A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  Raymond nodded, his face reddening into a large blush. What age was he? fifteen. Mind you, the truth of the matter is that Doyle P. is also a blusher; he too has a face that reddens. There is nothing you can do about it except forgive yourself.

  Raymond Smith, said P. Doyle, you’ve got to forgive yourself. Look at me: I forgive myself. And I’m okay.

  Muffled giggles. Which was not good at this late stage.

  Sardar Ali had his hand aloft: Is it true you’re leaving Mister Doyle?

  Aye.

  How come?

  The fucking powers-that-art have decreed it. And being absolutely honest and truthful about the subject, I really wish not to discuss it, if yous dont mind.

  It’s your obligation to tell us, said Sardar Ali.

  Pat gazed at him, then generally: I want a girl to state the same question.

  You’ve been bevying, said Peter MacFadzean.

  I’ve aye been bevying.

  No you’ve no.

  Aye I have.

  Have ye?

  Aye but look for christ sake if we go on like this it’ll become sentimental maudlinity of the first order. What I want to know is if the lassies arent talking as an affirmation of something. Eh? Will one of yous tell me?

  Silence. Then Debby Munro looked away when their gazes met. Patrick continued to gaze at her and she started to blush immediately. She had a more purplish colouring than Raymond Smith. Pat’s blush was akin to his rather than Debby’s. All in all he probably had a lot in common with the boy.

  Most bachelors have an awkward existence, he said. I’m talking strictly about those bachelors who are single men. But I think it may be true for most single women as well.

  A head could be seen passing along the corridor: and slowly, going slowly, as though in an attempt to overhear the slightest piece of untowardity. Patrick indicated the head and the class turned to see it. Notice that head! he called. You’re probably all thinking it’s a spy from Mister Big’s office. And fucking right ye are cause that’s exactly the case, the way of things, how matters are standing, at the present, the extant moment. Arse.

  Arse; o jesus christ; and he was about to blush. Arse. Imagine saying it out loud at this exact moment. What could he do now, to get beyond it, to get beyond it, everything. The magic carpet, if the world was indeed

  I apologise: he said, his eyelids shut now and he placed his palms on the edge of the desk for support.

  …

  …

  There was nothing that was happening.

  But now he was to do something else all would be lost.

  Are you leaving school altogether Mister Doyle? Are you stopping being a teacher? William Moreland.

  Are you stopping being a teacher altogether? Sardar Ali.

  Muffled giggling.

  Patrick glanced at the gigglers at once. Well well well. Muffled giggles and here yous are in fourth year! I mean fuck sake, surely it’s high time ye threw the heid back and bellowed a big horselaugh – whatever that might be! Did anybody ever see a certain Marx Brothers’ picture where the auld Groucho fellow played this doctor of horses?

  Several hands aloft immediately, including a few girls’. When I am dead. What happens when I am dead.

  You’re no being fair, said Julie Stewart. It was a name he always loved. Women have better names than men. Patrick nodded:

  Listen Julie Stewart, who is it gives names to women or do ye truly believe they give them to themselves and each other because you know full well what I’ve been telling yous all about the naming process and imperialism, colonisation of the subject, obliteration of the subject, you as object, even in your own eyes. What’ve ye got to say about that!

  She waited a moment. Then she answered: It maybe used to be imperialism but I dont think it is now. I’m answering a question. But I want to say something else to you, to Mister Patrick Doyle, to you, I really dont think you’re being fair because what ye do ye start all these things and then ye dont finish them or even just in a way follow them through properly.

  Properly.

  She stared at him.

  Aye okay but I’ve got to do that. It’s the teacher’s real job. It’s up to yous to get the things finished, or followed through properly. Think of Plato.

  Yeh I know …

  Patrick smiled.

  What’re ye smiling for? Joan Murphy.

  He frowned.

  She was frowning.

  Joan Murphy. To have come out and said such a thing to him.

  I think it’s patronising, she said.

  It is. It is patronising. Aye. Yeh; you’re right. But I’m no ashamed. Nor do I think it has to be essentially bad. I’m not ashamed.

  About patronising people?

  Fair enough. But in the case in question no. As far as I recall it was a true and straightforward smile to do with young people and older people. I think there are honest patrons of the young and these honest patrons can be those who are not young themselves, at least relatively. I will agree though that I’m fucking stretching a point. But points are there to be stretched. That’s what a point is, something that is not finite. Look what happened to motion when Zeno got that yin sorted out! Absolutely fuck all says you, but is that true? Ye might actually just say he was being a friend to auld Parmenides and it was a joint venture to capture the Pythagoreans. So what says you. Okay says me. But Plato came along as well and he went into the attack. His attack was a good yin. But I’ve got to wait a minute here … Patrick smiled falsely.

  He was not giving them a chance. He couldnt do anything else. Could he do anything else. He couldnt, he couldnt do anything else. He turned from them, swivelling on the stool, he faced the blackboard though blackboard is stupid, the thing being a green canvas. They needed time to reflect, to get to his falsity. What was interesting was the hostility, almost an anger. Of course he was letting them down. Quite right. But he was only a man. What could he do? And it was not possible to withdraw the request. He certainly did not want to leave them. Not to put too fine a point on the matter, they were saving his very fucking existence, his life. Without them he was dead, a dead man. The pipes.

  O the pipes.

  He didni want to go to another school. I actually dont want to go to another school.

  But you put in for the transfer, says William Moreland.

  I did not put in for the transfer, says Patrick Doyle, at least as far as I can remember. I’m being honest. I dont fucking remember putting in for this fucking transfer. Maybe I did and I was mentally deranged at the time. Maybe I was drunk! But I honestly dont remember putting in for it.

  Is it possible to do something like that and forget? Jaqueline Boal.

  I dont know. I think it has to be otherwise here I am not. But: either I did it and then totally forgot; or else I didnt, and some folk are not telling the truth.

  Pause.

  What d’you mean by that? Sardar Ali.

  I dont know. It probably sounds like a weird kind of paranoia. Maybe they just prefer me to get shifted from school to school!

  But you’ve been here for three years.

  I know. There again but and I’m being honest, putting in for a transfer and then going away and managing to forget about it: I can imagine myself doing that. It’s the kind of mischief I get up to. There are all sorts of flagellation. Mind these paintings by Goya I was telling yous to take a look at?

  Hands aloft.

  Great, said Patrick. He sniffed vigorously to clear the upper membranes, strolling out from behind the desk, hands in his trouser pockets. As the class of ye are very aware I’m not exactly a firm believer in the religious teachings of the great religious teachers; nor am I a believer in forms of tomorrow – nor any other fucking thing that manages to snatch folk away from the moment that is actually actual and right there under their very nostrils at this very next very this very gone a minute moment, yous know what I’m saying, the usual argument against the different ways of nullifying a person’s actions. Mind you, this pas
t couple of days I would be a liar if I was to let yous all imagine things have not been more odd than is usually the case. The things that have been happening, to some extent I’m left with no option but to regard them as more odd than is usually the case. Patrick frowned and turned his head sideways, then sideways in the other direction. Ye see if I dont regard them like that then I’m gonni be forced into seeing myself as odd, distinctly odd in fact. But is that true? Probably no. Probably it’s a load of keech.

  And by the way, pass all this on to whomsoever you want to pass it on to, I dont care, I dont care; because as well yous know there are people the same age as yourselves getting beaten up and tortured and killed in countries not all that far from here and I wont name them because if ye dont know what I’m talking about ye dont deserve to. People of twelve, thirteen, fourteen; they’re getting tortured and murdered. Okay, so yous’ve got to do something. There isni any fucking point looking at me. I’m a fucking no-user, because that is what teachers are, no-users. If I wasni a fucking no-user I wouldni be a fucking teacher in this stench of a society. It’s up to yous yourself. And now, is the best time to call a halt. Fine.

  I’ve said before I’m away to play the pipes. Aye well I’m no kidding! Patrick grinned.

  The class half smiled, half frowned. He felt very sweaty, very clammy. It was clammy in the room. He had his tie unloosened. He unknotted it and folded it away into his side jacket pocket.

  Which wasnt at all symbolic; he only wore the tie to please himself anyway.

  And here’s another odd thing it’s best no to lose sight of: I’ve been feeling happy. And I’ll tell ye something, I’ve no been feeling happy for years. I mean genuinely. I’m no talking about the false stuff. I tell lies to myself in the same way yous do. But I’ve just been catching myself out now and again and christ what I’m realising is right at this moment I’m feeling as happy as ever I’ve done since the student days. Patrick laughed. It was an abrupt kind of laugh. He closed his eyes. But when he opened them he started laughing again.

  There was a head at the window.

  Patrick cleared his throat. He winked and grinned, but the grin would not be noticeable to anyone beyond the four walls of the classroom. That’s the head back at the window, he said. There again but how do we know it’s the same head? Is it something we can verify ourselves, that that there is a head and it might be the same one, the same head.

  Well fuck sake of course he says. Heads cannot float. Heads can float. There are heads that do not float and heads that cannot be said to not float. That over there behind the window is a head that is not floating.

  How come you’re gonni go away and play the pipes if ye think the world’s in as bad a state as all that?

  Pardon?

  Joan Murphy: If ye think the world’s as bad as all that then how come you’re just gonni go away and play the pipes instead of doing something more useful?

  Patrick nodded. Mind you, a brief summary would be better: for example, Mister Doyle, you are a shite. Pat smiled at the girl but she did not return him a smile, she looked away.

  I just want a rest, he said.

  Do you think ye deserve one? Neil Rankine speaking. A big quiet boy who doesnt like Pat Doyle very much.

  Your question is a good yin Mister Rankine.

  Are ye gonni answer it Mister Doyle?

  Pat smiled at him.

  There was some movement going on. People were fidgeting. Maybe Neil Rankine speaking had signalled something. If his question was a signal. If maybe he was a ringleader

  Debby Munro had risen from her seat. She had shoved her stuff into her bag. She was about to leave the room. She was going to go, to go from it. The others would follow. What was wrong with that. Nothing. It was fine. If they all went. If they were all to go. Yous may all go, he said, and go quick, quick. Come on, away ye go, the lot of yous, hurry up.

  He sat sideways on the stool. He was facing away from the door, leaning his left elbow on the edge of the desk, his chin now onto the palm of the left hand. More shuffling noises. Another class! He turned his head slightly. It was only ghosts. A whole crowd of them. A whole crowd of ghosts had entered his classroom. And yet this period was supposed to have been spare.

  What was their identity. Do ghosts need an identity. Need an identity always be a prerequisite. What does that mean. Is such a question the sort of thing one should be faced by, one should face up to. Here is a list of questions whose answers are not easily to be taken. There are moments to have gone, to have passed. Before arrival at one’s destination one requires to have travelled halfway, and halfway of that, and halfway of that, and halfway of that.

  The smiling faces.

  I am cracking up.

  The smiling faces.

  P Λ -P.

  …

  …

  Patrick Doyle’s stomach erupted and what came out was a mixture of heavy beer and blended whisky, the stuff sold to ordinary folk. No doubt if it had been the single malt stuff they sold to rich folk he would still have spewed it. Okay. On the floor the mixture. Fucking grooooiy grooooiy grooo ercchhh ercchhh ercchhh o dear, fucking awful, but there you have it. All of it there. Nothing more. It was all out. O dear. He closed his eyes. He wasnt actually sure if there was more to come, there wasnt, it was all out. His head was cold and damp but it was fine.

  It had splashed over his shoes and all around the bottoms of his trousers, slabbery stuff there as well. What he could do was just leave it so it would dry and then he could brush it off but people wouldnt be coping with that, the sight and the niff, so best to just actually

  Wiping it was not easy. He had torn off several sheets of paper from jotters and was using these but they werent fucking proper for the job, not being built with wee holes, the paper, to take in waterish substances the way tissues and sponges did, it just being the ordinary type of paper which

  was not fucking porous!!!!!!

  Patrick yelled a laugh. But christ it was everywhere and you had to be careful how you stepped otherwise you would slide, ending arse over elbow on the bastarn fucking floor!!!! And there were snotters down from his nostrils for fuck sake with the laughter and snifflings that were going on. In the name of god right enough what a fucking state to get into, looking really christ whatstheword disfuckinggusting.

  Zoom Zoom

  The patter of tiny feet. The corridor. The weans. The drama. What a situation for our hero!

  Eh yous canni come in here the now.

  Why not sir?

  Because I fucking say so that’s why not.

  He turned out the lights and shut fast the door wishing he could lock it but teachers never being given actual keys to doors in case they fucking – done something or other that was who knows what the fuck, unwholesome maybe. He walked along and down the stairs, moving fast though appearing casual. A lot of pupils were about but they were paying no heed to the bottom sections of his trousers.

  And farther down, into the basement area, along by the boilers for the trusty brush and shovel and the bunker of sawdust. He grabbed the sawdust in handfuls and rubbed it into his trousers. The sickness rolling off in wee lumps. He rubbed in more of the sawdust, making the things as presentable as possible. Then he was back up the stairs and into his room in moments, with brush, shovel and fire-bucket, clearing the mess as best he could in the time, the door now being pushed ajar and the nosy wee faces would be poking in, and making their decisions

  and in walked the first batch – girls, talking to each other and looking at him quite the thing, just to see what he was up to. He said nothing. He kept on doing what he was doing with shovels of sawdust and brushings and shovels, the sawdust, into the fire-bucket, and that dampness left on the shovel and the fucking smell all too recognisable. It wasnt the best of jobs okay but it was reasonable and it was okay, okay. The youthful parties were all watching him work but without a great deal of interest. He finished. He was to return the implements immediately.

  None of the maintenance folk w
as about in the basement. That was good. No reports. He didnt especially want people to know. I’ll blame it on the cloves anyway, he said, reassuringly to himself in a loud whisper.

  A game of five-a-side football had started in the assembly hall. He watched a couple of minutes. It was funny how come he had missed the only goal of the game at Yoker on Saturday. Then he shivered, a sudden spasm; and the volts went right up the backbone to the base of his skull. The idea of laying oneself down for a sleep. What was he doing here, in this den of iniquity, when he could be elsewhere. While in a room not too far away dwelt the woman Houston. He was shivering; he yawned. That was the good thing about flinging yourself over the banister to go crashing to your doom, how you might waken up in a cosily warm hospital bed. It could have been worse of course, he could have eaten a big curry. That wasni even funny. And the time? Not long. Not long. While in a room not too far. What did she think. What did she think about things, in general; the generality, of things. Did she think of him with kindness. These are the sorts of questionings the Doyle fellow must encounter if ever he is to survive as a person. MI6.

  Patrick continued to lean his elbows on the railing. Then he smiled at him. MI6 smiled back at him.

  And seemed about to say something to Patrick but Patrick had stepped roundabout him and walked on, without the slightest hesitation. My life is just an ordinary life. I am just a person from the depths of the universality, who is leading his/her life as best s/he can, never asking for much except just an avoidance of the nooks and the crannies the twists and the turns. There is nought that is unusual about it either. One drinks and one spews in an almost public manner. But this is aye the way of it for the ordinary fellow or fellowess. It is not something that doesni happen. It happened to me as a schoolboy during the earlier periods of experimentation and now when I am an adult and attuned to the highways and byways lo, it is happening still, when I am a schoolboy no longer, it can still be happening. I walk into the room and confront the class, the pupils. I continue

  heads or no fucking heads windows or no fucking windows