A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  Formerly the finest day of the week.

  Saturday!

  Hurrehh!!

  Three cheers for Saturday!!

  But not nowadays. Nowadays it is a day for recovery. Nowadays it is a day he could stay in bed and nobody would notice. A day when, if he felt like it,

  And what did that Russian poet say about doing things as opposed to having them done to you? But what about Oblomov. Then that auld Cynic who wouldni get out his fucking bath! Quite right. Pat likes having baths as well. But it’s not to do with that. But there again, the whole world is obliged to rise from its place of repose. Patrick is no different. Except that he gets paid a better than average wage, et sumptu publico, which can be said to apply to everyone in one way or another. He has become scunnered by the carry on, that is all. The process has been gradual. Or has it? It hasni really. In some ways it seems to have in other ways no, in other ways it has crept up on him and then let fly with a crack on the fucking jaw.

  Is there a party at whose door the blame can be lain. Apart from the fucking obvious. The schoolweans dont seem able to comprehend the obvious. Although no doubt they go rushing straight home each day to inform their parents of the day’s indoctrination who then pass on the information to the proper authorities, the name Doyle P., being filed under something or other which is not very good in terms of promotion e.g. Subversive Blasphemers: One Who Seeks To Overthrow The Present Government And Do Away With Plutocracy And An Hierarchical System Based Upon Monarchy. Plus other things as well of course, not excluding the daily denial of the deities. Which deities? Any fucking deities. When it comes to deities Doyle isni fussy. For christ sake even blowing the pipes could get him listed; an early-warning sign of senile dementia – coupled with that suspicious state of bachelordom while in charge of the nation’s children; a bloke who would probably, if the truth be told, be much more at home sitting in the queue of the local DHSS office. What the fuck was Old Milne wanting to see him about? Whatever it was it would include some paternal advice of course. Old bastards like him seized every possible opportunity for dishing that kind of stuff out. Aye well Patrick has plenty of paternals of his own. That was the last thing he needed, another of the bastards. Plus what he didni need, what he did not need, not at all, was another Alison. In the cold light of day, when sexual gratification has receded into the distant horizon, when he is once more of the disposition

  In fact, she is not even what can objectively be described as ‘good looking’. Dark hair and dark eyes. She has been described as ‘beautiful’ but at certain oblique angles at certain times of the day, Patrick has been totally flabbergasted to see

  Fuck sake she is just woman and that’s that. No paragon there. Nothing to get all het up about. Also her political stance, it is somewhat innocent – naïve is a better word. She believes the future exists! Unbelievable! So why then does he have this urge? Even in the cold and watery light of a late winter’s morning, a day such as today, he can imagine her speaking, actually imagine her speaking, listening or looking right at this very moment, and that smile she has, which is sentimental tollie, all adding up to the following:

  Alison Houston has been available for some long time now but having become scunnered by the procrastinatory nature of potential lover number 1 (Doyle) she has opted for potential lover number 2 (Desmond). And at this moment, at this very moment, while her husband is out of town on a selling jamboree, the two of them, they are sharing a bed maybe, lying beneath the big quilt, her just absent-minded there and smiling at nothing at all, moving slightly, her

  When Patrick was a boy

  Get out of the house.

  The house is not a place to be. Get out of it. There is the great temptation. It is not to be spoken of. Because once stated it has become part of something or other – reality. Patrick stood to his feet, of course, smiling. He turned to face the kitchen door and he began to walk to it, to place his hand on the handle, opening this door, this door that can lead into the parlour wherein lie the pipes, or else the front door if he wishes to don an outer garment and he is continuing beyond it and into the parlour, this room wherein the pipes, in their constant temperature of let it be known roundabout the fifty-six to sixty-two degree mark Fahrenheit and this thinner of the two which he has lifted and seems to be examining is in fact the one his fancy aye leads him to but this morning it is the other, the thicker and the heavier, that is demanding the playing, that is requiring a form of attention. This thicker pipe was more enjoyable to paint, its space being vaster. Patrick now sitting on a dining chair, the pipe propped onto the left toe of his shoe. Once balanced correctly he covered the top opening with both hands, his mouth compressed into the right one, and the barest fraction of a gap only, and if he could stop that up too he was looking to do it, but it

  and he had begun the sound high in his mouth, back near the gullet and up at the roof, and it was a kind of soh; and he lowered it, the sound now nearer the gums, a deeper note which he continued till his breath was giving out but he broke it off calmly before arriving at the gasp and he breathed in deeply but regularly, eyelids shut, no frown etched into the forehead and no smile. No nothing. Just getting on with making this sound he was making as if it was definitely everything in itself just to accomplish.

  It took a wee while to reach beyond the moment because reflection not being possible and it being something he had to take absolutely for granted, no smiles even; not to take any risks because there was not anything at this stage worse than not getting it properly, not getting the thing done in its proper fashion, the nature of it not being sustainable, not sustainable, and then he was standing, now across to the window, no rain but looking set for it later, summing up how this winter had been, everything about it, even solid snow would have been better than continual rain, sleet, slush, soaking into everything and keeping folks huddled into coats and anoraks, hats and umbrellas so that they even found difficulty in seeing each other let alone engaging them in conversation. Maybe that was a basic explanation for Patrick’s state of mind. It would be good practice just to slow things down, just to take it more easily, be less aggressive with ordinary everyday details, petty items that cannot be helped. He shivered. The room was quite cold for people if not for pipes. He smiled, returning ben the kitchen. A coffee. Heat the toes at the fire.

  A coffee, yes. It was not a bad kitchen. It was quite not unhomely. People wouldnt call it unhomely. Would a woman call it unhomely? Maybe a woman would call it unhomely. The last time his maw was here she shivered. What was wrong with that, everybody shivers now and again. In the middle of a fucking heatwave! Nah it was actually November, on her way back from visiting the da in the death ward at the Western which he had fortunately given the go-bye and got well and so on and left his cares behind, including death, ha ha.

  Escape from the head, that was the best policy. The weekend had begun a while ago. It was almost Saturday afternoon. Okay. A time of the week for enjoyment. Of course it was. A time people anticipate with great pleasure. Certainly not a time for thinking: what the fuck happens now! or roll on next Friday so’s I can go for a publunch with a bunch of fucking schoolteachers. He had reached to the mantelpiece. What for? For a notepad and a pen. He was catching himself in the act of writing a letter to Eric. Imagine writing a letter to Eric? on a Saturday morning, only minutes away from Saturday midday, that great time of magic throughout the football-speaking world, when you hit the boozer for a couple of jars just prior to heading off to Ibrox or Parkhead or Firhill or Love Street or old Shawfield if the Clyde ever return. Well well well, and here he is about to write a boring letter. How are you and here is how I am and the school and do you ever do this and that and the next thing because it reminds me of when a few years back and the rest of it when it seems as if life was occurring whereas now for christ sake the very idea of writing to Eric. He was long overdue a reply but so what. Fuck that, a fucking Saturday, and you’re writing letters; he’d be as well returning to school and marking a stack of ink exercis
es. Okay. So

  but poor old Eric, two letters and no response, he probably thinks P for Patrick has taken the huff at something because he used to be no a bad correspondent and now here he is, never a peep. So what. Who wants to fucking peep. Pat has never peeped in his fucking life and he doesni fucking intend to start fucking now, if it’s alright with you I mean d’you know what I’m fucking talking about I mean you dont have to fucking bloody damn christ you know what I’m fucking talking about – right. So

  So: what was he going to do he was going to write out a list of things to do, that he could do, this afternoon:

  1) Football match; Clyde versus Raith Rovers. Always a good game between these two so that was a real possibility.

  2) Phoning up Gavin to see if he was doing anything. He could be going to a game – maybe to see the Thistle, but if Clyde were at home the Thistle would be away. So that’s that. Gavin doesnt stray too far because it means leaving Nicola with the weans. In fact, these days, Saturday afternoon was becoming a time when they did things together, these two. He could phone up and offer to babysit, then they could make a real day of it.

  3) He could do something else. He could go out and maybe go to the Art Gallery or else go up the town and see if he could buy himself a pair of shoes. O dear, why is life so exciting. He could go and sign himself in at a highclass hotel and kid on he was somebody else. People did that. They signed themselves into hotels under assumed names and had a laugh, pretending they were members of BOSS and the CIA and so on. So fucking belaboured with boredom but that was the problem. Pat grinned. He crumpled the notepaper. Life was daft at times. He uncrumpled the notepaper. In fact the football was not a bad idea. He ticked it off.

  And Yoker Athletic was playing at home today. The sign had been up when he passed along Dumbarton Road yesterday evening. He could go and see them. He had a soft spot for the Yoker since working in Clydebank and an expupil had played for them, a good midfield player with a tremendous shot. He used to take their penalty kicks and their free kicks. It was a couple of years since he had left the team for pastures unknown. Patrick never saw his name in any team lists, so probably the boy had just not made the grade. But Yoker was a good wee team at present and they were playing the Perthshire; a tough match was in prospect. Okay. Or else he could fix the car! That was an outstanding chore. Chores. What the hell job did he tackle first? The rust or the fucking hinges of the door. He could maybe start by giving under the bonnet a good cleaning and oiling, then sand down some of the panel rust and consider using the Cataloy. He would have to buy the Cataloy. Okay then. Also there were some wee jobs needing done about the house. That terrible draught coming in the kitchen window so a putty round the frame wouldni go amiss. Dirty washing to the launderette of course but that was a Sunday job. He could go up the Barrows and have a look through the secondhand books and records, and also their antiques. He knew fuck all about antiques but this maths teacher by the name of Bill Todd went regularly and was supposed to be making a small fortune, finding stuff which he then resold to dealers apparently. It was a good hobby and with luck he hoped to finish with teaching forever. Good luck to him for christ sake you had to wish him well. But on a Saturday afternoon! Browsing among antiques! The guy deserved to succeed with that kind of tenacity.

  Have a bath and listen to the sport on the radio. Take in a couple of books, maybe blast out some music.

  No. And the one omission from that list of course suicide! Imagine failing to mention suicide. Plus he could maybe buy a wee something for his maw’s birthday. He should at least have sent her a card. The da would go in a huff about it – very subtly of course, it would take Pat the rest of the week to appreciate it had actually happened. Ah well, it was his own fault. If people wanted to go in the huff then they could go and fucking fuck themselves.

  Maybe there was an artshow on somewhere. But what if he had been an artist himself! Being an actual painter! Or sculptor! What age was Meurier when he kicked the bucket? What a fucking stupit expression! And why worry about folk’s ages. That is the problem with being lonely, dwelling on the advantages and disadvantages of living on into a ripe old age. And most of these painters lived forfuckingever – never mind Goya, look at auld Pablo and Renoir. There again but, it is perfectly laudable that such as the elder Rossi should retain his overriding interest in the affairs of the family business, that, okay, such as Goya should remain so interested in the fate of humanity, Picasso spending all his latter years on sex and female beauty in general, and the old Eubie Blake still tickling the ivories at a fucking hundred odd years and telling everybody if he knew he was gonni live so long he’d have taken better fucking care of himself.

  They were all dead now right enough – apart from auld Rossi. Maybe Pat could murder him and get in the good books of the rest of the family.

  He picked a book down from the shelves to the side of the mantelpiece. When he opened it at his mark he was aware of the cold in his fingers and he saw himself as Ebenezer Scrooge with death impending, the icicles spreading up the joints of his old bones. Christ that was a horrible way of seeing at yourself at the relatively young age of twenty-nine. Twenty-nine! Christ almightly he’s a boy, a boy – what’s this talk of death all the time! Just turn up the fire full blast and if you really are cold then switch on the oven and leave the door open. The place’ll be hot in seconds. There isnt any point in being economical in these matters. Hypothermia isnt the property of the elderly. Other people can have it too. Normally he wasnt a skinflint by any means but lately, lately it could seem to be the case if other folk had chanced to witness his actions in particular monetary situations. Take for example the manner whereby he allowed the temporary English teacher to buy him drink after drink and then be content to have Alison buy him the next yin, without getting a further round in on his own behalf. But there again mind you, he never ever charged petrol money for all these trips in the motor. It was aye him having to drive everybody else about, a chauffeur without the uniform. On ye go James and dont spare the fucking horses. And nobody thinking to say O here ye are Paddy my boy, a couple of bob towards the price of a gallon or three – plus the wear and tear on the engine and bodywork for christ sake because all that running about costs dough. And then the time involved.

  A bang on the landing outside. The neighbours’ door.

  Patrick was in the lobby and listening at the keyhole. With a wee spyhole affixed things would be even more interesting. He could have witnessed the actual intruder! All so fucking fascinating! Was it a murderer out there? less than four yards from where your man was now crouching … sshhh … hear that muffled breathing … ssshhh … a beautiful and enigmatic woman … a door-to-door seller of evangelical merchandise.

  That creak on the lobby floor! It was another oddjob he might undertake; two or three nails in the floorboards and that would be that. But this kind of task was doomed to be ever beyond him. Especially after these past few days. In fact, when it comes down to it, last week was a bastard, and worse was to come – the future!

  And yet the temperature had to be rising surely. March for fuck sake I mean things like sleet are a joke, a joke. March is the basic spring according to many, the month wherein that season begins, that month which blows away the last of wintry chills and coughs and sneezes. There was of course something he could do right at this moment in time, he could turn the fire on fullblast like he said he would and also the oven fullblast with the door open and in general be turning this place into a fucking hothouse cum sauna, a really cosy place to be. He did have it in his power to make of this kitchen a warm and very pleasantly habitable abode. Not even bothering to go out the entire weekend but just remaining here at home, nice and comfortable, going about in the semmits and the swimming trunks, the summer sandals, beating nature at its own game. What was it Schiller said in reference to that? Or was it Heine? To do with defeating it, nature, overcoming it, developing your own aesthetic. And the irony of it was of course

  He aye seemed to be thinki
ng in terms of irony nowadays. Was this ironic or was that ironic or was he fucking ironic, in relation to himself, or what.

  In fact, if he did transform the house into something really warm and snug he could don the summer casuals and start playing the pipes properly. He was about getting beyond the self-conscious stage and there was no question that a genuine well-being resulted from it. No question, that it calmed him down; a bit like how masturbation could be, at its best, as a retrospective appreciation. Yes. Just sitting there and playing the pipes, with the room at its most comfortable i.e. nice and warm; it would be good, and conducive to it. What he had fancied doing, back when he found them – and now he could bring it right out into the front of the brain – what he had fancied doing, or even just as a sort of mild consideration, just as a consideration, a way of maybe looking

  what he had half, deeply down had, occurring to him, was the notion of doing something on the pipes that warranted performance. There you have it. He had fancied the idea of reaching such a pitch/level that he could put on a sort of performance, just of him and the pipes. A type of arty crafty avant-garde affair but so what, fuck off with your fucking inverted snobbery. What he could do was hire a large room somewhere and send out invitations to folk. It wouldni be too difficult. It sounded mad and vainglorious; as if he thought he had something unique to offer. But he didnt at all – although there again, it might be said quite easily that just being an individual human being was a uniqueness, that individual human beings were as unique as each other; a race of specifics in non-specific terms – in which case