He dialled the number of Alison. It was of course unlikely
And the receiver had been lifted. It was Alison, saying: Hullo?
Eh, is that Alison?
Who’s speaking?
Eh Pat. Pat Doyle. I was just eh wondering, the thing about last night eh the arts centre, about me going away and that; I was wanting to apologise.
Yeh.
…
Pat?
Aye eh just really, that I’m sorry.
Good.
Aye. And what I was thinking, I was wondering, is it alright to speak?
Of course, yes.
What I was wondering then eh about whether I could meet ye, about something. To talk to ye about something.
…
Just to talk to you about something.
To meet me ye mean?
Just to talk to you, about something in particular, and eh
When were ye thinking of? Things are quite hectic at the minute.
Fine eh it doesni actually matter.
When were you thinking of though?
Eh well
It’s only because I have things on.
Fine.
…
Eh.
So it would have to be tomorrow.
Would tomorrow be okay? I mean what it was I was just actually wanting to talk to you, about something.
What time?
Well just to suit you eh maybe what about twelve? Is that too early? A Sunday. If it’s no convenient I mean, is it too early?
I’ll get used to the idea.
Pat laughed then. It was just good and a relief. Everything. And her voice sounding really okay as well, and it was making him have to force his head to go sideways and his eyes closed for fuck sake but he opened them again and he was nodding, he held the receiver nearer to his mouth. So eh just about meeting, I was thinking maybe, the People’s Palace?
The People’s Palace?
I think it’s open on a Sunday. Maybe I mean if we met at the Barrows we could just walk along and see; if it was shut we could just have a coffee or something, in a cafe. What do you think yourself?
I think we should go for a coffee at the start, when we meet.
Of course, aye.
What about say The Commodore?
The Commodore?
We both know it.
Yeh, fine.
Is that alright?
Aye. Fine. What time again?
Twelve o’clock? That’s what you said.
Fine. Is it okay I mean?
I’ll get used to it.
Pat grinned.
And his receiver was down. He had managed to get in a cheerio, but only just, before the receiver was down. It was stupid, to put it down so abruptly like that except his heart, not being able to cope with it, daft; too much. What was going on for fuck sake he was not
He strode ben the parlour. And to the windows, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the pedestrians below of whose existence Descartes had once required to doubt; quite rightly, the walking coathangers and so on. Descartes used to settle down for the night with his little garret extremely snug, getting everything aright prior to the evening’s doubt — and what about the dancing shadows on the wall, cast by the glow from the fire, the guy who’s been lying on his back all his days and thinks a person is a shadow on the ceiling; these are a different type of questioning. Shadows on the wall are different. They are distinct, from actual people.
Alison was fine. Much more in control of the world.
Patrick inhaled a lungful of fresh air but did it too quickly and had failed to empty his lungs first so he did a wee exhalation and then a wee inhalation and began again. The idea of not even being able to breathe properly was just a fucking joke really and he smiled, and then chuckled, before exhaling as much breath as he could from his body; and he paused before inhaling, and he inhaled very slowly and calmly, taking in great wads of new air, sending this fresh oxygen flying through his brain. Then he turned away from the windows and strode back to the kitchen, and back out into the lobby, to the bathroom, because he was now having to empty the bladder at once, if not sooner had he been an elderly chap with prostate problems, not something to joke about touch wood touch wood.
And a football match a football match! Holm Park and see the good old fucking Yoker! Who were their opponents for christ sake! Did it matter! Not a whit, not a bloody damn whit! Okay. Fine, that’ll do, and let it go, let it go, easy, easy, easy oasy, a nice easy oasiness, scarcely moving at all, like a hibernation, one bit of oxygen lasting ye god knows how long, and just being able to move with as few movements, acting with as few exertions, just biding, biding
It was a good day, and that was a surprise; and it exemplified much of what was going on. It went side by side with things. There were two things always and just now one of them was this being a good day. Ideally Patrick could have had the two things out in the open so that he could compare them — even just to have seen them side by side, that he could have known he had seen them so that in the future there would be these two things that had happened and he had known and borne witness to them. Perthshire was the opposing team. They came from around the High Possil district and if Patrick minded correctly their own football park had one touchline about six feet higher than the other which was great if your team was hitting in corners but rubbish if it was the other mob. Anyway, Holm Park was not like that. The pitch was really muddy today. It was great. The full-backs came sliding in with mammoth upenders of tackles, leaving deep scoops out the ground and one occasion nearby the touchline a big guy came crunching in on this poor other guy and he goes crashing to the deck, a big shower of mud came flying through the air and the spectators had to fucking all duck in case they got spattered. It was fucking marvellous and made everybody laugh. There too was the sound of the guy peching when he finally got himself onto his feet and trotted back down the field. You could see the gash down his shin, the blood and the muddy streaks, that especial whiteness at the bit where the studs had erased the outer skin. He was a lanky big guy and he reminded Patrick of an inside-forward who used to play for Partick Thistle years ago, back when the family lived in Maryhill and the da used to take him and Gavin to some of the home games. It was a teacher he reminded Patrick of. Not any teacher in particular. It was just something about the way he looked when he got himself back onto his feet and trotted back into the fray. And the way he played the game, an attitude to it, as if the playing was just some strange sort of obligation he had, and that absent determination. Patrick felt the kinship. He had felt an awful pity for him at the same time and dreaded the moment the ball was passed to him. He couldnt watch the game because of it, not being able to look away from this man. And he couldni have been more than ten years of age at the time and yet recognising that something. It was something important.
But was it something good? Probably it was fucking something bad — a stupit fucking self-consciousness. He was probably just a big self-conscious fellow who felt he was just too skinny and lanky to be playing professional football, he was all knees and fucking elbows. And Patrick felt like greeting. My god. Imagine a ten-year-old boy wanting to greet about something like that! How in the name of fuck had he managed to survive the next fucking twenty years. Christ. He was a poor big guy but. And he was out there doing his best. The sort of player who hears every last shout from the crowd: