Gavin and Nicola didnt ask him to babysit these days. He would quite like it if they did.
At the next corner.
Pardon?
Just if you drop me at the next corner, Norman said, gesturing at the window.
Patrick stopped the car. After an exchange of goodbyes the bloke got out onto the kerb, banging the door shut. Alison didnt have a chance to move in to the front seat but appeared quite content to remain where she was, gazing out the side window, nibbling at the corners of her fingernails. She looked tired. Some of the classes she had to contend with were not the most easy. It was Old Milne’s policy to mete out the more difficult ones to the newer staff. She did look tired. She should probably have gone straight home. But the idea of being able to just sit down for a couple of hours would be very tempting. That was how it was for the rest of them as well; they were just glad to sit down — it was the reason these sessions seemed to drag on so interminably; it was a shame. Patrick waited a moment. Then he said, I think I’ll just snatch a very quick pint, before hitting the road.
She didnt say anything.
Naw, he said, eh …
Alison sighed. She shook her head and sighed again. Norman went away because he thought you were wanting rid of him. He was right.
Uch come on Alison.
She didnt reply. Patrick blushed. The drive continued in silence.
It was after 6.30 when they arrived at the arts centre and okay to park on the single yellow line. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement near to the entrance, as if they were waiting to greet a visiting celebrity.
Alison continued on into the lobby of the arts centre and Patrick went quickly after her once he had locked the car door. He followed her along and into the lounge bar where the group would be.
And there they all were in the usual corner. Patrick waved and called: See yous on Monday! He gave a smile to Alison and about-turned. Off he went back along the corridor and out through the small crowd, getting into the car immediately and banging shut the door. He felt too bad to be true. Not good. It was not good. He felt not good. But he couldni stay there where he was at the pavement so he shoved the stick into first gear and switched on the ignition, but the engine did not work, the starter not turning or whatever. He switched it off and then on again. But it still was not working, it still
what it was it was the choke; he had pulled out the choke, by habit, in error. He turned the ignition key and first time now easily.
A happiness based on selfishness. If he was genuinely happy it was based on selfishness and was therefore false. The falsity with both Alison and the guy Norman. Norman had been consistently friendly, consistently so. And Patrick had done nothing but punch him on the mouth. It didnt bear thinking about. There were people crossing the road. It didnt bear thinking about. And Alison of course, she was
it didnt actually bear thinking about.
And that temptation! O god. That fucking temptation, that fucking o god and jesus and everything else and everything else; slow down, slow down; just stop and grab up the handbrake nice and snugly and gaze at the pedestrians walking at the CROSS NOW. Nice ordinary beings whose existential awareness comprises an exact perception of all that there is and can conceivably be; that’s the nature of it, that’s the fucking way of it; and inside the close Goya’s unblinkingness, that steady hand and honest vision, a crazy sort of nostalgia. That’s the most sentimental drivel in a long time. Have ye seen his face? The face. Have ye seen it? Patrick squinted into the rearview mirror, seeing the devilish cunning to the set of the eyebrows. The lights gone green. So this was the way ahead. He grinned, letting his foot rise from the clutch pedal. But wait a minute. The temporary English teacher whose name is Norman has a wife and three weans plus there’s the mother-in-law living with them, and then too his wife has missed her period. This is what the guy was blabbing to Alison about, his wife and three weans and that period. So what does that mean, missed a period, is that a pregnancy? Does it mean they’re going to have another kid? Or do mistakes still occur beyond such a point? If not the situation is dire right enough, him being temporary and soon to be back on the broo. That’s the way it goes poor bastard, a Bob Cratchit if ever this was one.
Then that story of Dostoievski’s! Imagine it! Going up and chapping the bloke’s door to see if he’ll come out for a pint. And then getting invited in and finding there’s a wee crowd of relatives and well-wishers gathered inside, all involved in a sort of party to celebrate the forthcoming happy event as implicit in the missed period. And Patrick blundering around trying to apologise for his conduct. Heaping congratulations and thanks onto his wife, praising the other three children and the proud mother-in-law who was probably quite elderly and large, or maybe even thin and frail. Then the ceilidh dancing would begin and he would be invited to remain and enjoy the proceedings; and he would invite the mother-in-law onto the floor and she would wind up fucking collapsing with a stroke because of the way he’s throwing her about during a Dashing White Sergeant for example. Then battling with folk — uncles and brothers and cousins — who’ve taken offence at the bad jokes he’s been cracking; horrible ill-conceived and ill-considered remarks and comments which amount to no more nor less than a very bad insult to Norman’s wife, or his wife’s mother. That kind of blundering stupidity. Just the actual idea of it! Christ. But it really was what you call going to the brink. Right to the very edge. Bending slightly to see over and into it; the precipice; over into the crater — just bending slightly, perched at the very edge, to see over it, into the very depths, right down and into the very depths. Ho. Jesus christ almighty, it was enough to make
something or other.
A fish-and-chip shop at the end of his street and he went there for a bit of grub; he got a fish supper and two buttered rolls. The people behind the counter were an Italian family by the name of Rossi. Four generations of them took turns working the place although the elderly patriarch hadnt been around for several days now. He was maybe ill. The shop stayed open till past midnight most of the week and the old boy was there the same as anybody else. He should probably have retired at least a decade back but kept on because he liked the company; the district itself — he probably liked that as well, having had to move out to a posh place on the south side to please the family but where he never really settled. So he continued putting in the long hours, much to the dismay of the younger folk who secretly must have wanted to see the back of him because when all was said and done he probably was a bit of a tyrant, maybe butting in too often on affairs that were private, telling the young yins whom they were to marry and so on and were they the correct religion and of the right family tree etcetera and if they werent then hard luck and buona sera ya bastard. You couldni blame the auld yin entirely though because it was him built the business up from scratch; slaving over a hot fucking fryer for seventy years only to see all these young whippersnappers and rascals throwing it to the dogs, the fish suppers and so on, all the rest of it! Patrick was chuckling quite loudly while fiddling with the key in the lock of his front door.
And if the truth be told it was these wee yarns he told himself that kept him fucking sane. Without them where would he be? Up a fucking gumpole.
The house was freezing. He kept on his outside clothes till the two bars of the fire glowed orange. He shoved a kettle of water on to boil, flipped the fish and chips onto a plate, used his fingers to eat it all up with. There was hardly a lick of butter on the rolls. One thing about the Rossi family: their total lack of sentimentality; he had been a regular for fucking donkeys but still there was nothing for nothing. The actual fish was not exceptionally white either although fair enough it was at least boneless. But this grey colour meant it had been frozen far too long. It was not unfresh, just not wholly white and new tasting, i.e. in a place like Montrose or fucking Pittenweem they’d have thrown it back in your face.