and he had begun the sound high in his mouth, back near the gullet and up at the roof, and it was a kind of soh; and he lowered it, the sound now nearer the gums, a deeper note which he continued till his breath was giving out but he broke it off calmly before arriving at the gasp and he breathed in deeply but regularly, eyelids shut, no frown etched into the forehead and no smile. No nothing. Just getting on with making this sound he was making as if it was definitely everything in itself just to accomplish.
It took a wee while to reach beyond the moment because reflection not being possible and it being something he had to take absolutely for granted, no smiles even; not to take any risks because there was not anything at this stage worse than not getting it properly, not getting the thing done in its proper fashion, the nature of it not being sustainable, not sustainable, and then he was standing, now across to the window, no rain but looking set for it later, summing up how this winter had been, everything about it, even solid snow would have been better than continual rain, sleet, slush, soaking into everything and keeping folks huddled into coats and anoraks, hats and umbrellas so that they even found difficulty in seeing each other let alone engaging them in conversation. Maybe that was a basic explanation for Patrick’s state of mind. It would be good practice just to slow things down, just to take it more easily, be less aggressive with ordinary everyday details, petty items that cannot be helped. He shivered. The room was quite cold for people if not for pipes. He smiled, returning ben the kitchen. A coffee. Heat the toes at the fire.
A coffee, yes. It was not a bad kitchen. It was quite not unhomely. People wouldnt call it unhomely. Would a woman call it unhomely? Maybe a woman would call it unhomely. The last time his maw was here she shivered. What was wrong with that, everybody shivers now and again. In the middle of a fucking heatwave! Nah it was actually November, on her way back from visiting the da in the death ward at the Western which he had fortunately given the go-bye and got well and so on and left his cares behind, including death, ha ha.
Escape from the head, that was the best policy. The weekend had begun a while ago. It was almost Saturday afternoon. Okay. A time of the week for enjoyment. Of course it was. A time people anticipate with great pleasure. Certainly not a time for thinking: what the fuck happens now! or roll on next Friday so’s I can go for a publunch with a bunch of fucking schoolteachers. He had reached to the mantelpiece. What for? For a notepad and a pen. He was catching himself in the act of writing a letter to Eric. Imagine writing a letter to Eric? on a Saturday morning, only minutes away from Saturday midday, that great time of magic throughout the football-speaking world, when you hit the boozer for a couple of jars just prior to heading off to Ibrox or Parkhead or Firhill or Love Street or old Shawfield if the Clyde ever return. Well well well, and here he is about to write a boring letter. How are you and here is how I am and the school and do you ever do this and that and the next thing because it reminds me of when a few years back and the rest of it when it seems as if life was occurring whereas now for christ sake the very idea of writing to Eric. He was long overdue a reply but so what. Fuck that, a fucking Saturday, and you’re writing letters; he’d be as well returning to school and marking a stack of ink exercises. Okay. So
but poor old Eric, two letters and no response, he probably thinks P for Patrick has taken the huff at something because he used to be no a bad correspondent and now here he is, never a peep. So what. Who wants to fucking peep. Pat has never peeped in his fucking life and he doesni fucking intend to start fucking now, if it’s alright with you I mean d’you know what I’m fucking talking about I mean you dont have to fucking bloody damn christ you know what I’m fucking talking about — right. So
So: what was he going to do he was going to write out a list of things to do, that he could do, this afternoon:
1) Football match; Clyde versus Raith Rovers. Always a good game between these two so that was a real possibility.
2) Phoning up Gavin to see if he was doing anything. He could be going to a game — maybe to see the Thistle, but if Clyde were at home the Thistle would be away. So that’s that. Gavin doesnt stray too far because it means leaving Nicola with the weans. In fact, these days, Saturday afternoon was becoming a time when they did things together, these two. He could phone up and offer to babysit, then they could make a real day of it.
3) He could do something else. He could go out and maybe go to the Art Gallery or else go up the town and see if he could buy himself a pair of shoes. O dear, why is life so exciting. He could go and sign himself in at a highclass hotel and kid on he was somebody else. People did that. They signed themselves into hotels under assumed names and had a laugh, pretending they were members of BOSS and the CIA and so on. So fucking belaboured with boredom but that was the problem. Pat grinned. He crumpled the notepaper. Life was daft at times. He uncrumpled the notepaper. In fact the football was not a bad idea. He ticked it off.
And Yoker Athletic was playing at home today. The sign had been up when he passed along Dumbarton Road yesterday evening. He could go and see them. He had a soft spot for the Yoker since working in Clydebank and an expupil had played for them, a good midfield player with a tremendous shot. He used to take their penalty kicks and their free kicks. It was a couple of years since he had left the team for pastures unknown. Patrick never saw his name in any team lists, so probably the boy had just not made the grade. But Yoker was a good wee team at present and they were playing the Perthshire; a tough match was in prospect. Okay. Or else he could fix the car! That was an outstanding chore. Chores. What the hell job did he tackle first? The rust or the fucking hinges of the door. He could maybe start by giving under the bonnet a good cleaning and oiling, then sand down some of the panel rust and consider using the Cataloy. He would have to buy the Cataloy. Okay then. Also there were some wee jobs needing done about the house. That terrible draught coming in the kitchen window so a putty round the frame wouldni go amiss. Dirty washing to the launderette of course but that was a Sunday job. He could go up the Barrows and have a look through the secondhand books and records, and also their antiques. He knew fuck all about antiques but this maths teacher by the name of Bill Todd went regularly and was supposed to be making a small fortune, finding stuff which he then resold to dealers apparently. It was a good hobby and with luck he hoped to finish with teaching forever. Good luck to him for christ sake you had to wish him well. But on a Saturday afternoon! Browsing among antiques! The guy deserved to succeed with that kind of tenacity.
Have a bath and listen to the sport on the radio. Take in a couple of books, maybe blast out some music.
No. And the one omission from that list of course suicide! Imagine failing to mention suicide. Plus he could maybe buy a wee something for his maw’s birthday. He should at least have sent her a card. The da would go in a huff about it — very subtly of course, it would take Pat the rest of the week to appreciate it had actually happened. Ah well, it was his own fault. If people wanted to go in the huff then they could go and fucking fuck themselves.