by James Kelman
That’s no fair: called Lesley.
Wrong. Anybody else?
Nobody spoke. They were staring at him in different ways, none of which was good. Pat sniffed. But he really fucking hated the idea of letting them down. It was terrible, a terrible thing. What age were they again? Wee second-yearers. Fourteen, some were thirteen. In some countries they would be married with children; in other countries they would be tortured maybe to the point of death. So what. His eyes would water soon, but the bell had rung a few moments ago and the moment was past. Except nobody was making any effort to leave. Even Audrey at the rear of the room, her head could be seen above the desk there, propping herself up to see what was happening and she probably was having terrible cramp or something. It was enough to make ye burst right out greeting. The unspeakable sentimentality. Doyle’s problem. A fact. At the root of everything, every last thing.
But it was because he was leaving. Surely people are entitled to get sentimental when they’re leaving!
No.
A boy had his hand raised, Tony McKelvie.
Alright Tony, said Patrick.
It’s just the registration Mister Doyle.
Patrick gazed at his watch, a twenty-first birthday present, the desk at where his wrist was resting, wrist was resting, not wanting to something, to eh, it being the kind of thing he couldnt cope with, this sort of perception, the way these weans saw straight through you, straight into your insides. He opened his eyes and he said to the girl who had told him off for not being fair: You’ve got to remember what I’m aye telling ye about questions, when people in positions of power ask ye questions.
She looked away from him.
Okay then yous better get away to your next class. Just say your names as you go. And if you say them in a certain manner the force of your identity will create an indentation in the fucking registration folder. He opened the folder and placed it on the desk and he took out a pen and flourished it and then stuck it into his top jacket pocket, clasped his hands on the desk.
The next class had been waiting outside the door. While they were trooping in he sidled out into the corridor, he stood beside a pillar overlooking the assembly hall where the netball game was about to take place. His life was finished. When the two teams entered from the changing rooms and the gym teacher blew her whistle he started walking, along to the stairs, and then leapfrogging the railing he fell twenty feet, his brains being dashed onto the floor. He went into the staff lavatory for a piss. He was actually needing a shit but he wasni sure how long it would take so he would have to leave it till the mid-morning interval. In the staffroom a couple of teachers were reading newspapers. He did not communicate with them. He washed his hands at the sink and drank a glass of water from the tap, rinsed the glass and upturned it on the draining board, returned to the classroom.
At dinnertime he remained at his desk until the place was deserted and he left the building by the rear basement exit to avoid passing the door of the staffroom. He couldnt face anybody at present. And of course Alison. And news would have spread. They would all know about the transfer he had applied for and been given. It didnt matter anyway. People could think what the fuck they wanted to think. Today was going to be his last for a long while. Yes, maybe forever.
But it was most odd how stupid he had been. This is what was niggling him. Although silly to let it get out of proportion, and he wouldnt let it get out of proportion. But it was definitely interesting. So many wee things he had done recently were just bloody of note. He wasni always like this for christ sake he could be a lot better. It was as if something was after him, a poltergeist for fuck sake or a Scottish leprechaun, a dybbuk for gentile atheists. He needed to get away out of things fast, but he wasnt able to. He could not escape. He was having to stay. It is this the sort of bloke he was. This sort of bloke.
The polis were looking the other way when he exited, crossing the street at once and walking quickly along the side of the long row of parked motor cars, on by the Commodore Cafe, not looking to the crowd of small smokers hanging about by the adjacent close and shop doorway. There was a pub he used to go to at the end of autumn last. That is where he was going now. It was a good pub because he didnt know any bastard that drank in it and what he could be was an absolute nonentity who was taking a drink of alcohol in an effort to just enjoy himself for a minute or two.
A big group of workies in from a tenement renovation site a few closes along from the pub. They chatted loudly, shouting comments to one another. Patrick stood at the end of the bar, borrowed a newspaper from the barwoman, read the sports and entertainments. He drank three whiskies and two and a half pints of beer. It was too much but on the road home he knew he was just befuddled enough to last the afternoon. Then he was starving. Absolutely fucking starving. Because he hadnt eaten. When was his last fucking meal christ almighty. A fish supper was what he felt like. A nice piece of haddock and a stack of freshly fried chips. But he didni have the time he would have to survive without. Three familiar figures ahead: Desimondo and Joe Cairns, and the temporary English teacher – old Norrimanno, a great wee fucking guy, and any resemblance to Bob Cratchit is an absolute misnomer, a disaster, something that is wrong and not the case at all, in fact, Norman is fine, fine. And deserves a fucking job the guy, he deserves a full-time start in the teaching racket. In fact the three of them were okay blokes. Pat liked them. As colleagues go he got on fine with them. It would be an idea to keep in touch with them once he had gone; they could go for a pint together, discuss the past and so on. He paused, staying where he was, he bent as if to examine his shoelaces, then unknotted and knotted them.
Weans went zooming by.
Two minutes to the bell the bell the be ell ell! Patrick chuckled. He watched the weans as they dodged in and out the pedestrians, making for the gates. They were funny the way they carried on. And so much better than their parents, so much more honest and lacking in hypocrisy. Even their self-interest was so much more fucking healthy. That is what he would miss, the weans, he would miss them. No really anything else. If he was being honest there never had been much of the camaraderie you might have expected, back from the teachers’ trainers, what you might have been expecting from there, it never happened. Of course he had his own ideas on that, the whys and the wherefores, to do with – well, why even bother articulating such things. Although obviously bad faith does have to come into it.
Ah christ, Patrick was going to survive. His life might be finished but what did that matter, it didni mean he was totally dead and out of things altogether. All he had to do was play the pipes, if he could just concentrate on them, even just as a form of temporary measure. And temporary measures can be healthy. You dont have to look upon things as permanent all the time in order to judge their merit. A common error that.
A trio of bastards was waiting for him. They had spotted him and were waiting. It was fucking funny how the vultures start hanging about your deathbed. He set his face to a serious expression i.e. a frown, and said gruffly: Tell me this chaps, do yous think it a possibility one could apply for a transfer and then fucking forget all about it?
I know this sounds daft, began Joe Cairns quickly, and then he hesitated.
Naw it doesni, said Pat, come on, I need to hear somebody else talking. Tell me.
Joe nodded and glanced at Desmond.
Desmond continued: The thing is Pat we were actually talking about this a wee minute ago. And eh Joe was just saying about a similar sort of experience, from the dressing room.
Yeh, said Joe, it was a pal of mine.
And Joe Cairns went on to relate this banal yarn about
it wasnt so much banal as irrelevant: it concerned this quite good football player who was suddenly told he had been transferred for a five-figure sum, just like he had wanted – only he hadnt really wanted such a thing at all but seems to have been gabbing away about something in the communal bath one day and the manager had been eavesdropping or some such keech and then thought he would do th
e guy a favour and had secretly dropped a circular to a variety of clubs he thought might be interested, including Newport County, which is where the guy found himself on Monday afternoon. It had nothing whatsoever to do with Pat’s case and it was almost like a strange form of sarcasm. Pat watched Joe and Desmond but could spot nothing suspicious, then he looked at Norman who smiled benevolently and remarked, Stories about professional football players, I could listen to them all day!
Pat nodded. He said to Joe: Is it genuine what you’re telling me?
Yeh.
Honest?
What … Yeh.
Because it doesni sound it I mean it actually sounds eh, quite hard to swallow.
It’s ridiculous the way athletes are treated, said Desmond to Norman.
Ah well football especially I suppose. Norman glanced at Joe Cairns: It’s a bit of a cattle market Joe eh? Still and all but that’s the way capitalism works in any field – football or whatever, it doesni matter.
Och come on, said Desmond.
Sure it is, the individual worker just doesnt have a say.
Desmond jerked his thumb at Norman, saying to Pat: He’s a Marxist.
Pardon?
Norman’s a Marxist, grinned Desmond.
So am I a fucking Marxist, so what?
Desmond smiled. I am not saying a word.
Norman said to Pat: You’re a Marxist as well?
Pat looked at him.
Are ye?
What?
I’m just asking if you’re a Marxist as well?
As well as what?
Seriously.
Seriously; you’re just asking me seriously, if I’m a Marxist, in a school like this, in a society like this, at a moment in history like the present.
Norman grinned and Desmond laughed and shook his head. Joe Cairns had adopted the role of friend however and he was merely smiling politely while attempting to appear sympathetic to Patrick. Whereas it was poor old fucking Norman needed the sympathy.
I’m actually a fucking nothing, said Patrick, I used to be a something but now I’m a nothing. Being a nothing’s preferable to being a something but no much.
I take the point, said Norman. I agree with ye as well. We were talking about this earlier on.
Amongst yourselves?
Norman grinned.
He’s got a fine line in sarcasm, said Desmond in jocular tones.
Not as fine as you but Desmond.
Ah. I wouldnt underestimate yourself Mister Doyle.
Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind. Pat glanced at Joe Cairns: Okay Joe?
How do ye mean Pat? Joe frowned.
Pat shrugged. I just thought there was something up with you.
No.
It’s just the way he stands, grinned Desmond.
Norman had opened a small pack of tobacco and was rolling a cigarette and smiling at the same time. It would be good to wipe the smile off his face. But that wouldnt be easy to do because he was probably a better fighter than Pat. Pat glanced at Joe Cairns: This guy ye were talking about, him that got transferred to Newport through a misunderstanding.
Joe nodded: It was a misunderstanding. And we had quite a good team too; this kind of broke things up and we never managed to replace him. He’s still around – Micky Jamieson.
Mansfield Town? said Norman.
That’s right Norman, yeh. He played with us for three-quarters of a season. We were wondering if the board were just wanting to earn a few quid before it was too late. But it turned out it was the manager. He and Micky got on well together and he had honestly thought he was doing him a favour by shoving him on the transfer list. It wasnt too long after that that I went myself. Because like I say, the team had broken up, it was time to move on.
That was to Carlisle you went? said Norman.
Naw, I went to Carlisle later Norman.
Aw.
Pat said, So it’s all gospel Joe? about this guy getting transferred and so on.
Of course.
The great skeptic! said Desmond.
Skeptic fuck all, said Pat. People just like to know what are facts and what areni facts. What is there something fucking wrong with that? christ sake I mean what, tell me?
Desmond made no reply.
Hey d’you want a couple of cloves? said Norman. He was already bringing out a wee paper bag of them from an inside pocket, and he handed a couple to Pat. Pat took them and stuck them both under his tongue:
I’ve only had the one pint, he said.
And Norman replied something or other while the other pair didnt say a word, but just were fucking who knows what, mounting another conspiracy probably.
Dring dring; dring dring.
It was the fucking stupit bell the bell the be el el. And Patrick was still standing there when the other three were not. The other three were going up the steps of the main entrance. Desmond paused and gestured at him to come on. But Pat stayed put. Then he strode after them, calling: So yous’ve heard then?
They nodded.
The so-called transfer request!
Pregnant pause.
Well Mister Doyle, said Desmond, as you are aware, nothing remains a secret within the education department of Glasgow. It’s always open season on teachers, was and will be, always. Barnskirk’s not the worst of all possible destinations by the way, a friend of mine heads things in matters historical across there.
What d’ye mean by ‘matters historical’?
Desmond shook his head, chuckling.
O by the way, said Norman, Alison was looking for you.
Pardon?
Norman hesitated.
Are you talking about Alison?
I’m just saying she was looking for ye.
Patrick nodded. He glanced at Joe Cairns – the inscrutable. And Desmond seemed not to be hearing things.
If the world truly was a magical place.
Norman and Desmond were now off along toward the staircase and Joe Cairns had turned the corner in the direction of the science laboratories where shortly he would be leading a class in the dissection of a frog. This frog would be prostrate and its legs would be fucking chopped off the poor wee bastard. It would never again manage a jump but would have to waddle about on its elbows. But it’s no fucking got elbows. Or has it? This is the problem with inferior educations, one fails to
He actually felt like going to sleep. If only he was the type of guy who could resign from things unofficially. That was the type of guy he would wish to be, if ever he managed to come this way again, if transmigratory souls proved more than a wayward explanation of the possibility of déjà vu. He felt like going to sleep. He was tired. He hadni slept last night. Nor the night before, not properly. And nor the night before that for christ sake so no wonder he was tired now. Mrs Bryson at the end of the corridor. She didnt see him. Then he fell, tripped; he tripped, a sort of stumble, banging his right shin on the edge of the step and it was a bloody crack okay it was painful. Mrs Bryson still hadni seen him and had gone from view now. Nobody else had seen it either. Unless they were keeping quiet. Pat walked on at once. He would only have to last it out this one period because the one after it was spare and then the interval. His chest was sore when he breathed; and where were the fucking cloves because they wereni in his fucking mouth. Unless he had swallowed them, maybe he had swallowed them. It could have been worse he could have cracked his chin or his nose, or his jaw, and broke his teeth; that would have been terrible.
The quietness! The classes having all begun by now. That Hollywood movie where people wished they had never been born. His chest was actually sore in this sharply painful way, sharply painful. Christ. It was cheery but. Good old pain.
Patrick sat on the stool and became alert. Fourth year. World weary. Raymond Smith was staring at him. He was a boy who worried. It was his parents’ fault. Hey Raymond, what does your da do for a living?
He’s on the broo just now Mister Doyle.
Aw aye. What was it he worked at last?
&nbs
p; Eh he worked in a factory.
What doing?
Eh I dont know.
You dont know. Quite right. Well done. Patrick nodded; he looked at the rest then back to Raymond: My da’s been working in a factory for the past twenty-two year – that’s when he’s no having fucking heart attacks. He’s a real yin so he is, a right fucking numbskull. He’s got a wee baldy heid and sometimes I feel like giving it a brush with a brillo pad.
LOUD LAUGHING.
In the name of christ. Pat clapped his hands very loudly; then he had to do it once again. They all stopped their laughing as soon as they could.
Okay, he said, there’s no need for that carry on just because I told you something of the way I feel about my auld man – especially because we were talking about somebody else’s auld man. Eh Raymond?