James Kelman - If it is your life

Gates gates. Absolute tyrants. That was the Borgias. A blemish on humanity.

The snib. I saw it. More of a bolt. A strange foreign contraption with a peculiar release-knob, circular in design. Certainly a spot of oil would have done it no harm. I grasped it with my fingers, my right hand, twisting at it. No luck. I would have to put down the bicycle. But if so having to resume the burden, for it was a burden; oh bring me to the silent shore, one might lay down one’s burden, evermore evermore. The weight was proving too much. It was a ton weight on me, but at the same time, the same time

I could not release the damn snib thing with its bolt and circular damn knob thing what a peculiar design it was, completely foreign and stupidly nonfunctional, my God, in all my born days.

I did let down the bicycle, onto the damn ground, against a tree, propping it there and such relief, if shoulders had heads mine would have been light-headed and my legs rubberized stalks.

Had circumstances been more conducive I would have rested. However, I had come to distrust the owner-occupiers, given they had sold me the bicycle openly and honestly. For so it appeared. They had not shown me the exit. Thus they had not led me down the garden path. I pulled open the gate. The height of absurdity but most unfunny, I did not find it otherwise, not in the slightest. I pulled open the gate.

This matter had a serious dimension. It was not too much to ask of people that they behaved in a proper fashion to strangers, for tourists were also strangers. This pair had chosen not to show me the exit. A sad commentary on the culture.

I made to lift the bicycle. Firstly I had to free the rear wheel from a clump of weeds already taking root between the spokes; a scene from The Day of the Triffids , it was ludicrous.

My left shoulder had a groove from before and the bicycle frame fitted snugly. This was a literal truth. The frame fitted so snugly! I tried to insert my fingers to feel the groove along my shoulder but could not. I thought to let down the bicycle once more. I should have enjoyed a rest and should have been allowed to my God had I so desired. To sit for a moment or two. None could deny me such a thing. Least of all my grandson who would reap the benefit of the enterprise. I was not his favourite but he was mine.

No, his grandmother, he was his grandmother’s boy. I did not grudge Christine this. On the contrary, it was a source of pleasure to me, that she should have experienced such love.

My granddaughters would not have wanted the bicycle, but it was not a bicycle for the girls, they were older. Nor hurt, that he was my favourite. They would have laughed. The girls still laughed at me. Likewise Christine, she used to, although we fought, often we fought.

But for myself it was the greater challenge. The others might see it as theirs, as strangers to this practice. Not me. Never! They would begin, they would buckle down, draw strength from a trial shared. I admired and envied them for it.

My admiration was not misplaced though it surprised them. Of course they looked to me. I was the exemplar, the wonderful exemplar. For some I was glorious. Yes. And why? Because each manoeuvre lay within my grasp. So they presumed, failing to realize such mastery presents not liberation but a vast obligation; a world of obligation, overriding everything. Not only was my own life in thrall to the quest but the lives of those dearest to me.

Some chose not to see this, not to acknowledge the obligation. I cannot name them. Individuals are not functions. I accept this. At the same time they have roles, and enact them. At the same time they look to their own humanity; it is from here we begin

I regret if they are hurt by such honesty.

It is true also that I smiled. I would not deny the smile. This too surprised them.

Irony is to be shared. To whom did I share the smile? To whom would the smile be shared. None. I was alone. They said I was alone and were correct, an irony in itself, but unimportant if not insignificant.

I stopped smiling. I was on the Glasgow bus home and a woman was sitting next to me. I offered her the window seat but she preferred the aisle. Women have their own ways of doing stuff. It was that made me smile. I had a friend called Celia and she would have been exactly the same. She wanted to be an actress, or actor as she said. She memorized lines from classic plays; angry ones with big statements. She spoke them aloud or acted the parts. Even walking down the street. It was quite embarrassing. A pal of mine from boyhood did the same. Even with him I found it embarrassing. With Celia I pretended not to bother. But she saw that it did. If she had known the true extent she would have scorned me. No wonder. It was a hopeless brand of self-consciousness, worse than the ordinary. And arrogant too. It did not seem to be but it was. What right did I have to be self-conscious of something she was doing? That was so arrogant.

I had not thought of it in that way and it was true. Males are arrogant. I did not see myself as arrogant at all, not in the slightest, so it was like a compliment.

Even thinking about her, it was nice, she was just so jees, sexy, really, even on the bus and thinking about her, enjoying it in my own head. It was nice. But sad too, but life can be sad. Usually on long bus trips I just read or stared out the window.

Celia was so acute in her observations, very much so. People had to respect that. Especially in a woman. Women are different. There is no question about that. I had a sister, a mother and grandmother and that meant nothing. I did not know women, I did not know them at all. Celia studied people and I could see how this must be essential for anyone who wanted to become an actor. I thought she would be great at it. I respected her more than anyone, more than myself. Much more. I learned from her, even being in her presence. Not only did I appreciate her own lack of self-consciousness I began noticing it in others. Those that had it seemed satisfied with themselves. Not in a bad way. I did not see them as ‘smug’. They were content with themselves, or within themselves. Maybe it was an illusion. I saw them out and about and their lips were moving. They were not phoning, not texting. Some had earphones and actively engaged with the music, whether singing along or performing actions with their limbs. Others sang on their own account. They were not listening to anything except out their own head. Or in their own head, inside it. From inside it. Inside within it. You listened to things inside your own head, from inside.

Or did you? Did people listen inside or from inside?

Ears are outside but your hearing is inside. If we look at our heads in a practical manner we gain insights. It seems obvious and it is obvious. But so obvious people never do it.

If you were singing you were not listening. Maybe singing into yourself. Not out loud. A lot of people did that. They walked along the road singing away to themselves. Eric Semple was the worst, an old pal of mine. He sang out loud. It was like he was on stage. You would not have minded if it was walking along the street but he did it at other times too, like on the bus. People could hear him. Talk about embarrassing. That really was. I thought so anyway. He did not. Him and Celia were the same there. It was only me. I was the one that worried.

Why? Why worry about other people. It was not a pleasant trait and I wished I did not have it. People should be allowed to get on with their own lives without others butting in. Ones like me.

I thought too much about other people. I could not stop myself and did not feel good doing it. I saw Eric at the Christmas break and it was a fight. I got annoyed with him because he got annoyed with me. He said I was giving him a telling-off. It was not a telling-off. It was just that stupid singing. Maybe he did not know he was doing it. But other people were there and could hear. Why did he not sing into himself? I could not understand that. But deep down I knew why, he was getting at me. It was because I had left home to go to university. It was a mixture of jealousy and I do not know what, except things had changed. But it was not me changing them. There was no point blaming me.