by James Kelman
The path along towards the foot of the garden was steep, it became so. I had failed to notice this, that it was happening, that such a thing might conceivably happen at all. Until suddenly, suddenly. The unpredictable. What is ‘the unpredictable’? Can God move in unpredictable ways? Are the limits of thought bound by man’s own being? Could I be held responsible? Might I be considered
Nor had I noticed on the way up. I had not noticed on the way up! Oh well. My head was full. Full! he shrieked, full.
Foolish.
Dusk.
God rest ye merry gentlemen.
The path was hill-like. So damn awkward to negotiate because of the damn bushes, the general vegetation all overgrown, over growing, so-called shrubbery. One saw such bushes in the knowledge that as one looked the denser it became, their accursed life continuing unabated, fraction by fraction, oh yes they were growing, they would not stop growing.
Melodrama was a tendency of mine. Christine saw it in me and despised it. Rightly. I agreed with her. She said she did not despise it, but she did, obviously she did. Such tendencies are despicable, in this day and age, and occasionally I appeared powerless to halt that one. Things do crowd in on one; emotionally, intellectually, and in the outside world actual substances, material matter, it impinges. One cannot be separate.
Some branches were brambles and shooting out in my face. Bramble shoots. And I was having to dodge them, stepping from the path on to the earth where clumps of massive rhubarb grew in a row. Gigantic rhubarb. Onto the earth. Others could have said ‘into’. To step into the earth. Ghastly thought.
Does dusk fall?
Dusk falling.
But if we insist on precision; for those of us who do. But why bother. Christine ridiculed precision, in me at any rate. Nowadays she did. In the early years it was that selfsame precision, my ability to prise out the truth. Wheedling the truth, she said. Wheedling. It was meant unkindly. In her opinion I only made matters worse. Obscurum per obscurius. I was guilty.
And would be dead soon enough, thank God.
A younger man might have jumped onto the bicycle and pedalled to freedom. A boy would have done so. A boy sees no risks. One places the bicycle on the ground, one jumps aboard, one pedals. Girl or boy. My daughter and my granddaughters. Or girls.
I wondered if the owners of the house watched me from the window. Who in heaven’s name were they anyway. I wanted nothing to do with such people and resented that the purchase of this bicycle had forced the acquaintance. Economics is a loathsome matter. The man had been pleasant enough; although perfunctory is a more apposite term. The woman was downright hostile. I tried speaking their language. She interrupted at once with a carefully nuanced sigh. If she had been my wife ‘good cause’ would have been mine, for annoyance of a reasonable nature.
I recognized her sigh: only women are capable of such – such – emissions. Downright bad manners I called it. Rudeness is rudeness.
And the language of these people I found demanding. And when they do not help! The man was all right but she was not, she was scornful. Luckily for her Christine had not been present.
My wife’s patience was limited, very limited. Neither was she fond of strangers. It caused friction between us when I so charged her. Life is difficult enough.
Yes, she said.
It is us; we are the strangers.
Thank you for the explanation. I can rely on you.
Sarcasm and Christine he sighed, wearily, wearily.
Damn weight. A dead weight. Bikes nowadays. It certainly was not light and yes, it was very awkward because of the chain and its protective metal guard, getting in my way, they just kept getting in my way thus having to carry the damn thing slightly out from my shoulder, I had to, thus unable to put all my strength behind it, I could not, so that too, my God, this was causing the problem and that tweaking tweaking, as though a tautness, as of a tendon coming to snap: that was the tweaking.
The thought of the trek home.
He sighed, sighed.
Of course the pedals were in the old design, which my grandson no doubt, no doubt, would find off putting. Only a fool expected gratitude.
Nothing was ever easy, arrived easily.
I could hardly walk here. But who could? The path was beyond discussion.
The gate at last. I saw it. Why not? Gates exist. The one entity whose existence one can rely upon safely. Where humankind existeth so too doth the gate, the gate.
But so relieved to find it! I was. Not until then did I realize the extent of that relief. Oh Christine. Almost I had been lost, lost! He who is lost now art found, along the garden path, up the garden path and down the garden path, and from the garden path. I had passed along the garden path.
Without having admitted the awful truth. I had not admitted the truth, that somewhere inside myself I had worried about being lost, perhaps even that I had been lost, and failed to admit it.
The place was a warren. The entire town. They called it a town. It was a large village. What was odd about human behaviour was its divergence from culture to culture, even community to community. It was species-like. Such basics as gardens, how we humans plant and design our gardens. I refer here to Christine. She would have been startled by a mention of my name in reference to gardens. I have no interest in gardens, except insofar as one may escape them. I confess it readily.
One thing she did not do was carry heavyweight bicycles for other people; nephews, grandsons, granddaughters, nieces. The purchase of said bike would not have occurred to her. Had she known this was my intention she would have taken pains to stop me, and would have succeeded (generally a shake of the head was sufficient).
Why had I bought the damn thing. He would not even want it. Youngsters have their own ideas. He would simply look at it, he would look at it.
Where was I? The gate.
Gates cannot disappear.
How strange. There it had been. But now where?
But the sense of fun does not desert us. It is the sense of fun that distinguishes the species. Who ever heard of humorous cats?
Gates do not disappear but of cats there were plenty, in this vicinity. They prowled every corner, beneath table and chair, by the town sewers, sniffing out discarded seafood, jumping onto the table tops with contaminated paws. Half the town populace had contracted kidney diseases which, in a more hysterical society, might have caused fundamental misunderstandings and proven a blight on the tourist trade. Tourist incomers congregated in particular beach restaurants and lounge bars, hoping to gain the respect of the locals. To that unlikely end they fed the local cats. But woe to them, they had misjudged the situation. They would have been as well feeding late-night snacks to a flock of capon chickens the week before xmas. The locals had a saying about cats, and dogs. It was derogatory. I cannot recollect why precisely. Nor the actual saying itself, whatever it was, to do with mouths: excess! They were excess mouths? Perhaps that was it. What else was an animal but a mouth. An excess mouth requires food. Never feed an excess mouth. No animal was worth it. Thus say the locals.
Now the gate; a mere break in the wall, but it was there, truly, an iron gate. And I recognized this from my point of entry.
Vines vines vines. Vines had concealed the gate.
Why conceal a gate? Reminiscent of the Borgias.
I moved to open the damn thing but it would not budge, it would not budge. No, it would not open. Why would it not open? It had clanged shut behind me. I remembered this. Thus I had opened it, only an open thing can close.
What on earth was wrong with the damn thing. It would not open. The damn gate would not open, it would not open.
Gates gates. Absolute tyrants. That was the Borgias. A blemish on humanity.
The snib. I saw it. More of a bolt. A strange foreign contraption with a peculiar release-knob, circular in design. Certainly a spot of oil would have done it no harm. I grasped it with my fingers, my right hand, twisting at it. No luck. I would have to put down the bicycle. But if so havi
ng to resume the burden, for it was a burden; oh bring me to the silent shore, one might lay down one’s burden, evermore evermore. The weight was proving too much. It was a ton weight on me, but at the same time, the same time
I could not release the damn snib thing with its bolt and circular damn knob thing what a peculiar design it was, completely foreign and stupidly nonfunctional, my God, in all my born days.
I did let down the bicycle, onto the damn ground, against a tree, propping it there and such relief, if shoulders had heads mine would have been light-headed and my legs rubberized stalks.
Had circumstances been more conducive I would have rested. However, I had come to distrust the owner-occupiers, given they had sold me the bicycle openly and honestly. For so it appeared. They had not shown me the exit. Thus they had not led me down the garden path. I pulled open the gate. The height of absurdity but most unfunny, I did not find it otherwise, not in the slightest. I pulled open the gate.
This matter had a serious dimension. It was not too much to ask of people that they behaved in a proper fashion to strangers, for tourists were also strangers. This pair had chosen not to show me the exit. A sad commentary on the culture.
I made to lift the bicycle. Firstly I had to free the rear wheel from a clump of weeds already taking root between the spokes; a scene from The Day of the Triffids, it was ludicrous.
My left shoulder had a groove from before and the bicycle frame fitted snugly. This was a literal truth. The frame fitted so snugly! I tried to insert my fingers to feel the groove along my shoulder but could not. I thought to let down the bicycle once more. I should have enjoyed a rest and should have been allowed to my God had I so desired. To sit for a moment or two. None could deny me such a thing. Least of all my grandson who would reap the benefit of the enterprise. I was not his favourite but he was mine.
No, his grandmother, he was his grandmother’s boy. I did not grudge Christine this. On the contrary, it was a source of pleasure to me, that she should have experienced such love.
My granddaughters would not have wanted the bicycle, but it was not a bicycle for the girls, they were older. Nor hurt, that he was my favourite. They would have laughed. The girls still laughed at me. Likewise Christine, she used to, although we fought, often we fought.
Leadership
But for myself it was the greater challenge. The others might see it as theirs, as strangers to this practice. Not me. Never! They would begin, they would buckle down, draw strength from a trial shared. I admired and envied them for it.
My admiration was not misplaced though it surprised them. Of course they looked to me. I was the exemplar, the wonderful exemplar. For some I was glorious. Yes. And why? Because each manoeuvre lay within my grasp. So they presumed, failing to realize such mastery presents not liberation but a vast obligation; a world of obligation, overriding everything. Not only was my own life in thrall to the quest but the lives of those dearest to me.
Some chose not to see this, not to acknowledge the obligation. I cannot name them. Individuals are not functions. I accept this. At the same time they have roles, and enact them. At the same time they look to their own humanity; it is from here we begin
I regret if they are hurt by such honesty.
It is true also that I smiled. I would not deny the smile. This too surprised them.
Irony is to be shared. To whom did I share the smile? To whom would the smile be shared. None. I was alone. They said I was alone and were correct, an irony in itself, but unimportant if not insignificant.
If it is your life
I stopped smiling. I was on the Glasgow bus home and a woman was sitting next to me. I offered her the window seat but she preferred the aisle. Women have their own ways of doing stuff. It was that made me smile. I had a friend called Celia and she would have been exactly the same. She wanted to be an actress, or actor as she said. She memorized lines from classic plays; angry ones with big statements. She spoke them aloud or acted the parts. Even walking down the street. It was quite embarrassing. A pal of mine from boyhood did the same. Even with him I found it embarrassing. With Celia I pretended not to bother. But she saw that it did. If she had known the true extent she would have scorned me. No wonder. It was a hopeless brand of self-consciousness, worse than the ordinary. And arrogant too. It did not seem to be but it was. What right did I have to be self-conscious of something she was doing? That was so arrogant.
I had not thought of it in that way and it was true. Males are arrogant. I did not see myself as arrogant at all, not in the slightest, so it was like a compliment.
Even thinking about her, it was nice, she was just so jees, sexy, really, even on the bus and thinking about her, enjoying it in my own head. It was nice. But sad too, but life can be sad. Usually on long bus trips I just read or stared out the window.
Celia was so acute in her observations, very much so. People had to respect that. Especially in a woman. Women are different. There is no question about that. I had a sister, a mother and grandmother and that meant nothing. I did not know women, I did not know them at all. Celia studied people and I could see how this must be essential for anyone who wanted to become an actor. I thought she would be great at it. I respected her more than anyone, more than myself. Much more. I learned from her, even being in her presence. Not only did I appreciate her own lack of self-consciousness I began noticing it in others. Those that had it seemed satisfied with themselves. Not in a bad way. I did not see them as ‘smug’. They were content with themselves, or within themselves. Maybe it was an illusion. I saw them out and about and their lips were moving. They were not phoning, not texting. Some had earphones and actively engaged with the music, whether singing along or performing actions with their limbs. Others sang on their own account. They were not listening to anything except out their own head. Or in their own head, inside it. From inside it. Inside within it. You listened to things inside your own head, from inside.
Or did you? Did people listen inside or from inside?
Ears are outside but your hearing is inside. If we look at our heads in a practical manner we gain insights. It seems obvious and it is obvious. But so obvious people never do it.
If you were singing you were not listening. Maybe singing into yourself. Not out loud. A lot of people did that. They walked along the road singing away to themselves. Eric Semple was the worst, an old pal of mine. He sang out loud. It was like he was on stage. You would not have minded if it was walking along the street but he did it at other times too, like on the bus. People could hear him. Talk about embarrassing. That really was. I thought so anyway. He did not. Him and Celia were the same there. It was only me. I was the one that worried.
Why? Why worry about other people. It was not a pleasant trait and I wished I did not have it. People should be allowed to get on with their own lives without others butting in. Ones like me.
I thought too much about other people. I could not stop myself and did not feel good doing it. I saw Eric at the Christmas break and it was a fight. I got annoyed with him because he got annoyed with me. He said I was giving him a telling-off. It was not a telling-off. It was just that stupid singing. Maybe he did not know he was doing it. But other people were there and could hear. Why did he not sing into himself? I could not understand that. But deep down I knew why, he was getting at me. It was because I had left home to go to university. It was a mixture of jealousy and I do not know what, except things had changed. But it was not me changing them. There was no point blaming me.
He was annoyed and I did not know why. I thought he was going to walk away. We were in one of the few under-21 bars in town. He liked his beer so for him to walk away was a big thing. Although he looked older than me and probably would have got served in other places. He was fuming. It made me smile seeing him. That only made it worse, swearing at me. What the fuck are you laughing at?
I was not laughing I was only smiling. I was glad to be having a pint with him. You are just annoying me, he said.
I dont mean to.
That made it worse. Eric drank his beer down. He was a bigger drinker than me when it came to pints. I preferred bottles. Pints were too much, if you took too many; and Eric did, although he could handle it. I used to be able to. I was out the habit. People did not drink so much down south. One beer lasted for ages. Some drank wine, glasses of wine. If you were in company together you might order a bottle and you all shared it. It was just different. If me and Eric went out while I was home it would be to a pub and it would be beer. It would be nice seeing him this time but not if it was another fight. I made him angry. But he made me angry. He blamed me for stuff that was not my fault – talking posh. How come you’re talking posh? I was not talking posh. I was saying things properly, or trying to. There is a difference. If I did not say things properly people did not know what I was talking about. It was bad enough as it was. I was not being a snob, I was just sick of people not understanding me, or pretending they did not. Sometimes I thought they pretended. Celia understood when I explained it. She even noticed it. But Eric got more annoyed and then went off into his ‘so’ routine. Every time I explained something it was ‘So?’
So? So? So?
So I felt like punching him on the mouth, that was so. Surely he had passed the ‘so’ stage. He had being doing it since he was five years of age. We all did but some grew out it. He did not, at least not with me. You could say ‘so’ to everything. That was what he did. It was stupid: stupid and meaningless. Not completely. But how come he did not understand the point I was making whereas somebody who was English understood completely. And not Celia, I was not referring to her. He thought I was but I was not. I did not want to talk about her, and not about sex. He did not want me talking about her either. Although he acted like he did anyway, that was what I thought. So what, I was not going to, who cares.