A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  … with these two pipes you found?

  Pardon.

  I was just wondering if you’d made use of them yet, I meant to ask ye … said the bloke.

  Patrick lifted his pint of beer and sipped at it. Naw, he said, no really. Sometimes I just pick things up and take them home with me and then I keep them for a wee while. Usually but I just end up dumping them.

  Aw I see.

  He would have been a gold prospector in the old days, chuckled Alison.

  Pat grinned. Actually my favourite job amongst all else would be … He raised his right forefinger and wagged it at her: Guess!

  O god Pat I’m always hopeless at this kind of thing.

  No you’re no.

  I am! Maybe Norman.

  Norman?

  Eh … Norman was grinning; he tilted his head to one side, his eyelids shutting momentarily; his face became all screwed up, and then he said: Is it to do with motor cars?

  Motor cars?

  Alison was smiling.

  You fucking kidding! said Pat.

  Well you did ask him to guess, said Alison.

  Patrick gazed at the floor.

  What job was it? the temporary English teacher asked.

  After a moment Patrick smiled; he was still gazing in the direction of the floor. Beachcomber, he said, as a matter of interest.

  Beachcomber.

  God yes, said Alison. Yes, I could see you doing that. And you’d be content for the rest of your life.

  Of course. It’d be wonderful.

  No me, said the other bloke.

  Patrick replied, You’re only saying that because you’re new to the teaching racket. You’re still keen to get involved in the whole carry on, all its different aspects, the whole fucking kit and caboodle.

  Alison chuckled.

  Kit and caboodle! muttered Patrick. What in the name of christ does that actually mean!

  Alison was saying to the temporary English teacher: He’s the staffroom cynic Norman pay no attention.

  Norman grinned.

  Patrick frowned. Thanks Alison, thanks a lot … He reached for his beer and swallowed a large mouthful. Then without further comment he went to the lavatory. The way things were going he would have had a better time of it in with Old Milne. Whose name alongside that of Norman ended in ‘n’ sounds. As did Alison’s. Maybe if you wanted to be content in this world you needed that. Look at poor auld Desmond: a fucking sad case with a ‘d’. And Patrick with a ‘k’. A ‘k’ was terrible. Both it and ‘d’ had a similar sort of feel to it.

  In some ways initials and letters were as interesting as numbers, but not quite. The Pythagoreans called numbers ‘figures’. The whole of matter could be reduced to them. Numbers or figures were the elemental parts, the constituents. And of course you have bodies still being called figures. Plus ‘soh’ ‘lah’ ‘te’ ‘doh’ etcetera being scales, numbers. Everything went together and could be reduced to numbers, even names of course. The initials P: D for instance, they could be reduced to 16: 4 based on the twenty-six-letter roman alphabet; 42: 22, or even 24: 22. Numbers are great. You can do anything you like with them. Plus it gets you away from objects and entities, always allowing for the fact that neither objects nor entities exist to which these numbers correspond, because some folk believe there must be a ‘1’ and a ‘2’ somewhere out there, if only they or it can be found, discovered or come upon.

  Back at the table Norman and Alison were yapping away together and when Patrick sat down Norman said to him, Alison was saying ye wouldni mind if I asked ye something. When you were at the toilet there I was eh saying to Alison if ye would mind if eh I asked you something.

  What?

  It was just something I was wanting to ask ye. About in the staffroom this morning, it was something …

  Patrick frowned, then he rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his left hand.

  What it was, it was just eh …

  Patrick glanced at Alison, he smiled slightly.

  I was just wondering.

  Patrick looked at him. What did ye say?

  It was something in the staffroom this morning.

  Aw.

  Patrick for god sake, said Alison.

  Naw it doesni matter if he doesni want to say. Norman said, It doesni matter.

  Patrick nodded.

  It was just it was interesting.

  That’s good.

  Pat! Alison glared at him.

  Well for christ sake have I got to bloody fucking … he shook his head and exhaled breath studying the ceiling.

  You’re so damn aggressive.

  Patrick looked at her.

  If you have to blame somebody then blame me. Norman just wanted to ask you something that’s all, because he thought it was an interesting point, and I told him it’d be alright, I told him ye wouldnt mind.

  Thanks.

  Alison glanced at her wristwatch. And Patrick lifted his beer and swallowed most of what was left. He laid the glass on the table and said, Come on we’ll go to the arts centre and talk about Christmas Pantomimes.

  Alison stared at him.

  Sorry, would ye prefer to stay here? Or have ye got to go home or what?

  After a few moments she answered: I wish you would calm down.

  And he nodded at once. She was dead right. There was no question about that. It would have been better said when they were alone but. When it was just the two of them. Not like this, with this other bloke. It wasni the sort of statement you liked hearing about yourself in front of strangers. And Norman wasnt exactly a close friend although having said that, it should be admitted that Patrick had met a lot worse guys. His openness for a start; that was good – not being afraid to ask the awkward question. Usually only Desmond could be relied upon for that. Patrick nodded. Aye. He said, Do yous fancy another before we hit the road? Eh Norman I mean you’ve bought the last couple so it’s definitely me on the bell!

  Him on the bell, said Alison. In his reckoning women dont count … And rising from her seat she had opened her handbag and she walked to the bar without another word.

  Norman smiled. I like her, she’s nice.

  Patrick didnt answer. Not only was Alison nice she was beautiful. She was beautiful and she was honest and gentle and truthful and she was sympathetic as well, she could listen to folk when they were down and out and didni fucking … Christ. He shook his head and shut his eyes. Then he shrugged, glanced at Norman: The guy she’s married to, he’s a bit of a dickie, to be honest; I mean I’m no being eh …

  Norman nodded.

  Patrick sniffed. He shouldnt have said what he had. He shouldnt have said it it was daft, totally daft. It was the kind of thing

  He just shouldnt have said it.

  Norman was smiling now. And he leaned his elbows on the edge of the table, glancing swiftly towards the bar, and whispering, Hey Patrick, you dont mind me asking and aw that, about Alison, I’m no being cheeky or anything

  Patrick had his eyelids shut fast and there was this roaring noise like a fucking crescendo in the eardrums, an eruption or something, a cacophonic roar of the blood in the head.

  He smiled. He was going to answer but Alison had returned. He smiled. He was going to say something to the guy but she had returned. She beckoned to him, at his empty pint glass: Is it beer or lager Pat or what is it?

  Tomato juice.

  Honestly?

  Yeh, thanks. He laughed. What had he laughed at. He laughed again. Alison had returned to the bar. It was a girl serving and Alison and she were talking together. They were probably talking about – what? what would they be talking about?

  He glanced at the temporary English teacher who smiled but looked away immediately. He was not at his ease with Patrick. That was for definite. It was as if he was just – as if he was maybe thinking he was not really able to say what might happen in the next couple of minutes. As if maybe he was worried Patrick might break down or something maybe and end up

  not well perhaps. As if Patrick w
ould end up not well.

  Fucking not well! He was fucking not well right now. Right fucking now. He was christ almighty in fucking bad trouble. Bad trouble. What did it take! What did it fucking take! Here he was about to resign from school in order to play the pipes. Play the fucking pipes! In the name of christ. Fucking predicament and a half that was. For somebody who was supposed to be not off his head, somebody who was supposed to be not cracking up.

  Alison.

  My god. She was holding a circular tray with the drinks standing aboard. A smile on her face: yet downcast, in her gaze – not to be looking at one if not at the other. Being equal to the pair of them in other words, the two men.

  That was typical. That was what like she was. But this type of equality, it was surely a way of sounding the death-knell. Patrick stood to his feet and saluted as she sat down; he then bowed.

  Such a gentleman, she said.

  Just apologising for the last faux pas.

  She nodded.

  Total sexism, you were dead right to pull me up for it.

  I know I was.

  Of course I earn more money than you.

  What?

  I earn more than you do.

  Dont be stupid.

  ‘I’m no being stupid Alison; I earn more than ye; it’s to do with responsibility payments and these exam study group reports.

  What?

  Patrick shrugged. We’re no supposed to tell anybody.

  You’re being stupid.

  I’m no.

  That’s unpaid work.

  That’s what you think.

  Alison made no response for a moment, then she said to Norman, See how rumours can start!

  Norman looked from her to Patrick and back to her again, smiling.

  And she said, God Pat sometimes you can be a real pain.

  He grinned and raised his glass of tomato juice: Slàinte! He tasted it and grimaced.

  Serve ye right, she muttered.

  The temporary English teacher chuckled but became serious at once. He said, I applaud you for it. I used to drive a motor myself but I found it nearly impossible to keep off the bevy. I mean properly. At the wind-up I more or less had to chuck it all the gether, the driving I’m talking about. It was a case of either/or, the drink or the car.

  Patrick gaped at him. Is that the truth?

  Yeh.

  For fuck sake.

  It would be impossible for him! said Alison.

  Ah well it isni easy, replied Norman, the temporary English teacher. He grinned and raised his tumbler. All the best, he said to the two of them before taking a drink.

  Patrick watched him follow it up with a sip of his half-pint of beer. It was the action of the strong drinker, the comfortable drinker. Something Patrick was not. He wasnt a comfortable drinker; and nor was he a strong drinker – not particularly, not in comparison to others. You only had to see others to appreciate the point. Although maybe if he didni have a motor he would drink a bit more. You married? he asked Norman.

  Yeh.

  Patrick nodded.

  And Norman frowned, then smiled.

  Dont pay him any attention Norman! Where marriage is concerned Mister Doyle is inclined to get things into his head!

  Aw thanks Alison thanks a lot.

  Well so ye are.

  Am I.

  Yes! Alison chuckled and flicked her lighter at a new cigarette.

  Thanks.

  For god sake dont take things so seriously Pat.

  Alright but I just wish you wouldni go around making explanations on my behalf I mean fuck sake it’s terrible.

  Sometimes you need explanations.

  Okay but you still dont need to bloody christ you know what I’m talking about! Patrick shook his head; eventually he glanced at her; she was staring at him. He muttered, Sorry.

  If you would just calm down.

  I know.

  Alison was looking at her wristwatch. I think we better go soon, otherwise they’ll be wondering whether we’re going to turn up at all.

  Patrick said nothing. There wasnt anything he wanted to say. He footered with his drink. He lifted it to his lips, returned it to the table. Norman had started talking. That was good, it was good that he was talking. And in a friendly manner he was acting as if he was including Pat in the conversation although obviously he wasnt thank christ because it was really boring – it was to do with being a teacher. And suddenly there was that awful feeling, that awful feeling; it was a feeling

  what was it like it was like as if, as if, just as if things werent going aright, not going aright. It would be great being whisked straight home on a magic carpet. One of Goya’s things. But it was definitely the sort of situation, the kind that it was burdensome to remove from, to just carry on within, it was even just carrying on in the company for fuck sake that was difficult and to be able to reach freedom, to be able to get out from under this and away, away, gone, freedom, liberation, flying high in the fucking sky, away way up so high, out of reach. He raised the tomato juice to his mouth, right in front of his nose, and attempted to taste it with relish, an act of great heroerism. He grinned and said to Norman: This stuff is only palatable with vodka.

  Norman nodded, breaking off from what he had been speaking about.

  Alison smiled. She said: I think it’s good you showing this new-found resolution Mister Doyle.

  Patrick did not look in her direction for several seconds. When he did he chuckled.

  Alison had her bag in hand and was arising from her seat. Maybe she would float straight up with a pair of angel wings flapping. He shook his head, grinning; returned his empty glass to the table although there again the glass could hardly be described as empty with all the dregs of tomato it contained. He stood up alongside Norman. They followed her to the car, Patrick waiting until both were inside; he shut the passenger door, strolled round to the driver’s side.

  When he eased off the handbrake he was not going to the arts centre. He turned to inform Alison but she was listening to Norman who was telling her something Mister Mills had said. Mister Mills was the second headmaster, otherwise known as MI6. Once more it was pretty boring stuff but probably he should have taken note of what was being said if only for the sake of future reference to do with social obligations in a freemarket economy, but he had the road to watch, being the driver and all that ergo having to take care not to crash the fucking machine. And it appeared as though Norman, the soon-to-be-erstwhile, was no longer even pretending to seek his attention. He was now swivelled sideways on the seat, actually straining to see into her eyes it looked like. And him being married as well, was his marital state satisfactory? did he have children? sitting here chatting away with Mirs Houston in this fashion. It was strange how married folk aye seemed to rush headlong at each other. Here you had millions of single people all crowding out the gravitational waves and all anybody was interested in was another married person. It was actually unfair. Daft as it may sound, it was unfair. I’m not going to bother going, he said, glancing sideways as the car approached a junction. He glanced to the other side then to the first side once again.

  Neither of the pair answered until the vehicle’s path had been manoeuvered safely onto the main road. You’re not going to bother going? said Alison.

  The arts centre I mean, I’m no going.

  O Pat.

  Nah it’s just all the faces christ you know what I’m talking about, ye see them all week and then at the weekend you’re supposed to meet them all again during the leisure time. Sometimes I find it hard. Desmond and them, Mrs Bryson.

  Mrs Bryson just goes home on Friday evenings.

  Ah but Desmond’ll be there and so will Diana and Joe Cairns.

  Alison didn’t respond. Patrick glanced into the rearview mirror: she was peering out the window.

  Joe Cairns, said Norman eventually, that’s the science teacher?

  He’s a science teacher no the science teacher, there’s thousands of the bastards.

  Yeh but
is he no the one that played football?

  That’s correct.

  Stirling Albion?

  Mmhh.

  God sake! said Norman.

  At one time there was talk of him moving to Manchester United.

  What!!

  Was there? asked Alison. Honestly?

  Well right enough maybe it was Scunthorpe United. Patrick laughed for a moment. Naw, he said, it was Carlisle United. But they were up in the Second Division at the time.

  Norman made a whistling noise. Wait till I tell my boys!

  Ach he was good, said Patrick, I actually mind reading his name in the English papers a couple of times. You’ll see for yourself when the pupils v. staff comes round. It makes ye sick so it does – we all try to kick his ankles never mind the fucking opposition!

  The drive continued in silence for some time. Alison said, Why are you not going Pat? You did say you were.

  I know. I’m sorry. But look, I just dont want to eh get too tempted with the booze – because what it ends up doing, it ends up making me spend too much time doing things that’re totally ludicrous, things that’re totally stupid and absurd. Plus my brain’s dying.