks; now rising and buttoning or zipping their coats and jackets. Patrick walked ahead of Alison, managing to hold the door open for her with his left foot, the pipes being held beneath either elbow as before. Want a lift? he asked.

Are you up to it?

Aye, he grinned.

She nodded. A couple of the others were looking across and he called, Anybody else wanting a lift?

Where you going? asked a man who had recently taken up a temporary post at the school.

Home — but I’m dropping off Alison first.

Nah it’s alright, thanks all the same.

Suit yourself … Patrick smiled, he turned to say something to Alison but Alison was some yards off now, chatting to Mrs Bryson.

On the journey to her street he drove in relaxed fashion and he spoke fine, keeping her quite interested and amused by wee events in the classroom. And he felt as happy in himself as he had done for what seemed like ages. Maybe since the day he had graduated nearly six years ago — although fuck sake it seemed like yesterday morning. Yet in other ways a hundred years; all those failed plans and principles and ideas for the future, all those ways ahead. And now here he was, a teacher — still a teacher! What was to be done. Nothing. Then here was this pair of pipes. What about them. What was to be done about them. It was really strange. Also that feeling, as if it was his last chance to make good or something. Daft. Crazy. A cliché. He glanced into the rearview mirror. He smiled at Alison.

You’re very cheery the night Mister Doyle.

Uch, I’m always cheery.

You are not. You’re about the most depressed character in the entire school.

Does that include Old Milne?

Old Milne’s not depressed, not with his salary.

You’re right! He looked sideways at her, frowned a moment then added, How’s the husband these days?

Pardon?

Your husband, how’s he doing?

Alison made no comment.

Eventually Patrick said. Is he okay?

Yes.

Good … He turned the steering wheel now at the junction of the main road and her street; the car entering; and parking outside her close. A very brief silence and then she was moving to unlock the passenger door. She paused, glancing at him. And he winked and grinned. Take care and sleep well, sleep well.

You’re in a funny mood … Alison frowned.

Am I!

Yes, ye are. She smiled before manoeuvering her way outside onto the pavement where she waved, and crashed the thing shut. Patrick groaned. Other people had a habit of doing that as well and the door was no longer hanging properly on its hinges. That horrible grating noise when somebody pushed it too far ajar. High time he had a new motor altogether. This was probably why folk crashed the thing shut so hard, their assumption it couldnt be working right because it looked so ancient. Fucking hopeless.