A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  I heard about the transfer, she said.

  It’s terrible. I dont know how it’s happened. I dont know how the hell. It’s terrible, really terrible.

  Did you apply for it?

  If I did I canni remember.

  2E was telling me.

  2E, christ. Mind you, better to hear it from there than the staffroom.

  O they were talking about it there as well, said Alison; she smiled. But they werent as surprised, more especially after your Friday morning announcement.

  Aye … He nodded. It’s embarrassing.

  Och away ye go.

  It is but, it’s bloody embarrassing. It’s embarrassing because … I dont want to go. I dont want to bloody go. Patrick shifted slightly and he put his right hand around, taking hers in both of his, cupping it there, and she put her left hand on top, so that the four hands were now bound together. Neither spoke. Then he said, It’s so unusual to get talking to ye like this, just with the two of us and no having any of them in the company.

  Alison said nothing. Then she withdrew her hand from the top, but her other was still in between his. She whispered, You’re speaking a bit too loudly Pat.

  O.

  She smiled, but it wasnt the best of smiles.

  In extremis, he said, one’s voice is allowed to rise.

  Her gaze dropped. She stared at the hands and Patrick opened his so that hers just lay on the left one and was free to do what it wanted. He smiled after a moment. He took each one of her fingers in turn, pinching them very gently between his thumb and first two fingers. She smiled. Pat.

  Daft.

  It’s no daft. Then she glanced at him and took her hand from his, glanced round the lounge. I dont want a relationship with ye, she muttered. And she was looking so sad and worried that Patrick wanted to give her a cuddle and say, Look everything’s okay for fuck sake dont bloody worry.

  Dont worry, he said.

  I just cant have a relationship with ye Pat.

  It’s okay.

  Is it?

  Yeh.

  I just cant.

  It’s alright.

  She gazed at him.

  Honest.

  I cant.

  Fine.

  She smiled. He took her hand and studied it, he grinned at her for a moment. I have never held this hand before tonight, and it’ll probably be the last chance I ever get.

  Alison shook her head and withdrew it.

  …

  Things are always so complicated, she was saying while opening her cigarette packet.

  Pat nodded. When she glanced at him he said, I’m no going back to school. I’m just gonni chuck it as from this afternoon. That includes Barnskirk after Easter, I’m no going, I’m just chucking it all the gether.

  It’s supposed to be quite a good school.

  He shrugged.

  It is.

  There’s no such thing.

  I hate ye when ye say that.

  I’ve never said it before.

  Yes you have.

  I havent.

  Ye have.

  He nodded. His hand moved towards her and stopped.

  Sometimes your cynicism makes me feel physically sick.

  Jesus christ Alison I’m no cynical I’m the very fucking opposite. Pat sighed, he looked away from her. She exhaled smoke and snapped shut the handbag. He had spoken too loudly again. He knew it by her manner. I’m sorry, he said quietly. His hand moved towards hers and stopped.

  I dont mind, she said.

  He grasped it and replied: I just feel better touching ye, at the moment.

  She nodded and he grinned:

  It’s giving me strength.

  Pat …

  D’you think I’m daft?

  Of course no.

  Ye sure?

  She nodded.

  Not too convinced but eh!

  Dont be silly.

  I’m no being silly, just daft!

  Ssh.

  Do you love your husband?

  Alison dropped his hand and glanced roundabout. She was silent for a time. She didnt smoke the cigarette; she looked down at it.

  Patrick said: Sorry. Sorry Alison.

  Immediately she answered. Come on we’ll go.

  He gestured at her gin & tonic, then squeezed his way out when she didni respond, waiting for her by the side of the table. She walked past him, restricting her gaze to the path ahead. She walked to the exit, he following and attempting to reach the door first, but she was opening it and going along the lobby, staying in front of him.

  She didnt speak until outside on the pavement, and along and into the doorway of a shop. It was a small general grocer and it was open. A young couple with a toddler came from inside, the man carrying the toddler while the woman had the plastic carrier bag of messages. When they had gone Alison said, That was not fair. It was not fair. You put me into a position.

  I’m sorry.

  It was just not fair. Alison stared into the road.

  I really am sorry … Patrick pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. The young couple had crossed to the pavement opposite; they turned the corner of the street there.

  The people behind the bar know us, said Alison; they’ve seen us together before.

  Aye but christ Alison they never heard what I said. I wasnt shouting. I just said it aloud, I wasnt shouting, I said it quiet.

  The people at the table would’ve heard ye.

  No they wouldnt.

  They would, they would’ve heard.

  They were involved with themselves, said Pat, they wereni listening to us, they were away enjoying themselves, they were talking about funny things that happened to them, they wereni interested in us, what we were talking about.

  Alison didnt respond. Then she shivered. She said, O God … and her right hand went to the side of her eyebrow.

  Okay? he said, he touched the cuff of her coat-sleeve.

  She shook her head.

  Alison, I didni recognise one single face in that pub, apart from that lassie behind the bar.

  It’s not the point.

  He nodded.

  She looked at him. It’s not the point.

  Patrick stared at her. He kept his eyes open. He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and pulled them out again. He smiled for a moment, she was looking at him. He raised his hands, placed them on the sides of each of her upper arms and moved a half-step closer to her, craning his head to her so that her hair was onto his face and he smelled it, his eyelids shut and he got a fit of trembling and it was down below in his knees it was worst and he pressed his feet more solidly on the ground and smiled, shivering. Christ, he said. Alison was standing in the same position, as if she hadnt moved. He took care not to increase the pressure in the way he was holding her. He sighed. It was a straight relief and he was aware of himself relaxed all over. He sighed again. His eyes were shut and he drifted into a sleep.

  Alison was smiling when she said very seriously, I’m not going to have a relationship with ye.

  No. He breathed in her hair and his lips touched her on the forehead in a kiss. There was a fierce draught in the doorway, blowing around his legs.

  Are you cold? she asked. Her hands were to the sides of his waist.

  It was just a shiver. What about you?

  It’s cold in here … Alison glanced sideways as though she would be able to see it – the cold. But she would be able to see the draught. Her hair smelled of perfume. A shampoo maybe. Patrick breathed in it. His hands held her at the elbows.

  Am I allowed to kiss ye? he asked.

  Dont.

  He nodded. His mouth was only a couple of inches from her forehead and he could kiss her again if he wanted. He put his lips against her forehead then away. He felt an increase of pressure on his waist. He had an erection. He had had an erection for a long time. He had been holding her for a long time. Her hair was dark dark brown and her eyes were dark brown as well. There was a warmth too, it came from just holding her, and he moved t
hat wee bit in closer, and her chest was to his chest, he put his right arm round her back and she lifted it off by the wrist; he returned his hand to the side of her elbow. He felt like making plans for the future. He felt like saying something to her. What could he say to her he didnt know. He smelled her hair, the shampoo smell, it was so much better than his, he didnt have any shampoo like that, that smelled as good as this. He grinned. She was so beautiful. And he was not! He grinned, shook his head.

  What is it? she asked.

  Nothing, just daft.

  You keep saying you’re daft.

  He smiled.

  She stepped away from him, looking at him. It’s time to go home, she said. And she was out from the doorway glancing at him, continuing along in the direction away from Miller’s Bar. The motor’s back there, he called.

  I’ll get a taxi Pat.

  He sniffed and walked after her, strolling, keeping a couple of paces behind her. And she kept going although the direction she would be travelling lay in the direction opposite. A taxi appeared quite soon. She signalled it immediately. He stood to the side as she tugged open the door. Dont phone me, she said.

  He nodded.

  Okay? I would prefer ye not to.

  Aye.

  Thanks … She slammed shut the door; he couldnt see whether she was looking back when the driver drove off.

  So that was that. That was her gone. The tail-lights in the distance. She was sitting there getting whisked home. Lighting her fag. The idea of jumping into the motor and racing after the taxi, catching it up at the next set of traffic lights.

  At the interval next morning he went quickly to the staffroom and got his mug and his tea and was sitting on his chair across by the window, the computing magazine on his lap, before she entered. She was with Mrs Bryson and Diana. Pat gazed at the magazine and sipped his tea. Others came in, there was a queue at the urn. A middle-aged bloke called Martin Russell, who was attached to the Crafts and Arts department, leaned over and asked if he had read the Herald this morning. No, Patrick hadnt read the Herald this morning. The Herald was a thing he had not read any fucking morning. Martin said, On the Centralamerican assassination …

  I dont know fuck all about it, replied Patrick. He raised the magazine nearer his face. Martin Russell sat back on his chair. Patrick had offended him. He had offended him and he shouldnt have. They had been sitting on these selfsame chairs for the past couple of years and he was not a bad bloke. Pat lowered the magazine a little, and he said, I’m trying to avoid the news at the moment.

  Martin nodded but he was obviously a bit hurt. It would be horrible to arrive at middle age and still be capable of that kind of emotion as an effect of that kind of trivia. Patrick glanced at him. He was no longer reading his Herald, just smoking his cigarette and staring at a spot on the carpet by his shoes. Patrick could ask him about his family; he was lately become a grandpa and liked to talk about families generally. Martin was okay – very quick and skilful with modelling clay and plasticine and he had produced some nice sculpture work for different school festivals and functions. Patrick could say something about that. Plus there was this habit he had of allowing his tea to cool without drinking any of it, then when the bell rang he would swallow the lot in a couple of long gulps. Probably it had to do with the wish to prolong the moment, that time which was his time, his time alone.

  Desmond had arrived and so had Norman the temporary English teacher. They were in their chairs along with Alison and the others who belonged to the main group of talkers; at present the topic centred on a television comic adventure programme about undercover military detectives in Australia. Out the top of the window you could see quite an okay morning indeed, bright and sunny. It would soon be April. Maybe head down to Eric’s for the Easter break. The two of them could set sail for Scandinavia. If Eric’s wife came along she could maybe bring a pal to make up the foursome; nothing too forceful, just the break for Easter, a wee holiday away from the problems of everyday living in this time of technological, desanitized

  Patrick had laid the magazine on the coffee table and stood up. He stepped to the window which was frosted but for the upper pane. Outside and across the playground lay the Renfrew Hills and beyond them the sea. If you dived in and swam due west you would end up probably in Greenland or northern Labrador. If you got that far. Probably you would drown first. In parts of Labrador and Greenland you can travel for days and not see a soul, a living soul. What like would that be. Not seeing a living soul, travelling across the icy wastes of Antarctica. Desmond was watching him. Patrick acknowledged him with a nod of the head. No doubt he had read Patrick’s mind and was scoffing at his daydream. Ach no he wasnt for christ sake. He had just looked away from the company for a moment towards the window, at which Patrick happened to be standing, and that was that. And he was now back listening in to the group’s conversation once more. Plunging through the glass window as in a highdive, landing feet first on the playground and making a dash for it through the gates, surprising the two polis who would probably be having a sneaky smoke while nobody was looking. But of course if he did want to leave he only had to walk out the door, because no one was stopping him, no one was stopping him.

  Alison’s back was to him.

  He sat down. He was actually quite tired. He hadnt slept too well. He had gone to bed as usual and went to sleep as usual but woke up at half-past two and from there on just dozed and woke up, dozed and woke up and gradually he lost all sense of reviviscence. When it was time to get up he felt in desperate need of a real and genuine sleep. So there you are and this explains the current lethargy of spirit. Unlike Alison who seemed to be fine. She seemed to be okay. She wasnt doing much of the talking but she had her rightful place in the group and was no doubt making a great contribution simply by the differing expressions on her face. Her face had differing expressions. You could cup her face in your hands and stare into her eyes. You didnt know what she was thinking though. In company with her she would be watching all that was happening but saying little and what was she thinking, you couldnt fucking tell. Alison, I desire to know precisely what you are thinking, at this very damn moment. Pat grinned, he chuckled, but stopped it. He frowned at the magazine and turned a page, and smiled, as if having found a thing there to be smiled at.

  Martin Russell was still lost somewhere in the nethermost regions, perched on the edge of the chair and staring down at the floor, the carpet. Miles off. Probably on a different planet. That here he was thirty years on from the teachers’ trainers and what the fuck was it all about and why the fuck had he not just committed suicide with a straight good will all those years ago. And the skin having formed on his cup of lukewarm tea. Pat closed the magazine and dropped it onto the table, and he turned to him: Hey Martin, how was the weekend?

  O – nothing startling Pat, what about yourself?

  Eh, quite hectic I suppose. Up seeing the parents and the rest of it!

  Martin nodded.

  They’re great television watchers as well. If you dont like to watch the telly then dont go and visit them.

  I know what ye mean. Mind you, sometimes there’s nothing better than putting the feet up and lying back there, letting it all wash right over ye.

  True.

  Switching off from everything.

  Aye. I’ve no got a telly these days, I used to have one but I’ve no got it now. You think you’re watching it but you’re no, they’re actually watching you!

  What?

  Pat smiled, I’m saying when you watch the telly, ye aye think it’s you that’s doing the bloody watching but it’s no, it’s you that’s actually getting watched – the government’s got the fucking security forces all taking notes!

  Martin nodded. He smiled briefly. Then he frowned for a moment and lowered his voice: You are leaving then Pat?

  Aye.

  Ah.

  Ye heard?

  Well, I was here when ye made the announcement last week.

  Aw aye christ! Patrick n
odded. He glanced at Martin, who was obviously awaiting further information. The cheeky auld bastard. He was expecting the all-important clarification: would Patrick be severing his links with the halls of education forever, or would he just be transferring to Barnskirk High which though of interest was scarcely earth-shattering.

  And there too was MI6, right on cue. The door had opened unnoticed by anyone, and there he was, this jolly faced second headmaster coming to see if the troops were enjoying life and was anybody saying anything they shouldnt be saying. And he called: Morning gentlemen, ladies!

  Some of the teachers returned the greeting. Such a fucking charade, when everybody hated the dickie. Good morning, called Patrick with a large smile.

  Morning, said MI6, also with a large smile the bastard.

  Patrick smiled once more; he was about to say something further but what was that something to be because he couldnt think of it. And he didnt want to say something stupit, something daft and silly. What was Alison smiling at? The side of her face was visible and she was smiling at something, which Desmond had probably said. And MI6 was still gazing across at Patrick, and he came a couple of steps closer, and he said: Exam Paper Study Group this evening Mister Doyle?

  Eh aye, yes, I’m remembering.

  Good. Fine.

  Alison was saying something within the group at the fireside god, what could it be, she couldnt be saying something about him, she couldnt be making a fool of him, saying something that would make a fool of him, in front of them, Desmond and all them. You could actually imagine them all in league with the government security forces – like that Hollywood picture where the aliens take over one by one. Patrick had stopped reading science fiction at the age of fourteen, maybe it was time to start again. Maybe there were things of value to be learnt about foreign planets and the prevailing wisdom.

  Martin was just sitting there on the edge of his chair, puffing very slowly on his fag and not taking the remotest interest in anything. He was a survivor. There was that skin as well. From now on Patrick would never drink another cup of tea until it had gone cold. Fine ya fucking bastards. He lowered his voice … Hey Martin, you know that German poet Hölderlin?

  Who?