That fucking bastard Milne, when you thought about it. Here was an arse, a total arse, a total shite, an absolute fucking piece of tollie. Here was a fellow who disbelieved in the great teachers. Here was a congregationalist who was not to be trusted, who would sell out his staff and his pupils and his fucking grannie, who
And yet these fuckers were being set in front of you. They were placed there on the mantelpiece to be looked upon and admired ye mighty. There they were, stopping you from doing it; using everything in their power. Hardly worth talking about except that it was, because for christ sake ye know there was something approaching evil lurking somewhere within.
Even poor old Desmond was better than that. He might be a bit sarcastic but none could describe him as evil. But the headmaster. And the second headmaster. These two males — one hesitates to call them men, if we accept the term as one of merited achievement but is it fuck, it’s just a fucking fact. Two men. Things with bollocks and a prick. A pair of rascally fuckers, paid by a sick society, accountable to themselves on behalf of a corrupt government. Well then, what is to be done. Move the motor for a kick-off. Find the gear and fucking etcetera, get it going. Some wee boys and girls are watching. If you give them a wave they’ll throw stones. Quite right. Just fucking turn the ignition key properly. Fine. With the in-car entertainment this form of shenanigan would not entail. One would simply drive along carelessly, the hand tapping the wheel in accompaniment to the tune being heard on the airwaves.
Uch indeed, life life life.
Fuck off.
He was returning home he was returning home, but decided against it and drove to his parents, rejecting the notion of a pint along the way although Partick and Finnieston were chokablok with good pubs, or at least not bad yins. He stopped at a newsagent to buy a big box of mixed plain and milk chocolates, for the maw’s birthday. He liked her. He did. There was something good about her. His da as well. He could be grumpy and he could be huffy but at the base of it all he was okay and Patrick liked him. He liked them both. They were a pair. They were happy together. They had their ups and downs of course but who didni for christ sake we’ve all got to go.
Ssshh.
Patrick’s relationship with his parents can be described in this way: no irony as the basis of it. And if you cannot be ironic with your parents life is no dawdle.
What did Hölderlin say about parents?
Fuck all. He never said nothing about parents, he fucking knew better with that maw he had. What did he say about brothers? did he say anything about brothers? Sisters-in-law, what did he say about them? Because sisters-in-law are a different breed altogether. Patrick would have married his if his brother hadni got there before him. She was special. She had to be with him for a husband. He definitely had faults. A huffy bastard so he was. Mind you she was no paragon and once told Pat she had slept with other men before getting married to Gavin. But of course so had Gavin slept with other people for christ sake they never got married until their fucking mid-twenties, what do you expect!
So; that was the two of them.
The maw answered the door. She gave him a beamer of a smile and he stepped in the doorway and kissed her on the cheek. Hiya maw!
Pat … she smiled and shook her head.
Bloody chocolates for your birthday! He gave her the packet. Then from the kitchen his da shouted: Who is it Kate?
Pat!
Pat? Aw! And then the da’s baldy head poking round the door, a frown of a grin at him from the opposite end of the lobby: Where’ve ye been hiding yourself young man!
Ah!
Seriously but?
Patrick shrugged. His maw shut the outside door. So that was that and this was him. His da came forwards and placed his hand on Pat’s right forearm, holding him there, and he said to Mrs Doyle: I dont have to tell you what he’s in time for! His bloody tea!
Mrs Doyle smiled. Leave the boy alone.
I’m actually no that hungry, said Pat.
Aw well that’ll be the first time! Mr Doyle relaxed his grip on Pat’s forearm, stepped aside, gesturing Pat on ahead.
There is extra fish, said his maw.
Are ye sure?
Mr Doyle laughed briefly: Dont give us it! Are ye sure! You’d eat my head if I laid it on the table!
John! That’s bloody disgusting! Mrs Doyle frowned at him.
Ach I’m just kidding Kate for god sake … He smiled, tapped Pat on the back: On ye go, we’re in the living room.
But Patrick hesitated and he said to his maw, Alright if I ran a bath?
Of course.
Great.
Did you no bring your dirty washing as well! said Mr Doyle, smiling.
I’m no that bad!
Although he had a bath in his own place, at certain times of the day there was something about bathing there that did not appeal. It had to do with the imagination. Then the rituals. He was aye having to perform rituals, such as counting to thirty before getting up out the water, counting another thirty once he had dressed and was about to unsnib the door. The light switch for the bathroom was through the wall, in the lobby. Sometimes he found himself having to step out backwards. Other times he forced himself to stay in the bathroom and reach round to switch it off. And the idea of his wrist being grabbed by an unknown assailant whose intent was murder! And of course the obvious point: how come he snibbed the bathroom door if there was nobody else in the house? Because he was frightened. It was simple. He was just actually frightened. Not badly, but just that wee bit. These old tenement buildings were erected more than a century ago. What had they not seen? What had they not borne witness to? And with him having been locked away in the bathroom for almost an hour all these auld memories were becoming the more palpable. That outlandish image he kept getting of something like a crowd of masked stormtroopers, shadowy dark figures, who rode slowly ben from the kitchen; muffled conversations were in progress, desultory, matter-of-fact; they were just travelling on their way maybe and he was observing from a different dimension, neither able to be seen nor to influence any event that might take place. Daft of course. What’s the point in dredging up these mental things. People dont. They keep quiet. Quite right too, it’s fucking stupit. Grey figures. And not evil though definitely spectral. There is no question about Patrick’s being an atheist but, however, when one
All-powerful deities have got nothing to do with it.
Also, using the bath in his parents’ place was a nice and peaceful method of exploiting them and they enjoyed being exploited by him. They would like it if he moved back into the family home, into the spare room. But he wasnt about to do that. It was not a possibility.
Chocolates are a nonsense to give to a grown adult. But she was so hard to give presents to, she just didni like them. You give your maw a present and then you’re in playing with the wee boy across the stair and you notice his maw’s got the selfsame present, the one you had saved the pennies to buy, your maw’s given it away to her. What a psychological slap on the gub that was for a kid! Uch was it fuck it was good experience. It made you feel a wee bit hurt at the time mind you but that’s good, good training. And weans need to learn; if they never learn they’ve never discovered. O dear. Patrick closed his eyes, but opened them again. If he could stop all this internal and external sighing the world would be a more upright place.