A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  And the motor car as well of course there were a million and one things needing attention to there. But fortunately you couldni drive the car up the bloody damn stairs and park it in your lobby. So that was that. But the grating noise was definitely worsening. If maybe the hinges were slackened off and the door panel hoisted aloft, and the hinges fixed on firmly while the door is being held. A job for two people. The sound was awful, that grating – close to the anguished cry of a human being, and continual, like a wail. A flattened worker, a carassemblyman, one from Linwood, has been squashed inside the door for the past decade, right since the final asset-stripping occurred. The guy was working cheerily away inside the panel and then came the bell for teabreak and the rest of the gang went off while he was in applying grease and paint to the interior surfaces, him being slightly deafened at the time because of the echoes. And then it was a case of:

  Where the fuck’s Bertie?

  Bertie … maybe he went for a shite.

  Okay, will we just pour his tea the now or what?

  Better no, in case it goes cold, you know how fussy he is about that.

  But poor old Bertie never reappeared and gradually everybody forgot about him. He and his missis had been having a series of difficult arguments around this period and when he didni return from work at the usual time she assumed he had gone and left her, and now she and the kids would have to fend for themselves. But poor old Bertie had got stuck, he was wedged tight inside that door, his lower jaw twisted so that he couldnt scream out for help, and when the motor moved on down the line the ends of the panel were sealed fast together by the heavyduty punchguns, totally flattening him. Fucking way to go! Poor auld Bertie. Nice guy as well apart from having that wee bit of a bad temper.

  Frost still showed in patches on the street and rooftops, though the sun was shining between clouds. He collected the Observer and Mail from the newsagent. Often he would have had his dirty washing with him and he would go there and then to the launderette and enjoy the read while the stuff spun round in the machine. But he had other things to think of. Back up the stairs he ate a boiled egg and toast and it was most enjoyable. There was this feeling he had, as though some sort of unstated vow about fried food had been made by him. Was he going to give it up! It was quite exciting to contemplate. What the fuck would he eat in future? No, he had probably just decided to stop eating so much of it. Fried grub was one of the main factors in why Glasgow suffered the highest incidence of heart disease in the whole of Western Europe.

  The whole of Western Europe.

  There was a mighty ring about that. Odd to imagine Glasgow being an everyday part of something so grand and majestic. Right at this precise moment in the history of the world Patrick was one of its numerous legions, a fellow of such as the heroic Basque, a spiritual descendant of those great Free French who had declared the new Republic a nice healthy region of unashamed cardcarrying atheism. Two centuries ago! And still you were getting bastards like Old Milne managing to make weans guilty because they open their eyelids during assembly prayers. It was fucking unbelievable, the hypocrisy. And then when you spoke about it in the staffroom. When you actually spoke out about it. Christ. How in the name of fuck could they stand back and look at themself in the mirror!

  Maybe this is why he was being carpeted. A blatant failure to conceal his nonbelief in the deities. But it went against the grain. How on earth could the kids ever trust any teacher who persisted in regarding himself as a dead man?

  A dead man? Where did that come from?

  He should have shaved either last night or early this morning so that his cuts would have had the chance to heal prior to leaving the house. Plus his skin often turned a blotchy and purple hue, as if the blade was dull; he would need to buy a new one soon. Or perhaps it was an effect of a too-cheap soap, inferior perfumes and oils maybe. Horses. What have horses got to do with it? Pat shivered. He was standing in the bathroom staring at his face, having just tapped himself on the chin for some unfathomable reason – the moment when a person sees his or herself in a mirror, seeing a stranger, and peering at this stranger with furrowed brow. Who is this fucker and where is she or he off to? Is he or she off to enjoy her or himself or is it an errand of filial dimensions e.g. away to pay the rent and rates for an Aged P. or guardian?

  More! More!

  Or is this he or she a being whose outer surface of skin, flesh and hair is simply a shell for the most nefarious of inner essences?

  A hideous sight in there. Behind the skin and flesh and hair. This rotten inner core of a soul, hideous to behold in its stuckfast permanence, the kind of sight no ordinary mortal seeks to look upon. Quite fucking right if ye ask me. Who wants to look upon hideous souls? Nobody but a fool, an innocent fool. Fools are naïve. Patrick is no fool ergo he is not naïve. He is an innocent. He quests.

  A number of cuts round the adam’s apple and beneath the lower jawbone, tender parts of the neck, the portions where the suicide

  probably suicides are fascinated by these portions of the neck, leaving aside females. Because they’ve not got any fucking adam’s apples.

  The Commodore Cafe had a jukebox. It contained all of the current pop singles and not a few of the golden oldies. They would be blasting them forth. And Alison would sit, smiling quietly, ignoring the winks and stares of the weans. Would Patrick cope but? It is worth considering. Of course he would cope. Yet it is a fact, that many children can see into your mind; it is a faculty they have evolved. They know exactly when you are undergoing hellish torments. They know exactly that very instant the horrible self-consciousness is set to surface, has surfaced, in the act of perception. They would see him sitting there and be trying to restrain the general smirk, but this general smirk would alter, gradually, becoming an expression of great suffering, for nobody can experience empathy like a wean, and nobody can suffer like a wean either, and Patrick would have become a crucified soul in their very midst. His anguish all too apparent. And maybe only Alison would have failed to notice its manifestation. It was best not to go to the Commodore but it had to be gone to now.

  The clothes. He was going to don a shirt and tie and generally affect the conventional appearance of an establishment sort of bloke, an ordinary upholder of the Greatbritish way of eking out this existence. He would polish the shoes. Naw he fucking wouldni. He was stopping at that point. No further. Polish the shoes! The very fucking idea! All for the sake of a beautiful woman!! What a fucking hoax! Hoax? What has hoax got to do with it? Hoax. Hoaxish. Hoaxum. And the root? Intocsickation of course. Patrick is fucking drunk. Drunk as a lord. A lord? Drunk as a monkey then. Fine. And he was sticking on the good sports jacket and trousers and a good thick vest under the shirt, and too a quite thick V-neck jersey so the tie could be seen and everything would be correct and presentable more or less, for any occasion, any eventuality, just in case of anything vaguely out of the ordinary occurring, such as going somewhere that a too-casual outfit was frowned upon. In the name of fuck what could that possibly be? especially on a Sunday. Well, church of course. Such things canni be predicted. Poor old Joseph K ended up in a cathedral and what was he wearing was it a suit of black – a black frockcoat and tails? And also, wearing the thick underclothes means he wouldni have to don the overcoat or heavy anorak which is perhaps the central reason as to why he is dressing as he is, so that Alison might esteem him the type of guy who doesnt care what like the weather is, he just wears the same outfit come hell or high water. It was probably quite a machismo carry on. Maybe he would impress better by sporting the overcoat. And a fucking woolly scarf if it comes down to it! And shove a jar of Vick Vapour Rub in the pocket in case of emergencies, a couple of hot water bottles strapped to the upper trunk. Yet the truth of the matter

  And take enough cash as well. That was important. For the full range of possibilities. He had a motor car and little or no obligations to any man, woman, wean or pet. Nothing. He could go wherever he wished. His desire was his command, whatever he wanted, he could set t
o and simply get it accomplished.

  It was good. It was good and it was cheery. There wasnt really very much he wanted out of life, not really. But it, or maybe just the knowledge, the knowledge just, of being able to go and do whatever he thought it best to do, at that particular time, without having to worry too much about what other folk thought, not really. Although there again, it has to be said

  But fuck off. What in this life was there to be proud of? I mean some fucking good thinkers would affirm truly that just managing to be alive by thirty was worthwhile. Look at Wittgenstein’s brothers.

  He pulled all the plugs out the electrical points before leaving. He didnt know when he would be back. But he usually pulled them out anyway because of the possibility of electrical fire. Which would be one of the drawbacks to the acquisition of this fridge his maw was threatening to dump on him. Refrigerator plugs had to be kept on at all times otherwise you got flooded by defrosted ice. He would, however, be able to buy fresh food and keep it fresh, including milk, cheese and poultry meats and pig, cow and sheep meats. But the idea was silly. Plus also that deeply held away far away sense of solidarity, wanting to show some sort of solidarity, with those who had fuck all to eat and were probably dying of starvation right at this very moment. Even the thought of doing it, storing vast quantities of food for the sole consumption of one single man. There was something not good about it, something not good about it at all.

  At the foot of the staircase he continued on into the rear instead of going out the front. He walked a few paces, gazing at the peeling paintwork on the walls and ceiling. He found it special hereabouts. It had to do with the dullness of light, the position of the rear exit in relation to the front, how the shadows were eternally fixed, even at night. When the only kind of lighting was electrical the exact same shadows – or rather, the lines of those exact same shadows – remained, but had these other shadow-lines superimposed so that different layers of shadows were in existence. It was a good and a clear area of space, even allowing for the peeled paint. Then the constant wet of course; even during the summer months the condensation was horrendous and just out from the rear close was the greatest of stinks it has ever been Patrick’s something or other to witness. It emanated from a drain which was the top hatch of a dark dungeon of a sewer, and this sewer, its exploration.

  The motor was still where he had left it. Nobody had stolen it. The bonnet and wings and doors as unscratched as usual, the hubcaps all intact.

  So then:

  it was only half eleven.

  Too early really.

  The possibility of the motor failing to start, of having a bad accident on route, of a breakdown somewhere difficult, the polis picking him up. He checked the oil level, the level in the battery, looked at his tyres. These things to do with regular car driving that are boring. The mechanical aspects of any regular operation are boring. That includes conversation, having to chat to people from nothing, these things too are boring, no matter the embellishments.

  What did you do this morning, inquires Alison.

  O eh I went out eh and eh bought the papers and a bit of grub, checked the oil with the dipstick and had a shite and then I shaved and brushed the teeth to perfection in case of having bad breath because sometimes I think I have it and I dont think it’s eh very good, bad breath, because it puts people off.

  And only the introduction of the bad breath makes it at all interesting as a result of the ambiguity presented: has he an ulcerous set of gums, decaying teeth, dirty plastic ones, a cancerous set of tonsils or bad fucking adenoids or so on, throat cancer. Although, if he could be bothered, if he really did want to make an attempt, he could simply tell the truth, and it would become interesting:

  In fact Alison, my dear Mirs Houston, checking the oil isni too straightforward because I have to insert the heid beneath the upraised bonnet and there’s always for some fucking reason a lot of oil dripping out of someplace and if you arent fucking careful it lands on your napper. Sometimes I comb the fucking hair and it all comes out greasy black and manky. Plus the soiled patches on the pillow I mean see if you were to be in the same bed as me you would very soon – and so on. Plus of course if you neglect to raise the thing up properly, the bonnet, it falls down and decapitates ye.

  Sunday morning peace, the quiet roads. Eventually, when he does get a new motor, he will be insisting on in-car entertainment. To be driving along the road listening to music or a discussion. It was the sort of thing Pat would enjoy. The sort of thing that takes the mind out the body, that allows the physical functioning, the bits in between, the nonambiguities, they take over and can relax the mind and the soul. The soul? Since when has talk of ‘soul’ become such an intimate part of his states of affairs? Soul. It must stem from a lazy approach to this morning, and also of course this morning in itself viz. Sunday, the day for Greatbritish Christians to get the soul surfacing.

  Okay now, fine, when he meets Alison he has a variety of possibilities perhaps the most important of which is not to enter The Commodore Cafe. He should sit and wait for her in the car and when she turns up he should simply whisk her in and off they drive to somewhere else. That is Number 1: and once Number 1 is underway other possibilities will present themselves. And the bloody damn sky was clear of cloud, the sun melting last night’s frost. Maybe set off out Arrochar way and on over the Rest-and-be-thankful. Although cold outside the sun would heat the inside of the motor and would make things very pleasant indeed. They could mosey on down to Inverary for a nice cup of genteel tea and stroll out onto the pier, dynamite the resident aristocracy and then home for dinner. Boswell and Johnson once

  Alison was already there. It was ten to twelve. She was standing in from the corner of the junction, next door to the cafe, which seemed to be shut, the outside door closed. Alison there, she was looking good; she had on eh clothes. She had spotted him in the car but made no sign. She stared in the direction of the schoolgates which were locked and bolted.

  He slowed, winding the window down, and he waved to her and drove on into a U-turn, and parked for her. She walked round to the driver’s door. The owner’s inside, she said, he must be opening soon. Do you want to wait?

  Eh

  We could go somewhere else I suppose.

  Aye. He smiled and looked away.

  Do you think we should?

  Eh, I think eh aye maybe it would be best.

  She nodded.

  Fancy it?

  Yeh, she said and returned round to the passenger’s side. He leaned to open the door for her. When she was adjusting the seatbelt across her shoulders she spoke; she asked, Have you had a nice weekened then?

  Eh okay I suppose, the usual … He smiled, letting the handbrake off and manoeuvering the car out into the centre of the road. What about yourself?

  Alison sighed. Her perfume was strong and she was looking like she had a lot of make-up on at the eyes, maybe as if it was a mistake. That was funny, unexpected. And her cheek, there was something about her cheek, how it glistened. It’s just I’ve got my parents coming this afternoon, she said, and then she shivered in a kind of spasm.

  Okay? asked Patrick.

  Yeh.

  He grinned. I was up seeing mine last night. Boring boring boring. Are all parents boring!

  Cockadoodledoo. Judas Iscariot.

  What I mean is, he said, just having to watch so much television. I dont mean that eh they’re boring as people.

  I was just kidding.

  Aw I know, I know. He smiled, he stared at the road ahead, a rawish sort of taste at the back of his throat, a dryness; he licked his lips. It wasni a good thing to say. How come she had said it?

  She smiled, clicking open her handbag and giving herself a cigarette. Pat shook his head. And he shook his head again: All I said was they were boring and you come in with that – Judas Iscariot. Christ sake Alison, know what I mean.

  It was silly, it just came out, I didnt mean it the way it sounded.

  Naw I know, it’s just,
christ.

  I was only kidding Pat. She smiled again, flicked the lighter and inhaled, puffed out the smoke and returned the lighter to her handbag.

  He was shaking his head once again but he stopped it quickly and settled his head down rigidly on his neck, feeling the flesh maybe doubling up at the jowels; he relaxed, sighing. A brief glance across at her. There was this wee lump of glitterstuff on her cheek, you could have actually picked it off with your fingernail. She flipped open the ashtray cover, tapped in ash from her fag. What was wrong with her? She was so bloody beautiful as well. But yet there was that

  there was something. But he liked her an awful lot. He wanted to shut his eyes and screw up his face; he gripped the steering wheel, his arms inflexible, inflexible. He relaxed. It’s too early for the Art Gallery, he said, it doesni open till two on Sundays.

  She did not reply. She watched the road ahead.

  Where do you want to go? he asked.

  O.

  After a couple of moments he added: Because otherwise, really I mean … he smiled, I dont know where I’m driving.

  A cafe?

  Aye but it’s just I mean which one?

  Mm. She then looked at her wristwatch. He felt like jamming the brakes on immediately.

  He said, I only mentioned the Art Gallery because they’ve got quite a good yin, a cafe. I’m no interested in seeing the paintings. I was actually up a couple of weeks ago, seeing an exhibition.

  Mm.

  Pat nodded. She was frowning at something. She maybe wanted to get out. That was probably it, she wanted to get out, just inside the fucking thing and she wanted out, to get away, because of him, the way he was carrying on, the usual. He was clenching the wheel of course. How come he was doing that? clenching the wheel. He was clenching the wheel because he was thingwi he was fucking bastard, he was thingwi.

  At least she looked like she had relaxed. She was gazing out the window and she seemed to be comfortable and quite content. Maybe she wasni. But she seemed to be. What else can we do except infer. That’s all. She was gazing out the window, smoking. Did ye think I was going to kidnap you? he chuckled.