If it is your life

by James Kelman

  Anyway, it was Rob Anderson I was talking about, the best lecturer at university. Because of his attitude to the students. He called it the ‘so question’. Rob had two children of his own and this is what they did, ‘So?’ He thought it insightful; without the ‘so question’ there would have been no Socrates. It kept you on your toes, speaking intellectually. Much of Rob’s own philosophy came from observing children. So he said anyway although children did not read Plato, which is what Celia said. Typical Celia. But she was right in a way. Celia did not do philosophy but she came out and said things that were strong, even when it was to do with Rob Anderson, it did not worry her.

  The woman beside me was reading a thick paperback book, her wee light beaming down. It was a costume-drama, I saw the cover. Damsels in distress and knights in shining armour! The wee light made it more atmospheric, just that peace and quiet.

  People read what they wanted. I read private-eye stories, different ones, not just Chandler, people said Chandler but I liked other ones. Rob read detective stories too. I was surprised at that but he was not and I should not have been. The philosopher Wittgenstein was a favourite of his and if I did a third-year course then I would meet with him. He was difficult. People said that. He sounded interesting because of that. But he read detective stories, Wittgenstein. A lot of philosophers did.

  People were ordinary, philosophers or not. You did not read heavy stuff all the time. Not even if you were heavy. Philosophers were ‘heavy’ but that did not mean they only read ‘heavy’ books. It was the same if you were studying, you had to switch off occasionally.

  Even looking out the window and the peace and quiet, that was the M6 the farther north you went. And with night-time. I loved it. People were tired and away in their own thoughts, just thinking about whatever it was – going home, that was me.

  You were just very aware it was England. That was what I thought. It was so different. I liked it. I did not say that to my parents or anybody but it was true. Who wanted to be in Glasgow all the time! And for the rest of your life! No thanks. The world was big, just so so big. Celia’s brother lived in New York, or New York City, that was what she called it.

  She was so absolutely different to anything. There were no other girls like her. The idea of meeting one like her in Glasgow. Unless maybe you were up the West End round the Byres Road area or else Sauchie-hall Street; some place with students, otherwise where? Nowhere.

  My head went everywhere, and seeing the moon too, just everything. The thing about her, how sexy she was. You were not supposed to talk about that. Ha ha. Well it did not apply to her! Because she would have been the first, and I was the one if anybody did, knowing about it, because I did. It made you smile. Because people would never think, seeing me, they would never ever think, and yet, that was them, it was up to them.

  The woman beside me too, imagine her; she would never ever think. Nobody would. I had not been naked before. I had had sex a lot of times, quite a few; of course I had but not like with Celia, just naked the two of us and her not caring, just with her breasts, just flopping, not caring. People would not know that, seeing me, never, and her pubic hair, just to see. They never ever would think it. And at university too, never. I would never tell them a thing anyway, never ever.

  Sex is sex. But not for women. There were no pals anyway that I would have told. But I would tell Eric. I would. I think I would. I wanted to. Sometimes when you wanted to say something you did not get the chance. People spoke about their own stuff.

  She did not want me to say anything. She did not say it but I knew. But I was not going to tell anybody.

  But it made me smile. Because of the dark outside and the wee light beaming down my face was clear in its reflection and I had a smile, and it was a strange smile. Not like my smile. It was a different type of smile. I did not like it, although in some ways I did. It was Mister Hyde smiling back at Doctor Jekyll. There is an evil glint in his eye but a horrible irony as well and it is lurking there and like another story I read in Edgar Allan Poe which was just brilliant; warped sides of the one individual. Some writers were brilliant. They were like philosophers and just stayed in your mind.

  Every event has a cause. For every one thing a thing happens in succession. Except the world, if you regard the world as an event but maybe not. The world is not really an event, just a thing in itself. Unless if it is God, if you believe in God then you might argue the point, God caused the world. Or if God is the cause. So the world is His effect. Take away God and that is the world, what happens to it? Gone.

  These are things you would say. I loved the subject, if you would call it a subject. The great thing about philosophy is that it is actual life, it is hardly a subject at all. Some treated it as a subject and that was their downfall; they might score good marks in class but true understanding would not come from that form of study. Okay they might get good results but beyond that no.

  Eric would have been good at philosophy. Harder for Celia. She went her own way and at a certain point there has to be the way, if only as a beginning. Once you begin go where you want but let us begin from that same point, if you can find it. That is the trouble, but if you do find it then it becomes the whole world. Or the whole world becomes, it is just there and all alive. It is marvellous. That was Descartes, what a hero! He was the one we were given and you just felt lucky, imagine it was Hobbes or Locke, you would just shudder.

  I could not imagine Celia and Eric ever meeting. They were both aliens. She would not fit into his world and neither would he in hers. Yet they were both mine. His world was my world before leaving Glasgow. A woman like Celia could not exist in Glasgow. Perhaps she could but I could not imagine it. Or a guy like Eric Semple at university down south. I could never imagine that either. People would not understand him. It was a separate brand of humour. You saw things differently; your whole way of thinking. Almost like it was disconnected. Eric could have gone to a Scottish university, although maybe not Edinburgh, and never St Andrews. Never an English one.

  It was class. I did not show my class but Eric did. This is what it was. My dad spoke about it; to him it was everything. It explained everything. He believed in Karl Marx. Rob Anderson did not disagree with my father on that. In his opinion the academics underrated Marx as a ‘thinker’. They said he was not ‘first rate’. Some were ‘first rate’. In philosophy only the ‘first rate’ mattered. But even there, you would not find him on any syllabus. Rob thought it disgraceful. He found it salient the way they ignored Marx and others from a different culture or background. Even Jean-Paul Sartre and the Germans. The academics stayed with their own people and kept others out.

  But what was striking about the Glasgow bus home, right at that minute in time, and you noticed it immediately, and you could not help but notice, that everybody, every last person on the entire bus, each single solitary one was Scottish, they all had accents and were ordinary accents; none was posh. The woman next to me as well, she did not smile or even look at me but I knew. I did not find it relaxing; I do not think I did. I was the same as them but on the other hand was I? Maybe I was not. And what if there were others in a similar situation? It was like we were each one of us disconnected, each one of us, until we were on the bus home, and starting to become Scottish again, Scottish working class. My father would have said that, never to forget it, because they would never allow it.

  It was a peculiar thing altogether. Once Rob Anderson came to the pub with some of us and we had a few beers. He was saying stuff and making people laugh. He said to me when no one else was listening that I should be careful, there were those who would not wish me well. He came from a town in Yorkshire and said it happened to him. He was resigned to it. He could reach a stage but not progress further, because of his background. He said he had a Yorkshire accent. You would hear it if you listened. But he was proud of Yorkshire, very much so, and enjoyed sports, especially cricket and rugby. Those were the two most popular, by far. It was hard to find even one football fan.
I asked Rob which team he supported but he only said he had a soft spot for them all if they were Yorkshire, Yorkshire teams. But what if it was Sheffield United and Sheffield Wednesday? He just smiled when I said that. So I knew he did not really bother; you cannot have two sides if they are rivals; either one or none but not two.

  I missed playing football. There were teams at uni, including five-a-sides, but I did not know guys who played. I could find out and was going to.

  But what Rob said about the other academics was interesting. Celia did not know him but thought he must have been bitter to think that way. She was dubious. Under his influence I would be ripe for paranoia. That is what she said. But I watched other academics; they rarely spoke to students, even to say hullo. It happened to me at the end of second term, in the same lift as my sociology tutor and he did not look at me. Yet he knew fine well that I was in his tutorial group. I did not care. But it was weird. My father said nothing but he agreed with me, I know he did. Mum did not. She did not believe they were intentionally rude. Mum thought the best of people. Dad hated hearing about them. Be the best at your lessons son, then they cannot ignore you. That was what he said, then went back to his newspaper.

  Maybe it was true. But I was not the best at my lessons. I soon found that out. I did not tell mum and dad. I did not tell them everything; especially dad, it was easier with mum. But when I told her things they would reach him sooner or later. The same if I told my young sister, she would tell mum and mum would tell dad. Family politics, that was how it worked in mine.

  I was looking forward to going home. I had been back at Christmas but only a few days. I returned to England the day before New Year and it caused bother. Mum got upset because of it and did not come out her bedroom when I was leaving. But there was no bus on New Year’s day so it was either wait or go the day before. It was not as if I did not enjoy being there, of course I did, and seeing everybody, it was great.

  My life had changed so much. Probably it would be harder to communicate now than it had been at Christmas, and Christmas had not been easy. But that was life. And my own fault for not coming home before that. Mum was right to be hurt. She was hurt. Dad was hurt too but acted as if he was not. My sister told me. But what was I supposed to do? It was difficult. I would have failed all my essays if I had not worked through the holiday period. I was not brilliant. They thought I was but I knew I was not. Some were. I was not. In school I was but not down there.

  Oh but not even in school, I was not brilliant, I could just answer everything and do it all but that was our school, an ordinary school, not like theirs down south; their parents paid a fortune, more than my father earned in a year. That is true. It was him told me but it was correct what he said. I was in the low half down there whereas up home I was top or else near the top. They were completely different down south. Most of them were clever but the brilliant ones really were brilliant. That was their good luck.

  I liked being there when they were all away, especially in the library and finding places tucked away, wee study corners. I flew through my essays, it was great. I did not know Celia at that time. Imagine I did and she had not gone home! if it had just been the two of us, if she had stayed at uni, jeesoh, ye think of that, except the essays, that was the silly thing, I would have missed the deadlines or else done hopeless. Just seeing her all the time, if I could. But she would not anyway. I only saw her when she wanted; sometimes not for a week. More than a week. We had not had sex for eighteen days. One week she had not been there so that does not count but the other days she was. Unless it was her period. I did not think it was. Eighteen days. I did not see her all the time. But she liked sex.

  I never had sex before, not properly where you were in bed all night and you could just even go to sleep and wake up and then just well more sex, you could, it was just so so different from anything, Celia was just so different. No point talking. No point, just it was all so different.

  My life had changed so much. It was true. Jeesoh. Out the window, seeing the night sky. Rugged in Scotland, over the border. The woman next to me was still reading. I wished I could read like that. Damsels in distress, I did not realize sex would be like that. I knew it was great but I did not think, just how with Celia and in my arms and all night too; you just shivered. Her skin was even different. I could touch her.

  It was so true.

  And my young sister too, how with her secrets; girls had secrets, and about their body, it was all secrets; how else could you say it.

  Things had really changed. It could never be the same. And with my sister. Just strange, strange thinking about it, my little sister, but she was a woman and if she had a boyfriend. It was the way of the world, if you touched her, or she touched you; a woman, it was so so different. If you were dancing and how you looked, you would be looking but the woman would not look at you, because if she did; if you looked at each other and then smiled, if she smiled at you, it was just shivering, you shivered, you just got hard, it was all just sex, it was just so amazing and I had not known it before. I knew it but I did not.

  I was looking forward to seeing Eric and going for a beer. He had been a good pal. He was a funny guy. He kept you going with his stupid patter. Although how could it be called stupid. It was not. If it was intentional, and it was, then it was not stupid. How could it be? He would have made a great stand-up comedian. I had not seen him for a while. I had not seen anybody for a while but I had not been home since last September, excluding Christmas; Christmas did not count. I was only there a couple of days and hardly saw a soul. He was the only one apart from family.

  I would need to get out. I could not stay in the house all the time.

  Probably he still sang in public. Unless he had hit the big time! Now I smiled. Although you never know. Somebody had to!

  But maybe he used that as an excuse. Maybe that was why he did it, he was preparing for the day he won a major talent show!

  Did he honestly believe that! Maybe he did. The stupid side was obvious. But he was not a mug, he would have seen that too, as much as anyone. But there was another side to that: Eric himself. Somebody had to win. He had as much chance as anybody. Probably more because he believed in himself. He did, really! He thought people wanted to hear him sing! Me too, he actually thought I wanted to hear him!

  It was a personal quirk. Even if you told him to shut up he did not believe you, he thought you were saying it for effect. Secretly you wanted to hear him. He honestly believed that. Even when we were boys! What an ego! I had forgotten about that. His self-belief was much stronger than mine. In comparison I had an inferiority complex.

  But at what point is self-belief transformed into egocentricity? If we were walking up the road, just the two of us, and he started singing I found it embarrassing. He must have thought I was a total fool. It irritated me. Eventually I told him, Oh fuck off man. I done that a few times but he still did it. So it was not to annoy me. It had nothing to do with me. He even did it when he was on his own. I watched him and I saw him perform wee actions, wee actions, and he was only there himself. It was a characteristic he shared with Celia. But at that time me and him were still at school and it was just weird. I kind of worried about him, doing something like that in public, it was beyond embarrassing.

  Seriously. Eric was my best pal but it made you wonder about him. Yet some of what he did was the same as Celia. So if it was okay for her why not for him? Was that another gender issue? If so it put a different complexion on matters. It was illogical anyway. Unless it was separate logical systems. Some said that about women, that they operate differently from males in a structural sense. A guy said that in our sociology tutorial. He was destroyed. People ridiculed him. One of the girls wanted to punch him which only made him worse. He sounds likeable but he was not. He was arrogant, completely unlikeable, and not good-looking at all, but chubby, and with a chubby face. His dad was something like a Member of Parliament or town mayor. I told my mother about him. She would tell my father. I could not hav
e told him. There were things I could not tell him and that was one. He liked me being at university in England but there were certain things he could not listen to me talking about. Usually to do with class. The idea of some-body in my tutorial group with a famous father or if he was rich. My father could not listen. I stopped talking about stuff if he was there, I mean political stuff.

  Eric was like my father. I wanted to tell him stuff but he got annoyed and it was me he got annoyed with. I came out sounding bad but it was not me so much as a class thing, male working class. I did not need Celia to tell me.

  I was not stepping on anybody’s shoulders. It is a cliché about people escaping from their background, how they step on the shoulders of friends and family. Eric could have gone to university himself. He was bright. Definitely. Why had he not? Perhaps his family did not push him. But they would have. I knew his parents. They were better off than mine but also they would have appreciated the chance. So why had he not gone? It was a chance in life none of our parents ever had. No matter how I might feel on a personal level I made the best of it. It would have been self-indulgent not to, and selfish.

  Selfishness was all around. I saw it at university. Self-indulgence too.

  But you needed money for stuff and I never had it, not really, and the bar job I had was for essentials. It was killing my parents for fees so the least I could do was be careful. Too much of anything. Stuff did not interest me anyway. And other people’s company was the same. You had to push your way in. I could not be bothered. Probably they thought I was boring. Maybe I was. Celia said I was relaxing. Probably that meant boring. They all had money. I thought they did anyway. You needed money. Most seemed to have it. But maybe they did not. People pretended and were scared to be different. I already was because I was Scottish. Some liked me because of it, others did not. It would be wrong to say I did not care. I was just glad to know Celia. And her father was in business. I did not care. Her mother even, she was a doctor. Doctors are rich.