The football had been good. Amazing how much he still enjoyed it — the actual game itself, never mind the getting-out-and-about and seeing folk and being part of a crowd. It was a good and interesting game to watch. He had been yapping about that with Joe Cairns the other day and Joe asked him if he wanted to help out with the school teams. It was sincerely meant. But it would entail one more evening per week, plus of course almost the whole of every Saturday.
Ach as well, no use sighing over juvenile dreams. When he went to kick the ball during training it would bounce off his knee, bounce off his cheek when he tried to head it; never mind all his fucking theory. Rotten auld bastards, Zeus and his fucking henchmen; all sitting there on Olympus cutting cards on the individual fates of wo/mankind. If Patrick could only get his big toe wedged in the cold tap a plumber would come and rescue him and if in Russia or Eastern Europe or someplace else where female plumbers
Alison Alison Alison
Are you the woman for me
I’ve been lying here sinking
A rhyme for ee apart from pee?
The penis floats on the sudsy surface of the water.
Mirs Houston.
Mirs Houston.
She wears an illfitting blouse, having neglected to don the bra, her brassiere, that underbodice women wear to support the breasts.
My god, the pathos.
No but that would be the way of it. It would be. Her breasts. The texture of the skin so different from his own. Her nipples probably that dark reddish brown you see. Dear dear, the pity of it: Patrick has never really actually ever, never really actually ever, been, the way that the female and the male are with each other, lying side by side in broad daylight during entire stretches of time such as days, days, whole days, body to body, just kissing and lying, lying there. He can imagine for example cupping one of her breasts in his hands the way that maybe an artist would, just testing its weight and substance, its texture; while being watched by her in an amused way, her being kindly and gently amused by him, by how he is so interested, so fascinated — in a sense not even erotically as such but even fuck it’s terrible to say, aesthetically. Aesthetically interested in tits. But tits are wonderful. In the name of christ. Poor old Patrick. P for Pat. P rhymes with pee. And p for pipe so fuck off. And p for prick of course what about p for ptarmigan.
His feet moved in the water; he waggled his toes, disturbing the surface, causing ripples. Masturbation could never be a possibility here in the home of his parents. That was one thing about P. Doyle. That was one tried and true thing about him. This is how come he’s the man you see today. What the fuck does that mean. It just means that eh etcetera.
Fried fish in eggy breadcrumbs; chips and tomato and sweetcorn. The sweetcorn was an innovation. They had never had such luxurious delicacies when he was a boy! Sweetcorn by christ! Mind you it was tasty. Why did he never buy fucking things like that? sweetcorn. He would have to remember it.
His bloody damn maw had set the table properly, the nice tablecloth and so on, its creases well apparent; fresh linen from the drawer! And the condiments: salt and two flavours of sauce, tomato ketchup and the brown stuff; a clear vinegar and a wee jar of mint dressing for the fish. The cups and the saucers and a plate with biscuits. Cut bread and a dish of actual butter as opposed to margarine, something they insisted upon. Table setting was a dying art. But no grace was spoken nowadays. It had been when Gavin and Pat were boys. It had all stopped. And no analysis. Okay, but a nice kind of general thanksgiving would be no bad thing. Get rid of the silly theological aspect but surely there had to be room in this planet for secular appreciation? Surely there had to be a place for good fucking atheists who wanted to say thank christ I’m no starving to death and I’m able to sit down amongst friends and relations! Or was there? Maybe there wasnt. Maybe the very idea was a load of sentimental drivel.
He had sliced the fish and was isolating the bones. A fact to be admitted: he preferred fish à la chip shop because they always contained far fewer bones. He liked to pretend that this preference had to do with saving time in the course of eating, but it was nothing of the kind. His maw looked at her plate as she ate. She had glanced at him.
Good fish, he said.
Whiting.
Yeh, I thought it was actually haddock.
Too wee for haddock, replied his da.
I wouldni be too sure nowadays, said Mrs Doyle. At one time you might’ve said that but no now.
Of course ye know if you’re buying your fish at the pier it’s twice the size of what you get here in Glasgow, Mr Doyle said, I mean dont think because it’s whiting it’s got to be a wee fish. Some whiting ye get’s big. But the best of the catch aye gets sent down south to England. The posh big restaurants, it’s them that buys it all up. Mr Doyle glanced at Pat: Yous go on and on about Scotland’s oil, well they’ve been stealing our fish for years.
I dont go on about the oil at all, but okay da I take the point.
Yous dont complain about things, that’s what I mean.
We do so.
Aye you, but nobody else.
It’s no as bad as that da … Pat grinned and he forked a chip into the sauce at the side of the plate. I’m no the only one that complains.
O naw, right enough, so does your brother!
Mrs Doyle sighed and gazed briefly at the ceiling.
Mr Doyle glanced at her:
I’m no saying nothing. What am I saying? nothing! Mr Doyle frowned at Patrick: I’m no saying nothing.
Two nos make a yes, said Pat, so you’re definitely saying something! He winked at his maw who sighed again:
Dont start him Pat.
He doesni need me to start him!
Mr Doyle stared at Pat then he smiled for a moment. How did ye no give me a phone? If I’d knew you were going to a game I’d have went with ye — I’ve no been to watch a match for months. Since Charlie died! Mr Doyle glanced at Mrs Doyle and his mouth curved in a manner Patrick couldni remember having noticed before. His da was saying, We went up to see the Jags at the end of last season — a no-hope league game against Queen of the South. They got beat too! Imagine that. Imagine getting beat by Queen of the South. At home? Ho! No way. Bad.
The Thistle have fell by the wayside, said Patrick.
And they’ll no come back, said his da. Charlie Murray’ll no come back either. He winked at Pat and gestured at Mrs Doyle: Somebody in the company’ll be pleased to hear that!
John, that’s no nice.
It’s no nice but it’s true.
The man’s dead, we dont want to hear about it.
She didni like him Pat, your maw there, she didni like him. Mr Doyle glanced at her: How come you didni like him?
I just didni, okay?
Mr Doyle winked at Pat. She just didni.
It was spur of the moment, said Pat, about going to the game. If I’d thought about it earlier I’d have phoned you.
Aw aye I know that.
I’ll mind the next time.
His da nodded, and he went on to ask about the game; they continued chatting about football generally and it encompassed the football fixed odds coupon Mr Doyle had bet upon. Nottingham Forest had been beaten at home and this had beaten the whole bet. Patrick found this not so much boring as undecidable and his brains were becoming fankled. His maw was still eating; she ate in a very painstaking fashion, unless she was maybe having problems with her dentures; it was almost like she had to break the food all up on the plate before inserting it into her mouth. For a brief period the talk returned to fish and the quality of fresh in comparison to frozen and back to how the best stuff ended up in the high-class kitchens of English eating establishments. A homely sort of prejudice this, hating the posher restaurants of England, the kind of prejudice you can relax into in a sleepy sort of way. Sopor soporifimus. As a boy Pat had the welcome habit of falling asleep at the table — except that his maw used to bang him on the elbow. The mastication process seemed to last eternally. Big long stringy bits of fatty mutton. One end was in your stomach and the other end was still between your teeth and if you gulped suddenly it sprang back out your mouth. Sleep was the only method of coping. It was surprising he never choked to death. His maw of course, banging him.