A Disaffection (Vintage Classics) Read online

  What was the DHSS? Apart from a shadowy form of nightmare. There was a guy lived down the stair from Pat and it was terrible meeting him in the close or out in the street because of these fucking horrendous yarns. And these yarns were absolutely fucking genuine. But his big brother was the worst. Because of what he didn’t say. Gavin didni say things. He went about not saying things. That was how he survived, he went about and didni say things, especially to his young brother; that was to whom he did not speak most of all, and most particularly about the things that mattered, the things of essential consequence in the world – these were the things Gavin never spoke about with his young brother. So how in the name of god were folk to find things out, if those who knew kept it all fucking to themselves! Hopeless. But never mind, here was Patrick about to be finding out at first hand. Was he though. How come? Nobody was actually forcing him to resign. Even now it was as though the friendliness was there as a purpose, to make him feel like staying in the job. Maybe Alison had buttonholed them all. Maybe she had told Desmond to lay off. That was the sort of thing she would take on herself. That was how she was in the world, with people, that was the way she was. Why was she married to a bastard that didni appreciate her, that made her stay out at all these boring after-hour drinking sessions. Christmas Pantomimes. Who really gave a fuck about such shenanigans. Especially ten weeks after the event. Christ almighty it was shameful. Imagine finding yourself in such a position. It was beyond talking about. Just actually being in such a pub, in such a group of people, at such a time of day, week or fucking year. This was it. This was fucking it. Patrick smiled. He smiled and he shook his head. It was really just so fucking bad. There was nothing that ever could be worse. How could anything ever be worse. There wasnt anything. Alison was looking at him. He smiled. No, he said, thanks Alison, but to be honest with ye I’m just sick of the whole carry on, teaching and the rest of it. I mean for fuck sake I might end up like him! Patrick grinned, gesturing across at Desmond who was sitting on the other side of the table.

  Desmond waited. He sighed, then answered, I always admire your use of sarcasm; it’s so eh blatant.

  Some of the others chuckled. Joe Cairns looked a bit apprehensive. He was quite pally with both Desmond and Pat and didnt like taking sides.

  Alison moved. She was leaning to nudge ash off the tip of her cigarette into the ashtray. The action stopped Patrick from saying whatever he was about to say. He had been about to say something and now no longer. He had no idea what it had been. Could it have been something good. No, it would have been something bad, something silly, something to have made him appear an idiot. Alison was safeguarding him. It was good the way she could do that, make him stop dead, to not do it, whatever it was, to not do whatever it was, that he was doing, to make him not do whatever it was he was doing, in the middle of doing, or just about to: this was it, her ability to safeguard the susceptibilities of folk, different folk; all sorts of folk from all sorts of walks of life, all having the one thing in common, the one thing in common, all these other people, they had in common that they were not Mister Patrick Doyle – Master Patrick Doyle, a wee boy, not yet a man, not yet a husband and/or father, a bachelor, a single chap. What a life. What a fucking life. When even bastards like the cynical Desmond

  the cynical Desmond. What the hell right did he have to call the bloke cynical! And was he not just the cliché of it all. The Staffroom Cynic. He probably wasnt cynical at all; he was probably just embittered, like everybody else, having had to settle for secondbest. Ah well. There was no point talking any longer. The time for that had passed. If it had ever existed. The temporary English teacher was looking at him. He had asked Patrick if he wanted a pint.

  Naw, thanks.

  Ye sure?

  Patrick frowned. The temporary English teacher was smiling in a very amicable manner. Patrick smiled back at him, he was actually quite a nice guy. Patrick quite liked him. No, he said, thanks all the same.

  Well what about a wee whisky?

  A wee whisky.

  Eh?

  Eh aye, okay – ta … He grinned at Alison and added: It’s Friday Mirs Houston, surely I’m entitled to one wee whisky? Then he turned immediately from her, not wanting to witness her response, he was not wanting to witness her response. Because what would happen if he broke down! What would happen if he laid his head in her lap! If he laid his head onto her lap. Into her lap. Snugly. The warmth on his cheeks; and his tears wetting her thighs through the dress, her patting his head, a poor wee boy, much given to asexual caresses of a maternal fix.

  As soon as he stepped outside he was hungry; he hadnt bothered to eat while the others were doing so and now here he was paying the penalty. He returned to the bar at once. He bought a bridie, a hot bridie. But the pastry was too crisp. It covered the front of his shirt in burnt flakings. It was desperate. But what else could he do except eat, he was fucking starving, so he gulped the rest of it down almost before reaching the exit.

  Along the road the group walked slowly, Alison tagging along at the rear, gazing into a shop-window. Pat gazed in alongside her. And she said, Are you okay?

  Yes.

  She nodded.

  I’m totally fine.

  You could go home sick you know.

  Aye.

  Old Milne wouldnt mind.

  I know he wouldni; but I’m fine … he smiled although he didnt feel like it. And he had to walk on ahead of her. He passed Diana and Mrs Bryson. Desmond and Joe Cairns were walking with the temporary English teacher and he stayed with the trio as they approached the schoolgates. They were talking about going for a pint on the way home from school. Patrick would go as well, just as long as it wasnt to the arts centre for the entire night. Their all being teachers during the daytime and wiring into the pints at the arts centre during the evening. No point in discussing such glaring symbolism. Just too fucking depressing to be true.

  Patrick burped quietly. He felt the beer into his belly, tasted the nauseousness. He allowed the other three to continue on and he turned to see Alison and Mrs Bryson, but instead came face to face with one of the janitors, Mister Peters, a right crabbit bastard who aye seemed to seek out Patrick to make his complaints. And he muttered, Your boss …

  Patrick nodded. What’s he done now?

  What’s he done now! It’s what he’s no done. That upgrading we were supposed to be in for, well we areni, cause he’s no even bloody bothered his backside.

  What? That’s out of order.

  You’re telling me it’s out of order. The janitor lowered his voice; a wee group of latecoming weans hared into the building. I’ll tell ye something else, he said, that boss of yours, he’s in for a rude awakening – and I’m no joking.

  He’s your boss as well as mine.

  Aw is he!

  Aye. Patrick smiled a very false smile.

  I see, said the janitor. His mouth set, his gaze shifted away from Patrick and became a scowl; immediately he walked off in the direction of the lower ground.

  Someone had appeared behind Pat. It was MI6, the second headmaster.

  Hello, said Pat.

  Hello Mister Doyle. Friday eh! The weekend looms the weekend looms.

  Patrick nodded, glanced at his wristwatch. The lobby was deserted now. Patrick was late. He nodded again and strode towards the staircase. He had just been given a reminder on timekeeping. The janitor had been given his on timewasting. This was one of the central functions of the post of second headmaster, to remind staff of any shortcomings they may have. Patrick went up the steps quickly, and along the corridor but broke stride before reaching his own classroom, to enter Alison’s. She stared at him. So did about thirty third-year pupils. Excuse me Mirs Houston … he waved to her and she followed him outside. Sorry, he said, just confirming you’re going for a pint later on.

  Yes.

  Great. Where is it we’re going again? Patrick almost touched her on the elbow as he spoke; her perfume too.

  The arts centre I think.

&
nbsp; Aw.

  We can stop off somewhere else first … Alison whispered.

  Aye, fancy? Miller’s?

  She nodded. Then she had clicked the door of her classroom open and was now shutting it behind herself. And had she been irritated by him? Who knows. And he walked rapidly along to his own room. It was as if maybe there had been a slight sarcasm in her voice but so what so what. He opened the classroom door and the hubbub ceased. Peace reigns, he said, great stuff. He shut the door and without glancing at the pupils he strolled to his desk, sighing and saying, Ho hum … He clasped his hands and looked at them all: a first-year class.

  Now weans, he said, today is Friday and tomorrow is Saturday. I am demanding a bit of order, a bit of order, otherwise I’m closing the pub early. Okay! Right: open your fucking jotters and get scribbling.

  He moved behind his desk, letting his gaze drop slowly to where a book lay with its pages open. The desk-top slanted and none of the kids could see the book without walking to the front of the room. Not that it would have mattered anyway. Plus as well they would have seen it when they came in. It was a good book though. It was by a German thinker who was enmeshed in the pre-Socratics, more especially the Pythagoreans, who were an odd bunch of folk although there again, not so odd as this present-day society which was extremely odd indeed, extremely odd, altogether. He chuckled briefly, shut the book and proceeded to address the class:

  Weans! I have to advise yous all that I shall be having a couple of weeks on the panel. I am unwell. I wish to perform upon musical pipes.

  The pupils were grinning. They were used to him and not at all nonplussed by such information. He was the kind of teacher who likes to spend an entire period on essential side issues. Pat nodded at them and he grinned. I wish to discuss an important topic. I wish to discuss leges de indigentibus factae. Now who can give us an immediate translation? Catriona! Come on, you’re always good and I’ve got no time to waste!

  Is it to do with the poor-laws?

  Ah Catriona, a girl destined for great things. A wee bit like the famous Mirs Houston, her self-assuredness. Aye, that’s exactly what it is fucking to do with, the poor-laws. Now then, I want you all to repeat after me: The present government, in suppressing the poor, is suppressing our parents.

  The smiling faces.

  The present government, in suppressing the poor, is suppressing our parents.

  Fine, smashing, good. Right then, one more: Animi egestas! Immediate translation! Ian!

  Is it to do with poverty of the mind sir?

  Yes sir, precisely. Now class, the lot of ye, repeat after me: Our parents, who are the poor, are suffering from an acute poverty of the mind.

  The smiling faces. When Goya embarked on his black period what must he have been thinking on? There he was, fifty years aulder than Pat Doyle and stuck fast in quicksand.

  The smiling faces. Pat smiled back at them. Children, there is little to say and I’m not the man who can say that little. I’m a man who is fucking sorely bemused, sorely bemused. And I’m standing here in front of you, right out in the bloody damn open.

  Yes, the faces all smiling. The wee first-yearers are good. Maybe they are Patrick’s favourite group. Just at the age they are approaching teenagehood. He seems to have an okay relationship with them. I’m chucking this job in because I want to play the pipes. But these pipes have got fuck all to do with Scotland. Does anybody know the term ‘fugisticism’? And dont answer too fast because I dont think the term has existed before this last five minutes. So there you are, that’s the way things are, how ye can just fucking walk in here and invent your own terms. I’ve got my own terms and so have you. You’ve just got to make sure they’re no your

  The door was opening. Mirs Houston, it was Alison … Patrick smiled a moment then frowned. She remained by the door. He walked across. She turned side on to the class, so they wouldni be able to read her lips. She had very expressive lips, her whole mouth in fact. She tapped him on the arm! and she said very quietly indeed, Are you going to the staffroom at the interval?

  Naw.

  She paused.

  I prefer no to.

  But you’re definitely going for a pint later on?

  Eh aye.

  I’ll see you at the gates then.

  Aye.

  Then she was out and away, the door clicking itself shut. He stared at it, the door, then about-faced to stare at the weans a moment, then he strolled to the desk, gazing to his other side as though examining the large blackboard which occupied most of that wall. He stood by his desk and called: Saepire circumdare?

  Silence.

  He nodded. He glanced at Catriona.

  Is it to do with fencing in?

  It is precisely to do with that. Now, all of yous, all you wee first-yearers, cause that’s what you are, wee first-yearers. You are here being fenced in by us the teachers at the behest of the government in explicit simulation of your parents viz. the suppressed poor. Repeat after me: We are being fenced in by the teachers

  We are being fenced in by the teachers

  at the behest of a dictatorship government

  at the behest of a dictatorship government

  in explicit simulation of our fucking parents the silly bastards

  in explicit simulation of our fucking parents the silly bastards

  Laughter.

  Good, good, but cut out that laughing. You’re here to be treated as young would-be adults under terms that are constant to us all; constant to us all. Okay then that last bit: viz. the suppressed poor!

  viz. the suppressed poor!

  Cheering.

  But that was okay. Patrick nodded. What time is it somebody? And he checked the time given with that of his watch, and he gazed at the book on his desk. He reached to close its pages. There wasnt long to go now. And the weans were watching the weans were watching.

  I’m reading about the Pythagoreans, he said, I’ve had the book open on my desk. They were great believers in harmony. Does anybody know what harmony is? And dont answer because it’s fucking impossible. By the time you’ve reached third year you’ll just burst out laughing when somebody asks that kind of thing. Okay. What time is it now? Patrick looked at his watch. He wanted to get out and away. He needed to think things out. He opened the pages of the book and closed them at once. He smiled at the class: they were that fucking wee! I’m so much bigger than you, he said, these are my terms. My terms are the ones that enclose yous. Yous are all enclosed. But yous all know that already! I can tell it just by looking at your faces, your faces, telling these things to me. It’s quite straightforward when you come to think about it. Here you have me. Here you have you. Two sentences. One sentence is needed for you and one sentence is needed for me and you can wrap them all up together if you want to so that what you have in this one sentence is both you and me, us being in it the gether.