A Disaffection (Vintage Classics)

by James Kelman

  Christ sake.

  Okay. This is a fellow needing human intercourse. Let him visit his big brother. And his sister-in-law because she’s good as well.

  But what about the motor, the motor willni go, the poor auld fucking motor car!

  Of course it will go. It will go if you fucking drive it. But I cannot. I am unable to. I must just sit here and let it have its head. Nonsense. You’ve to take it where you require, where you desire. If you desire to take it to see your family then take it to there, to see your family. You can do it; come on. No. Yes. No. Aye ya fucking bastard ye come on; and get the boot down on this fucking accelerator pedal.

  Okay.

  Patrick simply shifted his hands while the steering wheel was being held by them and the entire motor car executed a perfect turn at the next junction, and on into Maryhill Road, driving up and swinging right, along by Lochburn Park, home of Maryhill Juniors, not a bad wee footballing side but no chance against the Yoker. And on under the canal bridge, up the hill and down by the cemetery.

  He parked the car. He shut fast the door and locked it, glancing up to see if anybody was out on the veranda. The flats all had these verandas which were ideal for parties to dive from. Excellent for the district’s twelve-year-olds. He patted the car bonnet en route to the pavement where he proceeded to traverse the flagstones up the stairs and into the closemouth. Traversed the flagstones up the stairs and into the bloody closemouth. Is this fucking Mars! Traversed the fucking bastarn flagstones onto the planet fucking Vulcan for christ sake

  except that it no longer exists. That poor old nonentity Vulcan, being once thought to exist, and then being discovered not to. Imagine being discovered not to exist! That’s even worse than being declared fucking redundant, irrelevant, which was the fate of ether upon the advent of Einstein. Whether it existed or not it had become irrelevant to the issue. Fuck sake. Ether. After all these centuries. Who was responsible for it originally? One of the Anaxes – imenes or imander. What would Hölderlin have to say about that! Fuck Hölderlin he’s deid and buried. You’re no. And neither’s your big brother. So chap the door and ring the bell:

  Gavin answered. He was holding a pint-glass of beer. He didnt smile but squinted, puzzled. What’s to do! he said, by way of a greeting.

  Patrick shrugged, smiling. Just passing. Just saying hullo.

  Aw. Gavin gestured with the glass, returning inside; leaving Patrick to enter and shut the door. Fiddle music was playing. The smell of this house. Weans. Nappies and milk and stuff. And a wave of heat and cigarette smoke. Gavin was holding the living-room door ajar for him. Inside were two of his neighbours, sitting on the settee while on top of the dining table were about a dozen assorted bottles of homebrew beer. Davie Jordan, and big Arthur who lived in the flat up through the ceiling from Gavin. Gavin called to them: The young brother … And he waved at the table: Bottle of beer for ye brother.

  Like the fiddle Paddy? asked Davie.

  Aye, I do.

  Davie pursed his lips and jerked his thumb at the record playing: This guy’s spot on – Shetland-style but I forgive him!

  Arthur winked at Pat; Davie’s a Highlands & Islands man, whereas your brother, he likes the Shetlanders. Me … he tapped himself on the chest: I prefer Rock & Roll! He winked again and proceeded to make a cigarette. It’s all ye get in this house with these two cunts, he said, the fiddle and fucking whatever – the bagpipes!

  Davie glared at him. Dont denigrate the national instrument! Then he laughed and slapped his hands together and called to Gavin: What about that bowl of soup Mister Doyle!

  I’ll Mister Doyle ye ya cunt if you want a bowl of soup away and fucking pour it!

  Was he always like this? said Davie to Pat.

  Pat grinned.

  Heh you still at the teaching? asked Arthur.

  Eh more or less, aye. I’ve just took the afternoon off. My head was birling. He sighed and poured the remainder of the homebrew into his glass and he drank a large mouthful. He sat on a dining chair to the rear of the settee and not too far from the door, and he called to Gavin: What time did yous start this …? And he raised the glass of homebrew.

  Two months ago.

  Naw I mean the actual bevying?

  Two months ago! Gavin laughed and so too did Davie Jordan and Arthur, and Pat felt excluded immediately but he had decided to fight off any such feelings and he conquered it for the time being by simply getting himself relaxed upon the chair while the beer itself was pleasant, a light-tasting flavour and quite mellow and very enjoyable, like the company itself fuck which was good anyway and not at all difficult to enjoy and feel relaxed in. Davie Jordan was really into the music and keeping time with both hands flapping at his kneecaps, his head rocking and occasionally looking back the way to wink at Pat.

  Do you smoke dope? said Arthur.

  We were talking about it before ye came in, said Gavin.

  I dont actually smoke at all, said Pat. I wish I did!

  Strange statement, replied Arthur.

  Gavin laughed.

  It is but, said Arthur.

  Davie said: I used to smoke dope. Before I discovered sex! He laughed and flourished both hands at the start of another air and he cried: The Deil’s Awa Wi The Exciseman!

  As the music played Pat called to Gavin: I saw maw and da at the weekend. Saturday, I was up on Saturday.

  Aye.

  Da was looking fine.

  Aye … Gavin nodded and his eyelids closed and he leaned back on the chair, his head resting on the back of the frame.

  Patrick understood that he was not wanting to speak of family matters, not at present. Not in company. Fine. Quite right. He was probably a bit intoxicated anyway and not in the right mood. This homebrew was strong. Everybody got intoxicated these days. Even the poor wee first-yearers were drinking too much. Mind you it was better than heroin. Or was it; at least with heroin they got an early death whereas with alcohol they were left to traverse the flagstones for a further couple of score years.

  Heh Gavin how’s the kids? he called.

  The kids are fine the kids are fine, fine. Gavin smiled falsely and added, We went up for you on Sunday and you werent in.

  Aw …

  Gavin’s eyelids were closed again, his head back on the frame of the chair: Nicola was worried about you. Gavin opened his eyes and said to his mates: The wife worries about him but no about me. She worries about her brother-in-law but no about her husband, she doesni give a fuck about him, her man.

  Typical female, muttered Arthur.

  Davie shrugged. I’ve no seen the wife for a month. She went away and hasni returned – sounds like the line from a song eh! Naw but Gavin what d’you expect; women have got this thing about young brothers. It’s a fact, every woman likes a young brother. They’re no bloody interested in husbands. That right Arthur?

  Dont fucking ask me.

  Davie glanced round to Patrick.

  Gavin cried: No point looking at him ya daft cunt he is the young brother, he’s fucking biased! Gavin shook his head, sitting forwards on the chair; he swallowed a mouthful of homebrew and said, Plus he’s a fucking teacher, a brainbox. That correct brother!

  It’s true aye, I’m a brainbox; I passed my exams at uni and so on right to the very top and now here ye are this is me the man ye see in front of ye. Here’s fucking looking at you brother! Patrick smiled falsely and raised the glass to his lips, pausing before finishing what was left in it. Mind you, he continued, I could go to sleep here if you’ve got no objections, I’m beginning to feel a wee bit sleepy.

  Gavin gazed at him; then he replied, No objections at all, do what ye like.

  It’s a comfy carpet, said Davie. I’ll vouch for it. Top marks.

  Ten out of ten, grinned Arthur.

  Patrick smiled then stopped the smile, he counted the bottles on the table. The levels of irony were become slippery. The problem was this: should I remain in the company and surmount all? Or should I give up, make my excuses and leave?
The fact that here in the living room of his big brother’s home was exceedingly comfortable played a large role in the final decision which was this: let us remain and surmount all. My head was birling this morning, he said directly to Davie and to Arthur, so I fuckt off at dinner time. I just says to hell with it I’m going home, I’m going home. So I went home. Well, I came here instead.

  Quite right too, frowned Arthur.

  Aye, said Davie.

  I disagree … Gavin had lighted a cigarette and he blew a puff of smoke at the ceiling. I disagree, he said, I think you’re both talking shite. He’s got a job and he should look after it. We’ve no got a job. More than half of Scotland’s no got a job. So you dont start treating it with impunity if you’re lucky enough to have one.

  Silence.

  Patrick chuckled.

  You dont, said Gavin.

  Patrick nodded, smiled.

  Gavin glanced at Arthur: No think so Arthur?

  Eh …

  Davie grinned and winked at Arthur. Brothers, he said, you’re better to keep out of it. I had a brother once. Know what I did? Eh Paddy? Know what I did? I fucking killed him. So I did. I done him in. I grabs a hold him by the neck: heh you I says I dont like you – and I had this blade on me so I stuck it into him. Just like that! Davie laughed.

  Patrick laughed a moment later. Gavin didnt; but he did smile. Then Arthur muttered, You’re going to end up in a fucking institution ya mad bastard.

  Davie slapped himself on the kneecap and laughed loudly, then gestured at the bottles of beer: Seize us one Paddy eh?

  Pat handed him one, then he hesitated and got to his feet. He said, Eh … I think I better add something to the cargo.

  No need, replied Gavin.

  There isni, said Arthur. Honest, I’ve got loads up the stair – even if I say so myself.

  He has, said Gavin.

  Davie chuckled. His kitchen’s chokablok with it. Everywhere ye look, bottles and bottles, all shapes and sizes; milk bottles and ginger bottles, bloody medicine bottles and bleach bottles; jamjars as well!

  The others laughed, including Gavin.

  Patrick added, Nevertheless chaps, a wee halfbottle would come in handy.

  Well, said Gavin, put like that …

  A man after my own heart, said Arthur.

  Rain was drizzling down. He waited at the closemouth but it wasnt about to cease for him so he upturned the jacket collar and stepped out and down the steps to the pavement and hurried along to the main road. The man serving behind the chicken-net in the licensed grocer looked so unlikely he could have been the owner, dressed in such a clatty manner; clatty shirt and clatty trousers and a clatty cardigan of immense nondescription. A man of fifty-nine years and four months by the looks of it. A man of slackish jawbone, of scraggy neck tissue, dropped adam’s apple and large hairs hanging from his nostrils and ears. If this man was an invalid and very close relation of Patrick’s, not to say father, and had Patrick been obliged, as dutiful son or nephew perhaps, to shave this man’s neck and face – then in the name of God and Immanuel Kant he could never ever manage to perform such a fucking obligation even be it fucking filial for christ sake never mind morall and this sort of morall demands the extra ‘1’ at all times, being the noumenal essentiality.

  A bottle of Grouse and a dozen cans of superlager please.

  The guy that helped Hölderlin was a Scotsman by the name of Von Sinclair. He was one of the mainstays of the wee coterie of folk who intellectualised around the taverns and cafes; he wrote a bit of poetry himself – it was maybe him that got Hölderlin set up as a tutor to Susette’s kid.

  Behind the counter and well away from the possibility of sneaky little fingers lay a fair selection of chocolate bars and sweeties and Patrick added a variety of them in on the order for wee Elizabeth and John. There was a strangeish kind of smell breaking through that of the diverse spirits and wines. A sweetly kind of smell which didnt seem to have much connection with chocolate bars. It was maybe the guy serving, wearing a strong after-shave to disguise the pong from his socks. Or maybe he smoked a pipe with that funny Dutch tobacco that smelled of myrrh and frankincense.

  Or was it carbolic soap and incense?

  Death was close at hand!

  It cost him an extra five pee for a plastic carrier bag. The man stared craftily at him while asking for the dough, then he looked away. Patrick had already signed his cheque for the sum and had to dig into the pockets for the coin. But he brought his hands out his pockets, even though there was money there, and he said: Look this is out of order, charging me for a carrier bag after I’ve spent so much on the actual drink itself I mean let’s face it, you should be quite happy to give me one for nothing.

  I dont make the rules son, it’s the boss.

  Son? I’m actually thirty-three years of age.

  The man gazed at Pat.

  So I mean what’re you calling me son for?

  I call everybody son, it’s just an expression. I’m no meaning anything by it.

  Patrick shook his head but he laid the five-pence coin on the counter and pushed it beneath the grille to him. Well you better tell your boss it’s out of order charging folk for a daft carrier bag when they’ve spent a fortune on buying his drink.

  I’ve telt him before.

  Aye well you better tell him again then.

  The man frowned as he packed the cans into the bag. He sniffed, pushed the bag through the space in the grille; then he passed out the bottle of Grouse and the packets of chocolate and sweeties which Pat stuffed into his pockets. It was ridiculous. The idea of charging for carrier bags was just so absolutely fucking ridiculous. And obviously the auld bastard pocketed the five pences for himself. What chance could there ever be for the world when dirty skunks like the latter were in positions of power! Durty skinks like the latter, having arrived via the flagstones of Vulcan, armed with a bunch of fish suppers à la the good Rossi, whose pathway through the hordes of hysterical flagellants

  Goya. Goya said that. O did he. Yes, he fucking did. I never knew he was noted for his witty sayings. Well he was, take my word for it; I’m an authority on Goya who was three years older than Johann Wolfgang von Goethe whose love affair with the beautiful Kathchen Schonkopf

  fuck off. That includes Werther.

  Here we are up a close. The close as an article of faith. A nice-sounding guitar was coming from somewhere – Gavin’s place obviously. Patrick climbed the stairs two at a time, but took care not to stumble with such booty in his arms. The front door was ajar. He must have done it himself. Does the world fit together or is that purely sentimental.

  Davie Jordan was yapping. Patrick deposited the bevy and stuff on the dining table. He was being watched by big brother who said nothing and pretended a full interest in the yappings of Davie. Pat sat down and listened also. Davie was speaking of his relations. They lived up around the Kyle of Lochalsh area and were well known for their surprising movements here on Earth. Patrick opened a can of superlager and concentrated. This guy who was an astonishing bevymerchant and practical joker who earned his living on the ferry to Kyleakin which without any question had to be regarded as the finest job in all possible universes

  Patrick smiled. But it definitely was. Imagine working on the ferry that sailed across the sea to Skye!

  Gavin was watching him once more. Patrick grinned: I’ll tell you something but and I’m being serious – Davie, that cousin of yours, that job he’s got on the Skye ferry – it must be about one of the best jobs in the entire universe.

  Good when the tourists are about Paddy, but no so hot in the winter.

  No so hot in the winter! Arthur shook his head.

  Davie smiled. It was unintentional.

  Skye isni cauld in the winter, muttered Gavin, wet aye, but no cold.

  That’s what you think, said Davie. He swallowed homebrew beer; swallowed more of it, and smiled and nodded at the record player. Hear that guitar!

  Skye’s wet, said Gavin, but dont turn
round and tell me it’s cold.

  Everywhere’s cold in winter, said Davie.

  The islands areni, they’re wet. They dont get any fucking snow either. Did ye know that?

  Davie looked at Gavin without saying anything.

  They dont, said Gavin to Arthur, and he glanced at Patrick.

  And Patrick said suddenly: See that auld shite in the licensed grocer! he charged me five pee for a stupit carrier bag! I mean christ almighty I thought he was kidding.

  It’s bad in there, muttered Arthur. They dont even let the weans get a cash return on their bottle deposits; they’ve got to buy something for the amount.

  That’s against the law, said Davie.

  Ah well you go and get the polis! Arthur laughed, and he shook his head; he started to roll another cigarette. He nodded at the drink on the table. We’re gonni be here for the duration by the looks of it!

  Just a carry-out, muttered Patrick, getting to his feet. He unscrewed the whisky bottle and asked his brother if there were any wee tumblers. Of course there were wee tumblers. There were wee tumblers in the kitchenette, as he knew fine well. He got them himself, filled a big jug with water.

  Nicola’s no gonni be your pal, said Gavin, too much drink.

  Bit of truth in that, said Arthur.

  Davie chuckled: Tell the boy to take it away then! Never mind Paddy, at least I appreciate it.

  Ach I’m wanting to drown my sorrows. Pat said, I’ve chucked my fucking job.

  You’ve what? cried his brother.

  Naw, just kidding.

  Gavin stared at him then said to his mates: He’s no fucking kidding at all. That makes me really angry, so it does. He’s a bloody teacher and he earns a bomb, a single man, he can do anyfuckingthing he likes. Anything; anything at all. So what does he do he wraps it! It makes me sick so it does. I mean … Gavin gazed at Patrick and when Patrick said nothing he continued: That’s the daftest thing you’ve ever done, and you’ve done some fucking daft things in your time.

  After a moment Patrick said, Will you listen a minute?

  It’s the fucking limit, said Gavin.

  He’ll no listen, Pat told the others.