by James Kelman
Ah christ Pat, call it a day. Away you go home. But look, just eh
And slow down slow down; the car moves too fast, far too fast. He has been driving as if to keep abreast of the high-and-dry fast movers on the outer lane. That is always pointless, especially in an elderly vehicle.
There were no lights now. It was sudden and it was dark. And the peace! It was so bloody quiet! He was beyond the boundaries, beyond the outermost motorway route to Stirling and Perth. He was on the M74 and heading south, south, south to the English border, home of the Auld Enemy, now curtailing the speed to a steady fifty-two m.p.h., which gave time to think and reflect, time to become accustomed to the blackness, of using the headlight beams. Eric would be glad to see him. And it was high time he re-established contact. It was bad of him not to reply to the letters the guy had sent. It really was bad. And then never having met his wife. She was probably beautiful. Eric was quite lucky with women. He used to get into ‘scrapes’ with them, these occasions where he was involved with more than one woman at a time. This lassie called Mary Busby who used to in Patrick’s opinion humiliate herself because she knew Eric had the other involvements and she would just more or less wait for him to finish. Patrick used to talk to her until one day he realised that she actually didnt like him. My christ! That was a terrible feeling that. And it was fair enough because she had recognised he was patronising her – Patrick had been patronising her. He hadni realised it until that very minute when he could see she hated him. Fair enough. The trouble is of course it’s not nice having people hate ye. It’s actually horrible. Once or twice it happens with schoolweans. Not too often thank christ because it is not good.
So little traffic around. The weather was pretty bad of course. Plus it was that quiet time between 8.30 and 10.30 in the evening. Just wait until the pubs closed and all the fucking idiots emerged from here there and everywhere, zooming, zooming – the headlights way miles behind then suddenly at your back and passing, passed, away now in front, the red dots, over the brow of the next hill.
The humming of another big articulated lorry. They all seemed to be enjoying this lull as well; a real peace and quiet; and when they passed and indicated Patrick flashed the headlights in reply, enjoying their double blink of acknowledgment, the drivers settling back into their own daydreams, putting forward their plans for the future and reflections on the past, where they had gone wrong and how come here they were where they were, at this moment in eternity, driving down the M to A74, towards the latter end of what had been a fairly depressing winter.
But it hadnt been too depressing. There had been a nice couple of things. And Fiona Grindlay of course who was in sixth year and given birth to that wee baby then had stayed on at school and without divulging the name of the father. That was good. And a couple of nice arguments with the fourth year that no matter how sentimental gave him a wee glow – a bit like your first sip of whisky when that whisky is a fine single malt, a nice thick one from the Inner Hebrides, and you’ve just come in from a slog across the hills, maybe even a climb. Which is what Patrick would wish for himself just now, right at this moment, he would wish himself into a small friendly hotel whose bar stayed open till the last customer left, and Patrick wouldni leave, he would remain forever. But it would be something very special being in such a place with a woman you really fancied. The thick peats burning in the fireplace, having to avert the face slightly from the fire because it is so hot. And a nice pint of draught beer on tap and maybe a nice sort of late meal to come, with a bottle of cool wine, then upstairs to bed, but even lingering say, if it was with Alison for instance, being relaxed and cheery the way sometimes he could be with her, maybe looking out and seeing the bluishblack of the sea, the solitary lighthouse beam flaring away to the southwesternmost point, a couple of seconds interval, making its own pause, allowing the two folk to settle into it, that kind of tranquillity, that rhythm. She did have the knack of getting him calm, making him calm himself, getting him to calm himself, and become towards his best. And his best could be fairly amusing in not too loud a fashion – quiet asides. They could be sitting up in bed doing it. Doing what? Pat chuckled. He shook his head. He had been sitting back in the normal driving position but he sat forwards now, the rain having begun again, and quickly came streams of it down the windscreen and he had to shove the wipers onto motorway-action, awaiting the next turn-off. There was only one thing worth bothering about and that was the truth of the matter what was the truth of the matter was the truth of the matter ‘love’; love, was that it? Love? Love. That was it out in the open now. He was in love with Alison Houston. And he wanted to grab a hold of her. If he didnt grab a hold of her bad things would happen.
So, what was to do? What was he to do? He laughed – a sniggering kind of guffaw. But no wonder! So, what to do? One of those romantic carry ons? stealing her away from under the nose of everybody – her and her husband sitting there watching the telly and the door goes and when it gets answered, in bursts Patrick and he shouts, Okay Alison. Coats on! That’s us, we’re leaving.
Leaving?
Aye, right now.
What about my husband.
Fuck him.
And she gives Pat a huge smile, but very somehow underplayed at the same time because she is saving the main bulk of it for when they are alone. She rushes out the room to pack her stuff.
Dont waste time, says Patrick, we can hit the department stores first thing in the morning. The department stores. It sounds like something out of a Hollywood picture. Patrick shook his head but he was grinning. He had to remember and concentrate though because the road conditions were abysmal, really abysmal. And sitting hunched forwards like this aye made you stiff and cramped, stiffened shoulders and cramped back muscles, down at the small of it, the back, at the foot of the spine. He felt exhausted. An actual physical sensation of acute tiredness, as if even just shutting the eyelids for ten seconds would genuinely help matters christ just ten seconds. Being able to stretch right out! The legs and the arms and wrists, the fingers – instead of this having to drive nearly pressed right into the windscreen with your face in the glare and getting that cold blast from the demisters somehow hitting the crown of your head, never a good sensation although it can keep you awake and alert when you are driving and you shouldnt be driving because you are too tired to be good at it, too exhausted to actually
Alison’s husband always said nothing. He stood in the background. It was possible he had a deeply rooted inferiority complex. In the company of teachers a great many folk suffer the same problem. Teachers intimidate people. He was a funny sort of bloke in some ways and didnt remind you of a high powered salesman at all; he was more like something else, an undercover detective perhaps, working for the Economic League or Special Branch, or MI5 and the CIA. It was possible. Everybody knew they had all infiltrated the educational establishments of the entire country, and that includes primary schools and nurseries. If Alison
Ah christ.
He dropped the gear from top to third to second, slowing at the roundabout up from the Motherwell sliproad, returning back onto the M74, heading home to Glasgow.
How to progress through the rest of the night. He tried reading, different volumes, and then listening to foreign stations on his shortwave radio. It was all useless. His mind was just too totally crazy. At one stage he thought he was going to burst out greeting. He had been sitting with his toes toasting at the fire and had managed to read nearly two pages of a book, the memoirs of an old politician, and then he had to stop and start and stop and start and at last shut his eyelids so tightly, so tightly, to halt the tears. Now, that was something about Kierkegaard. Patrick had never quite managed to trust him for it; and it was that, it was to do with that; but just leave it there, just leave it; and dont even get it out, what you are thinking, close to thinking, dont even try it.
He shut the book and was fiddling about beneath his chair. What was he doing he was looking for his shoes he was going to go out again. Where wa
s he going, to the boozer probably, he felt like a pint, a last pint, or maybe two, the two pints, if he swallowed that down he’d sleep alright, the sleep of the just. The just fucking knackered. Where’s the shoes. The shoes have walked. The shoes are over next to the bed. But he was fucking knackered. And why shouldnt he be, out fucking teaching all day. It was something that annoyed him, the way a lot of bastards scoffed at the work teachers performed in return for their time off, as if they didni deserve it. Bastards. Fucking bastards. He closed his eyelids and strode the three paces to the sideboard so that when he stopped and opened them and look straight ahead he would be looking into the wall mirror and seeing the two little fuckers there in front of him, his eyes: look into my eyes, especially when they’re fucking your own, look into them, see the sharp lines of light, the way they mock you, the little bastards, your eyes, what the fuck do they look at all the time, what do they see, do they perceive, when they are not honest and not steady, when they are fucking dishonest and always fucking not being steady.
The pipes. In all their majesty of colour. The bright silver and red and black. Shiny and fine. The painting had been a good idea. It was a freshness. Perhaps as well as if he blocked up the ends so that the sound would be more correct, without any too much
There existed very long saxophones from years ago. The player sat on the chair like a cellist; that same sort of feeling to it as well – unlike for example the way a harpist would be: the whole act differing in a very fundamental sense. Although harpists are fine. There is nothing to be said against harpists by any means whatsoever.
Patrick lifted the thinner of the two and he returned it to the floor and he lifted the other and carried it, in leisurely fashion, across to the bow windows, there being a pair of them in this room, the front room, what the old folk referred to as the parlour, what his grandparents had referred to as the parlour, the room wherein nothing occurred but the dusting of irrelevant objects twice weekly or monthly as the case may be, in that of Doyle P., never. Would his grandparents ever have had sexual activity in the parlour? Did this type of query take the form a family would acknowledge as valid or would it be recognised at once as unsound, an inauthentic entity that already proved beyond the shadow of a doubt the massive gulf between on the one hand this university-trained younger son of the household
And yet, he does precisely the same. This room has no function. It is an appendage. There are large numbers of homeless people and Master Patrick Doyle has this room wherein nothing takes place.
Sentimental drivel.
No it isni.
Sleet again, pelting the windows. He liked to stand here staring out but aye took care to have the curtains partly drawn so not to be witnessed from below. A lassie used to stand at one of the windows across the street. It’s not that he was a peeping tom, but if she happened to be standing there then Pat enjoyed seeing her, but kept back so not to be seen; it would be awful to be seen. Imagine the headlines. Singleman found peeping out window. Patrick Doyle, schoolteacher and bachelor was today found guilty of being a peeping tom. Such improper conduct cannot and will not be tolerated, said Mr Milne, headmaster of the school in question. No excuse for it either. But it was just one of these aspects of the single, the solitary – probably if he had been a married man he would have spent half his life jumping up and down in broad daylight, naked.
He replaced the pipe next to its mate. He went out into the lobby and picked up the telephone receiver and dialled seven digits and after a short delay his brother had lifted the other receiver and said: Hullo?
Gavin?
Aye.
Pat.
Aw hullo. How’s things?
Fine. How’s things yourself?
Okay. No bad … Want to speak to Nicola?
Okay.
Hang on and I’ll get her.
Alright. Patrick took the receiver away from his ear but was still listening carefully, gazing at the coat and jackets on the pegs facing the front door. Then movement and Nicola:
Hullo. Pat?
Aye hullo eh I was just …
Everything alright?
Fine, aye. Naw it was just, I was trying to phone the parents earlier on but I kept getting an engaged tone.
Did you?
Aye and I was just wondering if you’d heard anything yourself.
Is that recently?
Well it’s about an hour ago.
You should try again.
Aye, I was just thinking it was a wee bit late.
It’ll be alright Pat, it’s no even eleven yet.
True.
And they’re usually up till midnight.
True.
…
…
So how’s school?
Aw fine, fine. How’s the wee yins?
Elizabeth had the cold.
Christ.
It was just a cold.
Is she okay now?
It was just a cold Pat, aye, she’s fine.
Is she back at her playgroup?
She was only off for one day! You know what like she is.
Yeh …! Patrick smiled. And how’s wee John?
Aw! Need ye ask!
Okay?
Yeh.
Good.
…
…
So when you coming round for your tea!
When am I coming round for my tea, I’m coming round for my tea any time ye like!
You always say that and you never do, you make excuses.
I do not.
Yes you do.
Patrick laughed.
Listen, we’re having some friends up a week tomorrow. Nothing fancy. Bring your own bottle.
Sounds good.
So you’ll come?
Aye.
You can bring somebody as well of course I dont have to tell ye.
Great; good.
So you’re definitely coming?
Yeh.
I’ll hold you to it then.
Fine.
Tch, Pat, you’re a pest.
Pardon?
A pest.
What do you mean?
I mean you’ll no come, that’s what I mean.
I will.
No you wont.
…
It’s a week tomorrow. Any time after eight o’clock. But you could come at teatime and get something to eat.
Great.
You’ll let me down if ye dont come.
I will come.
Well you’ll let me down if ye dont.
But I will.
After a moment Nicola said, Gavin’s telling me to tell you when’s the next game of table tennis?
Aw! Aye – christ.
He says there’s no to be any excuses this time for getting beat.
Ha ha ha.
You’ve just to give him a phone and arrange it. Alright?
Aye.
Any time’s fine for him.
Great, I’ll remember.
…
Okay then cheerio Nicola … and he shoved the receiver down, away from his ear. And there had been no chance of her saying anything further. There was nothing she could say anyway. Yet another impasse. Getting beyond it might have meant a total breakdown! An emotional collapse! Patrick smiled. But he did find it very difficult being honest with Nicola at times. This is because he found it so easy. And stick Gavin and the weans in alongside her and he found it impossible, the whole thing, sitting there with them all as a family group.
And them feeling sorry for him! Terrible – absolutely pathetic in fact. Imagine being pathetic. Imagine being regarded with pathos by your family! For fuck sake, wee brothers should not be pathetic they should be solid bastards, rocksteady; the backbone of the community, filling all these minor posts in the church and armed forces.
The Teaching Profession.
Yes, fuck it, the teaching profession fits that fucking bill nicely, exactly and very ably, a tight fit. Heraclitus would be proud of him. High time he entered politics in fact, the New Membe
r for Glasgow Central, setting society to rights; jus dicere on behalf of The Royal Majestics. Or else fuck Heraclitus he could take to the streets and become an urban terrorist, an urban fighter for freedom. Who was stopping him. No bastard.
He was in the kitchen filling a kettle for coffee although coffees too late at night often stopped him from getting to sleep and probably the very last thing required tonight was not to get to sleep. But for christ sake he was knackered. Tonight had been absolutely shattering, everything about it – shattering. It would be no surprise if he wound up sleeping straight through till fucking one o’clock in the afternoon! He did have a can of Ovaltine right enough. Maybe that would send him to sleep. His maw swore by it. Imagine swearing by Ovaltine! Fuck you Ovaltine.
When Patrick was dead.
Woooosh woooosh! Woaa wooaa. Ssshhh for fuck sake ssshhh ya devil, ya fucking devil, ya devilish besom. Is that you Goya ya dark auld bastard, with that twinkle to your eyebrow! Look at them all dancing! Nobody could call it a dance! It’s a form of ritualistic stepping which must end in human sacrifice. See the faces! O fuck. O jesus christ you’re dead ya bastard.
evil
evil
evil
Patrick likes to run the faucet, the Northamerican tap. He turns the tap and dashes out the water. EEEevilLLL. Evil is as evil does right enough. Look at the auld tollie swallowing his son with such lipsmacking enjoyment! And yet it’s a kind of ornery enjoyment. A bit like what you’d expect from a cheery old boy who enjoys getting up to mischief, merry pranks and so on. One of these ancient bleery bastards with big red noses, the type that beautiful young lassies seem to like so much. But if somebody such as Patrick was to act in the same manner they’d all pounce on him and fucking tear him limb from limb, limb from limb.
Get out! Get out!
Tonight is a night for suicide but. Anybody would have to admit that I mean just let a psychiatrist appear on the scene with a sharp analysis of the driving. Had the client set out to crash bang wallop the motor? Did he set out to attain death? Was the opposite of self perpetuation the object of the exercise? The opposite of self perp