A Disaffection (Vintage Classics) Read online

  And yet it probably connected to notes and to intervals, those spaces between them. If he got the right tone or pitch then that would be it and the distinctions between them, and the gaps in time, all such elements would be part of what was important. There was nothing mystical about it, although, fair enough, it did occur to him that reading more deeply into the Pythagoreans and how they used sound and number or rather, what they thought about sound and number, their uses, and their universal reference; and yet.

  and yet, this conceptualising. Creating a distance already. Only a couple of days since the first sounds and now here he was attempting to get away from it, from the actual physicality of them. That was hopeless. That was the kind of thing he always seemed to be doing nowadays. The totality of it: the totality of it; the way the sounds had been the other night, or was it last night, the way the actual sounds had been, that was it – that was that! How come he had even felt the necessity of painting them in these bright enamels? What was wrong with their own colour? Their selfcolour? What was wrong with that, their self colour, the colour of their selves? Had that also been done to create a distance? And even the time it took for the paint to fucking dry! Was that also an excuse, a way out, an escape route, so he wouldni be obliged to actually blow them? But no, it wasnt that either, there was no self-deceit going on there, he knew himself well enough for that. If there was cheating going on he would know about it. Probably it was just a straightforward thing, that he wanted it to be right. He wanted the pipes to be ‘as finished’ as possible. He wanted them to appear as instruments, to actually look like musical instruments to the ordinary wo/man-in-the-street. He wasnt in any rush either. It was not as if he had to get it all over and done with in a certified period of time. Everything was to be proper, that was all; regulated, thought to the fore.

  There was that temptation

  It could even relate to field-theory, the whole thing, the sound and the number, insofar as such a theory ever managed to appear in relation to the lives of ordinary individuals, the manner in which each person, each organism, related to things as a totality, that old business of harmony, linked in the universal chain. And how in the name of fuck did the two guys with cudgels relate to that! Stuck fast in the mud, the miring quicksand – like the wee dog. Belabouring each other with those stout sticks. That magnetic force – an enactment? between the men just? or did Goya himself have a physical part in it? And what the hell did it matter anyway. This was him off with the concepts once again. Theoretical webs, dirty webs, fusty webs; old and shrivelling away into nothingness, a fine dust. Who needs that kind of stuff. Far far better getting out into the open air and doing it, actually doing it, something solid and concrete and unconceptualisable.

  And now there existed a great temptation: to stop being a teacher. To stop being a teacher. To concentrate solely upon things of genuine value, things of a genuine authenticity, of a genuine physicality. Teaching by performance instead of pointing the finger.

  But could all that be achieved on the pipes? What was it about them?

  The actual idea of finding a pair of discarded pipes and turning them into musical instruments!

  And yet the idea only appeared daft because they were ordinary pipes like the sort used by plumbers and electricians. If they had been called something else perhaps. And maybe this is why he had bought the enamels and painted them. If for instance he was performing on them in public and the audience saw them as ordinary pipes the reaction would be predictable, if not a silly kind of laughter then a degree of skepticism that would be better avoided if possible. Laughter would be okay if it came towards the end, but not at the beginning, before he could even be said to have started. The problem was fairly old hat, functionalism and nominalism, the naming process and imperialism, transforming commercially produced products into aesthetic weapons. The whole affair had been kicking about for years, probably several centuries! Even Goethe but, had he not been involved in something akin? To hell with it anyway. It was not something he found especially worrying. What he sought was the doing, the act.

  And absolutely no attempts to conceal the artefact. Any person could recognise the pipes for what they were and good luck to them. That they had been painted would simply be seen as a sort of public affirmation, that the pipes could now be regarded in such and such a way, and without irony. Unless that irony was seen to be wholly enmeshed in the essence of the actual performance. The best way of looking at it might be in terms of jazz, particularly those great old bluesmen who used to manufacture washboard waistcoats. In fact that was precisely it; that was the analogy. Everything about it. And then that incredible moment of nostalgia or whatever, that amazing beauty, a crazy kind of incredible beauty which appeared to sum up all those failed ideals, the plans and the principles right from boyhood all the way up and now dead, deadened, rubbed out by the low-lying roof, that weight pressing down on you, like that medieval torture where they lay enormous stones on top of you, crushing out your breath, that kind of weight, society, that you hated and detested more than anything else in the world, that was forcing you on and on and on and on and fucking bloody on and on and on, and all the time grafting away on its own behalf, on account of its own propagation.

  It was all so bloody sentimental, that was the problem.

  But so what. So what if it was fucking sentimental. Was there not a place for sentimentality. Were you not allowed to start bloody greeting nowadays, was that it! Was that the way things were. Because if so Patrick would not be all that bloody bothered about hanging around, quite frankly. He would as soon be off; away. He would simply get away, be away, away from it all, all the fucking terribleness. He heard them in the staffroom. He was sitting there in his usual wooden chair and on and on they were talking about things that were totally unconnected with anything that could make sense of the world. They were saying things that were just such absolute shite, keech and tollie, such unbelievable rubbish. He had a magazine on his lap; he gripped its pages. He stared at the magazine. It concerned computers. Computers were not sentimental. Aye they were. They were just as sentimental as anything else. It was all a question of hanging on. There were certain concepts. Recursiveness for example. Hang onto that ya fucking idiot. The poor old temporary English teacher; this poor old temporary English teacher who had lately come aboard, was making some kind of remark to the effect of its being a pity that Wilson’s TALES OF THE BORDERS remained out of print. And Desmond had nearly fallen off his fucking chair. What do you mean? he cried, half smiling and half glowering i.e. a sneer, he was actually sneering at this poor guy who had lately been press-ganged into this so-called establishment of learning. What do you mean? he said.

  But the temporary English teacher was standing his ground. He just replied as though he was taking Desmond’s question as of serious intent. Well, he said and he glanced round at the rest of the company, I just mean I think it’s a bit of a pity it’s out of print and looks like staying that way. Quite a lot of good stuff in it.

  Ho! Desmond swivelled about on his arse, giving a mock gape in the direction of Joe Cairns who just shrugged. And then he said: As far as I’m concerned it’s a load of dross, a load of downright dross.

  The temporary English teacher raised his eyebrows but did not speak. He started rolling a cigarette. Desmond and the others watched him for a moment. He wasnt the first to have rolled a cigarette in the staffroom but it was uncommon all the same. Possibly the guy was just using the action as a method of not speaking and eventually, when it seemed as though the conversation would veer off in some other direction altogether, Desmond cleared his throat and said directly to Alison: Have you read Wilson’s TALES OF THE BORDERS?

  One or two.

  Mrs Bryson smiled: They’re not great!

  Desmond chuckled. No need to be polite about it. Overwritten unwieldy clutter. And worst of all: an unspeakable sentimentality!

  A very short silence, was breached by Patrick calling, Pardon?

  Desmond paused. He turned s
lightly and looked at Patrick. After a moment he continued, I was just saying to Norman that I thought Wilson’s TALES OF THE BORDERS was a load of dross.

  Mm.

  Mrs Bryson smiled at Patrick. Do you know them Patrick? she said.

  Aye eh, yes, I do … He glanced away from her. She liked Patrick and it embarrassed him. How come she liked him the way she did? Probably if she had been twenty years younger she wouldni have granted him the time of day. That was it about so many women, this kind of contradictory behaviour all the time so you didnt know if you were fucking coming or going, it was hopeless.

  Mrs Bryson was smiling yet again. What was she smiling at now. Maybe just trying to keep the peace. And to the side of her Alison was saying something to Joe Cairns – science teacher and exprofessional footballer, man of the Twenty-First century, who didnt often come to the staffroom but here he was today. Patrick jerked his thumb in the direction of Desmond and he said, The trouble with this yin is he thinks there’s no room for sentimentality.

  That’s correct, replied Desmond.

  It’s your problem.

  It’s not my problem it’s yours.

  Patrick shook his head and he gazed down at the magazine and muttered, I canni be bothered talking about this.

  Neither can I, particularly … Desmond sniffed and added, I just think there are great dangers in it.

  What in TALES OF THE BORDERS?

  Yeh, if ye like.

  Mrs Bryson leaned forwards on her chair and she inhaled deeply on the cigarette she was smoking; she tapped ash into the ashtray on the coffee table beside her. I wouldnt have thought there were dangers in it, she said, glancing at Alison.

  Okay then fine, replied Desmond. Admittedly there are a few snippets worth browsing over but I certainly wouldnt advocate it for the classroom.

  But how no? asked the temporary English teacher.

  Dross! Desmond shook his head and gave a brief sarcastic laugh. Dross!

  Dross! Exactly!! Bloody dross! called Patrick. That’s why it’s so bloody ideal for the classroom. Because everything that goes on in the bloody place is a load of bloody dross in the first place! That’s how I’m bloody leaving!

  WHAT!!!!

  Everybody seemed astonished by this. They were all gawking at him. Even those teachers who rarely allowed themselves to get involved in staffroom conversations, they too were gawking at him.

  I’m just bloody fed up with it, said Patrick. He shook his head and he lifted the magazine and footered with it. He then raised his head and addressed them collectively: Okay, as far as I’m concerned there’s something very very fishy about being a teacher. I mean we’re all secondbest for a kick-off, that’s what I canni go. Plus none of us wanted to be a teacher in the first bloody place but here we all are, bloody teaching, it’s bloody terrible so it is. I’m really bloody browned off with it all, I’m no kidding ye.

  Desmond smiled, nodding his head. That is the most sentimental drivel you’ve spoken for months, he said.

  O come on Des … murmured Alison.

  Patrick stared at her. Above her head was a window. There was the wind and there was the rain. Above her head and beyond. It was all there. The temporary English teacher was speaking. He was saying, Becoming an English teacher was always first best to me.

  Was it?

  Yeh.

  Patrick smiled.

  Me too, said Mrs Bryson, and she glanced at Joe Cairns once again.

  Patrick nodded. He gazed at the magazine on his lap. There was the face of a computer gazing back at him. Pat smiled. Desmond had begun talking as if in an aside, a genuine sort of an aside, and yet it was not genuine at all. He really was a fairly bad bastard and in reality he was addressing every individual within hearing range, and he was saying: He’s the bloke who can show Gödel’s Theorem to the average first-year class in a sentence remember!

  That’s correct, said Patrick, I’ve just got to find the right sentence!

  Some of the teachers laughed.

  And Desmond replied, Okay but you actually believe it.

  Course I actually fucking believe it! If I didni actually fucking believe it I wouldni actually be fucking teaching! He laughed for a moment and shook his head, and smiled slightly at Mrs Bryson who was giving him an admonitory look. So too was Alison. She had the right but Mrs Bryson didni. What did she do it for? How come she could take it upon herself to admonish a mature male adult of the species in this fashion? He had a mother of his own and several aunties including two great-aunts, living somewhere in the middle of Dumfries. He also had a sister-in-law and a mother and a wee niece by the name of Elizabeth whom he loved dearly. What he didnt have was a lover. That was what he needed. That was what he needed. He didni need any of this, this sort of shite, fucking Desmond and Mrs Fucking Bryson and that idiot of a temporary fucking English teacher.

  Pat … Alison was whispering to him. In fact she was not whispering at all she was just speaking normally. He had been gripping onto the edges of the seat with both hands and maybe set to leap across and start punching in at Desmond. It was possible. He was a fucking bastard and Patrick hated him. He was the kind of bloke who devalued everything, who devalued every last thing in the world and he was the last kind of person who should ever have been let loose in a classroom. Or outside in the real world. It was an utter obscenity, an utter obscenity. What was it about them, about that kind of person, that got them there, that made them so successful. Just exactly that, their cynicism; the way they could sneer and scoff at every last thing that might be of value. Even Alison seemed impressed by it. Her husband was probably the same type. A millionaire seller of double-glazed windows. They could fucking stuff the schools full of them as far as Patrick was concerned. He was finished with it, finished with it; he was just finished with it.

  Dinnertime crept up on him. The bell went and he was sitting on his stool having a laugh with something one of the boys was saying. This was very unusual these days. He had definitely been enjoying the class, a bunch of stupit fourth-yearers, they were all stupit; fourth-yearers. What was it about fourth-yearers. A couple of them were smiling at him as they headed for the door, instead of the usual, avoiding the eyes. It was like how things used to be. They really did, they did use to be like that, things – back when the spark still existed. Before it had been extinguished. But it hadnt been extinguished; it still existed, it was just fucking dormant.

  The door shut and a rustle of the paper on his desk. What a peace. He could just sit here until the afternoon began. Awaiting the afternoon! Pat grinned. What was that quotation. There was a good quotation about it.

  Most things have got good quotations. Patrick was smiling; he was shaking his head, and getting down from the stool. He dawdled on the walk along the corridor and down to the playground. He was not wanting to meet the colleagues. He paused at the doors and he crossed slowly to the schoolgates, but the place was deserted, but for the two polis standing sentry duty. They nodded to him and he nodded back to them.

  He peered along the street but Alison and the others had walked on ahead. They were going to the local boozer. So was Patrick. Friday dinnertimes were now as institutionalised as everything else. But this was fine; just a few teachers making a point of going out together for a couple of jars and a nice lunch. Pat had no objections. For some reason it was always good and relaxing, the atmosphere more congenial, more companionable, than at any other time during the week. He enjoyed these fifty or so minutes a lot, but perhaps he was beginning to look forwards to them far too much: a symptom of his lifestyle, viz. the lonely man.

  And today was no different though maybe he was just too sad a bit and he kept having to avoid cuddling Alison. It was almost asexual. Or maybe it was sexual. Maybe it was just that his brand of sexuality had become somewhat different from the norm. Maybe he was now thinking in terms of cuddles rather than penetration. For fuck sake. It was probably a direct effect of the total lack of practice. He would just have to do it more often. Maybe even if it
meant something like paying. Maybe he could just pay and get things cleared up. The preliminaries. He could get all them out the road and over and done with and then that would be that and he could just carry on until the ordinary daily routine of communion with the female sex picked up, until he was able to conduct a normal physical relationship with a young woman, rather than the big sister/mother/auntie routine which seemed the case at present if cuddles were to be the end of it all. Alison’s physicality was very delectable indeed and she had certain ways of standing and taking part in general conversations, as if she was watching every solitary, individual action performed by any one person. And if so she would have to be completely aware of Patrick for the fundamental reason that he was so completely aware of her. Plus she was a vegetarian – a central factor in how come they always wound up here every Friday, the vast selection of fresh salads and stuff. Becoming a vegetarian was something he had considered doing himself except it appeared extremely difficult to think of what you were supposed to eat. Tomatoes and toast and boiled eggs, vegetable stews and cheese omelettes of course. Perhaps he was just being lazy. He never used to be lazy. Here again was one further symptom, a further manifestation of something.

  Desmond was being friendly to him. It was evident. Not so much talking to him directly as not especially not talking to him. Or was that true? Maybe he wasni really being friendly at all, he was just wanting it to appear as though he was. If anything he seemed to be his usual sneering self. But perhaps that in itself was a sign of friendliness. It was obvious he was not a happy man. Plus too his marriage not being of the best; and that general habit he had of sighing whenever the chat drifted backwards to university days and the good times had by all. It was distinctly possible that he envied Patrick. His own life was awful and his future seemed more awful. He had passed forty years of age whereas Pat had yet to hit the thirty mark. He used to loan Patrick an occasional record, but not for a long long while. Not that Patrick wanted to borrow anything from the likes of Desmond. Poor bastard that he was, stuck in a job he hated, forced into the role of classroom cynic. Patrick almost felt like buying him a drink but he was not going to buy him a drink because he was a fucking bad bastard and there was no sense in falling into any of these sentimental type traps to do with pity. People dont thank you for pity. Look at Pat, if you were to pity him he would punch you on the fucking gub. The job was secondrate and that was that. Who wanted to be a teacher. Nobody. And no fucking wonder. You could hardly blame Desmond when it comes down to it. A lot of teachers were like him, or tried to cultivate the appearance of being so. Not the women right enough. They didnt seem to regard the job as settling for secondbest in life. They regarded it as something different. They thought of it as a plum. No they didnt, that was the temporary English teacher he was thinking of. Wait till he was made permanent! Then he would fucking know all about it. Him and his fucking TALES OF THE BORDERS. What a fucking idiot. At present he probably thought of teaching as a fairly comfortable method of earning a better-than-average salary. And it wasnt a better-than-average salary. Well it was, but only in relation to the average hourly-paid wage of working-class people and teachers were not interested in the average hourly-paid wage of working-class people, they were interested in the average weekly wage of a full-blooded member of the professional classes, and if you compared it with theirs then the teachers’ was fairly damn bloody abysmal. The women didnt seem to worry too much about that either. Some did of course. Some felt exactly the same as the men. And yet some of them were not all that perturbed. Patrick was one. He didnt really worry about the wage. He used to, but not nowadays. There were more important things. Maybe the women were right. Which women? Not Mirs Houston; she thought teachers were pretty hard done by. Maybe her and Desmond were having an affair. That would be the kind of thing that happened. Obviously she hated him and that was often a spur for women like her and for men like him. He would try to bend her to his will while she, totally detesting him, would appear to succumb by having sex with him, even though she wasni really succumbing at all but was remaining firmly in control viz. she would be in control, he would be in her power. And in one sense at least she would have won a battle over cynicism. Patrick could understand such reasoning. For some women cynicism is supposed to be anathema. And Alison was also the sort of woman who would regard moral battles as worthwhile, very worthwhile. This was part of her attraction for Pat. Or was it? She had the knack of making him feel confident. And yet she could also make him feel less than confident; she could undermine him quite easily. But that is because he was a transparent fellow. There wasnt much going on below the surface. Most of it was going on right at the surface. That was aye the problem with his way of living, his way of seeing existence, that he couldni allow things to remain unsaid, he had to bash on and go and fucking yelp; that was why he was now in the present fix, that was why he was now on the road to the Department of Health and Social Security, that was why