A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  Hölderlin: he was a pal of Hegel’s; they were students the gether.

  I cant say I do Pat, no.

  Pat nodded, he sniffed slightly.

  Was he good?

  Uch aye, he was, I must say.

  A pal of Hegel’s?

  Aye. They were both born in the same year as a matter of fact: 1770 – the same as Beethoven.

  Ah! 1770! Wordsworth was born then too.

  …

  You dont like him I take it?

  Well, I fucking hate him, to be honest, but it’s probably just prejudice. I’ve never really read him all that much.

  Did ye not have to study him?

  I got round it.

  Ah.

  Do you like him?

  Well eh I dont think he’s easily dismissed Pat.

  Mm.

  James Hogg was born in 1770 as well ye know.

  Christ!

  He and Wordsworth were the same age. Walter Scott was their junior by one year. Martin grinned. Ye didnt know that?

  Fuck sake naw! Pat laughed.

  Martin also laughed: There must’ve been something in the air eh!

  I bet ye, aye. If ye track down the records you’ll probably find some strange data to do with temperatures and rainfall.

  That’s right; plus the price of ruddy corn! The political situation in general! Martin flicked open his packet of cigarettes and got another cigarette alight … one wonders what was happening in 1769 eh? the million-dollar question!

  The American War of Independence?

  No, that was eh … When was Thomas Muir on the go? The ’90s. Hey, do you know that when Walter Scott was a boy of fifteen he actually met and was introduced to Burns?

  Christ.

  Yeh, fifteen years of age.

  Patrick chuckled.

  Mind you, said Martin, I wouldnt fancy having a classful of Walter Scotts!

  For fuck sake, said Pat, can ye imagine them all sitting there! What would they be doing! It doesni bear thinking about.

  Martin laughed quite loudly. A classful of Walter Scotts!

  Add 1 7 7 0, said Patrick immediately, 15. 1 and 7 is 8 plus 7 equals 15.

  Martin looked at him, then grinned. No it isnt, it’s one thousand seven hundred and seventy. Take your thousand and add your seven hundred then your seventy, and that’s what ye get, 1770, seventeen hundred and seventy.

  Spoilsport!

  The two of them chuckled. And Martin added: Change of subject Pat, were you not down for that Disciplinary Scheduling last night?

  Not at all.

  Ye sure?

  Definitely. Otherwise MI6 would have made some sort of bloody comment.

  Mm.

  How?

  O I was just wondering.

  Patrick frowned.

  It’s not important.

  What did ye ask for then?

  I was just wondering.

  Pat shook his head. Christ sake Martin I mean ye wanting to get me really paranoiac!

  I was just curious.

  Pat gazed at him. Then he saw Alison by the door, holding it open for Diana and Mrs Bryson and Patrick stood up at once and looked at her and she looked away and followed Diana out, leaving Mrs Bryson to come behind. The door was shut now and nobody else was there. Desmond and the others were still sitting by the fireside.

  Patrick stretched his arms aloft and he yawned in as genuine a manner as he could. But he didnt succeed and it sounded totally false and horrible and he walked to the window immediately and he stared out the top pane at the sky and the white clouds flying past at quite a fast clip, it had to be blowy outside, windy; sharp breezes. He would count to thirty and then leave the room. And south lay the hills. He turned. Martin was exhaling smoke and glancing at his wristwatch. Pat said, I wonder how far it is to Labrador from here?

  Be about 3 to 3500 miles I would think.

  Patrick nodded. Ten minutes in the sea and you’d be dead: hypothermia.

  Is that right?

  Aye, terrible eh – imagine being a fisherman that canni swim! Every day you were out working would be a form of hellish torment. Ye heard of these miners in South Africa? According to their religion hell is in the nether regions of the earth. So what that means is that these guys, when they go to their work every day, believe that they’re actually going to fucking hell – literally. Eh? That kind of thing’s beyond comprehension. Poor bastards.

  Martin shook his head. Unbelievable!

  Aye, said Patrick, except that it’s true.

  God!

  Yeh, terrible eh.

  Wwhho!

  Patrick collected his empty cup from the coffee table and carried it to the sink, rinsing it out and leaving it upturned in its place on the draining board. She would be well away by now. She would be in her classroom. She would be at her desk, browsing over the forthcoming lesson. The temporary English teacher was looking at him. Patrick gave him a brief wave.

  Hiya Pat.

  Hullo Norman, how’s the missis?

  Fine.

  Good. Patrick glanced at Desmond: Alright Desmond!

  Morning Mister Doyle.

  Yous going a walk at dinnertime?

  Probably.

  Pat nodded. See yous later then eh!

  1769: in this year Napoleon Bonaparte was born. The information came via the sixth year and the sixth year is never wrong.

  Fiona Grindlay was talking. Her da was still giving her a hard time because she wouldnt reveal the name of the father of her baby. Fiona was relating it to a short story she had read where there was this romance between young lass and young lad plus the dreaded mixture of horrendous parents and relatives, ending in death for the young couple. Fair enough; slightly sentimental but so what, you’re entitled to be slightly sentimental about something like that. Fiona went on to develop her own position in reference to the media. It was a good piece of reasoning. When she finished none spoke for several moments. But you could never be certain that these silences werent simply in deference to her motherhood. Patrick nodded. I think your reasoning’s fine Mirs Grindlay but when you’re talking about parents I wonder if maybe there’s space for Camus and his killing of these fuckers the kings.

  Yes.

  I dont think so at all, called Evelyn Reilly.

  So what, said Pat.

  She glared at him. She was a lassie who took her fags out. Her packet lay on the desk and she was twiddling a box of matches in her hands.

  So what’s too simple, replied Paul Moore.

  Wrong.

  Paul stared at Patrick, then shook his head.

  Good … Patrick glanced at Evelyn Reilly: Not you Mirs Reilly.

  Fuck off, she said.

  If ye want to smoke smoke.

  If I want to smoke I’m smoking.

  What about Fiona Grindlay?

  There’s nothing about Fiona Grindlay plus that and the baby.

  Brian Nixon stood up. He put his hands into his jerkin pockets and shut his eyes, laughing; he shook his head and sat down again. And the bloke behind slapped him on the shoulder then stood up. The others looked to be waiting for him to speak. Danny Persse was his name.

  Patrick said, Okay; if there’s nothing more on the referent it’s time, it’s that moment. And you’re the guy Mister Persse.

  Evelyn Reilly struck a match suddenly, lighted her fag.

  Fiona Grindlay called to her: That’s unfair!

  Pat grinned. Your first tautology for a fortnight Mirs Grindlay. Well done.

  Fiona smiled.

  Patrick! said Evelyn Reilly.

  Sir!

  Wait till ye hear this! She pointed at Danny Persse who took a book from his inside jacket pocket and turned to a page he had marked:

  I’ll read from the front, he said, strolling out and down to stand by the blackboard: It’s from a poem by Okot p’Bitek; okay:

  Ten beautiful girls

  Are walking in single file,

  Along the pathway,

  They carry axes
>
  They are going to the bush

  To split firewood,

  In the grass lurks

  The black mamba,

  Its throat burning with venom.

  The first three girls walk past,

  Then the fourth and fifth,

  And all nine girls go by,

  And your daughter

  Who is at the tail of the line

  Is struck!

  She stands there,

  The reptile refuses to unhook its fangs,

  She drinks a whole cup of death,

  She gives a brief shriek

  And mumbles some farewell

  To her loving mother!

  Then she drops

  Dead!

  Danny Persse shut the book immediately and added, I’ll just finish there. He glanced at Patrick and laughed, then he laughed to the class and particularly Evelyn Reilly who was chuckling away quietly, smoking her cigarette and blowing the smoke towards the window. When he returned to his desk he and Brian Nixon slapped their right hands together.

  Well done, said Patrick.

  And Danny Persse called: And all nine girls go by, except your daughter alone, who is fucking poisoned to death! Danny laughed again and shook his head.

  Males! said Patrick Doyle MA (Hons), what about life?

  It’s worth having: Danny Persse.

  It’s better than nothing: Brian Nixon.

  It doesnt belong to the bastards: Francis Connolly.

  Sentimental tollie, said Evelyn Reilly.

  Okay females … Pat said: A mate of my da’s who used to work in a carfactory down in Linwood before they got done in by the capitalists, he worked on the assemblyline and his job was to grease the insides of the doorpanels. And the poor fucker had this recurring nightmarish fantasy, that he would get wedged inside one of them – one of the doorpanels, and then he would get sealed in and flattened by the heavyduty punchgun process with his mouth twisted so unnaturally and badly awry that he wouldni be able to shout for help. Okay. Then one day he fucking disappeared. It was teabreak. The guys didni know where he had got to. He was never fucking seen again.

  Silence.

  Patrick said: But him and his missis had been having some difficult quarrels at the time so when he didni reappear she just put it down to that, the quarrels, and that he had just fucked off to start a new life in England or something. Instead of which he had got squashed.

  That’s sickening, said Sheila Ramsay.

  If it was the capitalists who done them in it was the capitalists who started them, said Ingrid Jones.

  Wrong, replied Patrick. Males?

  Ergo bibamus: Brian Nixon.

  Laughter.

  It’s a load of shite: Paul Moore.

  Fiona Grindlay: What do you mean by ‘squashed’?

  Sheila Ramsay: What is ‘a new life’?

  Well done, said Patrick. Negation!

  What is not a new life what is a new death not what is an old death, an old life, not the old life, not a rebirth, the same old renewal, that other way of not being, that unabsence … Sheila Ramsay raised her eyebrows, turned to Evelyn Reilly who handed her her cigarette; she grabbed a couple of long drags before continuing. She said: I just dont accept ‘new lives’. To me it’s a sign of floundering around. I think it’s not something to ever be proud of. I canni conceive of a person who can think of it.

  Would it usually always be a man? said Ingrid Jones.

  A male to answer! called Sheila; she returned the fag to Evelyn Reilly.

  Silence.

  Patrick! called Sheila.

  He cleared his throat before replying: I would never think of ‘a new life’.

  Booo! Francis Connolly.

  Honest. I’m no kidding ye.

  Paul Moore: How often do you consider suicide?

  Daily.

  Wrong.

  Patrick nodded.

  What about a synthesis! said Ingrid Jones.

  Paul Moore smiled. Anybody that agrees with me and therefore nobody that can agree with me that agrees with me if nobody is agreeing with me, especially not our great teacher, Mister Patrick Doyle: and so forth.

  You’re letting me down, said Patrick.

  Pardon?

  …

  Paul Moore stared at Patrick and Patrick eventually looked away from the wee bastard who had gazed right into his heart and seen something rotten. Patrick could crawl into a corner. He could crawl under his desk. He could crawl into the wastepaper basket. He strolled to where Danny Persse had read from the poem and he said: I want some advice to do with my immediate plans. What I feel is I’m not enjoying being the person who teaches and if I canni do it here I dont want to do it anywhere. I’m saying to ye that there is a bit of a crisis in my life. I’m sick of being alone and being a teacher in a society that I say I detest all the time, to the extent that the term ‘detest’ isni really appropriate christ because it’s a form of obscenity.

  Gary McGregor speaking for the first time since last week: You dont want to get transferred I take it?

  That’s correct Mister McGregor.

  And you dont want to leave either.

  Yes.

  But you canni stay?

  Aye, that’s it.

  Suicide?

  Yep ya bastard ye, well done.

  Laughter. And Gary McGregor was so pleased with himself and he grinned along at Fiona Grindlay. He was in love with her. He had been in love with her for quite a while. Patrick was now noticing this. Now that Patrick was noticing it he saw that he had been noticing this for ages without having registered the fact. Gary McGregor was in love with Fiona Grindlay. These things were aye happening right under your nose and you never ever bloody saw it, you never ever bloody saw them. Because of your total preoccupation with self. I think therefore I am: and the thing that I am is all of that which everything else isni.

  Patrick said: Thanks for laughing one and all. You as well Fiona because you’re a hard nut to crack.

  Thanks.

  No sarcasm intended. Okay. I first considered suicide at the age of twelve, the same year I gave up believing in deities. It’s a good age for it. I suppose all my teachings are based on that. I regard the wee first-yearers as imminent suicides and if they areni they fucking should be, and I try to convey that to them. Did any of yous want to commit suicide at twelve years of age? Apart from Brian Nixon I mean.

  Laughter.

  Brian Nixon stood up and saluted; then he sat down again.

  Francis Connolly said, When Tolstoy was eleven years of age he met this boy who told him God didni exist. Him and his brothers thought it was a very interesting piece of news but Tolstoy kept on believing for another five years.

  I think he was telling lies, said Patrick.

  Honest?

  Yeh, but I might be wrong.

  Ye dont think of Tolstoy telling lies, said Francis Connolly.

  That’s because you’re a man, said Ingrid Jones.

  Patrick grinned, he glanced at his wristwatch. He looked at the class; most of them were still smiling. Look, he said, I wouldni mind just calling it quits the now. Does anybody mind?

  He stared at them all.

  He lifted his good fountain pen before leaving.

  Down in the assembly hall a crowd of weans was running team races, tossing beanbags at each other and making a hell of a racket, shrieks and yells and the PE teacher shouting at them to be quiet. There was still a few minutes to the bell. After a moment Patrick returned along the corridor, to Alison’s room; at the window he tried to peer in but he could see very little, except that she was engaged with a large class, third year possibly. To just open the door and call her out for one second, to see how she was. But what did it matter.

  O christ but he felt very happy. He started swaggering. He had his hands in his trouser pockets and he began moving his shoulders from side to side, Al Capone’s Guns Dont Argue. A last word to Old Milne. He could go in and tell him something or other – what. Just a last word. Ch
eerio. Fuck off ya tollie. Amen. Death. Arse. Aeroplanes. Buttons. Fish-fingers. Toast. Fish-fingers on toast. Fish-fingers and chips. A fucking while since your man ate any fucking grub. What he could do right now is go for a fucking meal; a nice threecourse businesslunch in an Indian restaurant for christ sake a beautiful chicken tikka with all the trimmings. And what could he do he could linger, he could linger; he could buy a nice big pint of draught heavy beer and just fucking sip it quietly and peacefully, sitting there on his tod and no worries about anything and that includes o tempor tempore; a huge plateful of fucking pakora and samosa and fucking onion salad and just peacefully nibbling, quiet music and the poor auld exotic fish swimming about in their tank.

  He would not draw attention to himself. He would stand and wait in by the door until the bell. Only then would he cross the playground to the carpark. The weans would camouflage his exit. They were always out to the street before the dring had died. The dring had died. It sounded so final.

  At the door he stood in by the shadows in case the polis were looking from the outside gates. He closed his eyes. There was a continuous buzzing in his left ear. It was not the blood roaring through his veins. It was not being caused by mental activity. He kept his eyes shut and concentrated. It was quite a high-pitched sound. A drone. No – drone signifies something fairly low and this was definitely high. Buzz probably described it best. Empedocles was Hölderlin’s favourite philosopher. The story goes he was kicked out by the Pythagoreans. There is a continuous buzzing.

  The polis appeared at the gates, chatting to each other. Ten, nine, eight, seven. Old Milne could be at his study window! Patrick smiled and stepped out the door and walked smartly across towards the carpark, and the bell rang.

  He was gone beyond the point. There was a point to be gone beyond and he had managed it. There was no further movement. But which way to travel! It was okay saying the point had been reached, that it was past. But which way! Okay, fuck. But which way?

  He could bear left.

  But this would take him in the direction of Maryhill Road thence Cadder: up where the dreaded big brother dwelt. And he would be at home, thus unavoidable. He would be watching television or reading a book or maybe listening to radio or the music centre or keeping an eye on the weans or doing a husbandly chore round the house.

  But he had to see somebody. He really had to see somebody. And if ye couldni fucking see your family who the fuck could ye see, that’s what I regard as the type of questioning