When you are a wean things do last eternally. Literally. That is a literal truth, about the nature of the eternal. And kids have apprehended it. When Pat was a boy he was a much better individual than he is nowadays, having lost a great deal. And his da was looking tired and drawn, his skin drooped at the jowels and around the eyes and he was looking a lot more than fifty-seven years of age it was terrible to state, but true. The maw was also looking tired and there was something else in her face, a fixed kind of irritated expression. She had come into the conversation now; it had got round to football hooligans and she mentioned something in reference to himself so he would have to become involved. It was not too difficult, a case of clearing the throat and speaking. At a point in the future he would get the conversation round to revolution, its efficacy or otherwise in reference to the vagaries of childrearing, and the single man. She did look tired. That was because she was having to attend to him, Pat’s da. But here she was on about that hoary old prejudice, the mollycoddling of today’s school-weans in comparison to those sterling youngsters of yesteryear. He laid his knife and fork on the plate and said, Maw, you’re prejudiced.
I’m no prejudiced at all, you just stick up for them.
I dont. I just tell the bloody truth, as I see it.
I’m no saying ye dont, but let’s face it as well Pat, ye do like to be different.
Naw I dont.
Your maw’s right, said Mr Doyle. The same with bringing back the belt, you’ve got to be different there too.
Tch da.
Nay tch da about it — you’ve aye been against the belt. But at least the weans’ll show some damn respect. And you canni deny it.
Aye I can.
What? Naw you canni. You canni deny it.
Of course I can, I can deny anything I like and I’m denying that.
Och … Mr Doyle shook his head and turned from him a moment. Then he said: Aye well it never done anybody any bloody harm.
Da, it never done anybody any bloody good either.
It never done anybody any bloody harm!
Aye but it never done anybody any bloody good!
Wwh!
Less of the argy-bargy, said Mrs Doyle.
It’s no argy-bargy maw it’s conversation.
Aye well, conversation, it’s noisy … She looked at Patrick. He had lifted his fork; he pierced a chip and ate it. His da said:
Your maw doesni like noisy conversations. Dont ye no Kate?
That’s right.
See! His da gave Pat a false smile.
Mrs Doyle sniffed slightly: Yous’ll end up arguing.
Patrick nodded. After a pause he swallowed a mouthful of tea and resumed eating. He took another slice of bread and wiped up the sauce at the rim of his plate. His da was looking at him. Pat glanced at him. They both looked away. It was quite sad because it was hitting old nerves or something and shouldni have been causing such a big kerfuffle. He looked at his da again but there was nothing he could give him. He couldnt. He couldnt give him anything. He didnt deserve to be given anything. So how come he should be given it? People get what they deserve in this life. Even parents. Maws and das. They dont have a special dispensation. Except maybe from the queen or the pope or any other of these multibillionaire capitalist bastards. But no from their equals, they dont get any dispensation from them. So fuck off.
Sauce streaks on the plate. Crockery is a chalk-like substance. Clay, china; china-clay.
Welclass="underline" at least he was freshly scrubbed and sweet-smelling. And he had minded to buy the fucking box of chocolates. And then too, also, he could leave soon, as soon as he was ready and it was decently acceptable within this stench of a society. Once that was done, once that was completed, finalised.
Bringing things from there to here. Moving from one position to the one that comes next. A sprinkle of magic dust and a boisterous abracadabra, the puff of smoke and Pat materialising back in his own kitchen, in front of the fire. He should have gone straight home after the match. He just shouldni have come here. How come he came? He shouldni have fucking came. It was stupid. Guilt probably. His first visit in three weeks — nearer a month in fact. Who cares. No point in worrying over it.
The fish was a dead animal. It had lain there on the plate open for inspection, eager to impress s/he who is about to partake. Just please devour me. I’m as good as the next thing you’ll catch. Whatever you do dont not do it, dont not devour me, I’m a good wee fish. Courageous and heroic. Its body sliced open for examination by the education authority. Give it a tick. A plus. Five out of ten. Fine for a Glasgow table but dont send it south to the posher restaurants of England.
Gibberish. Outpourings. People see facial expressions of silence, not seeing, not
How is it all contained? The heads craned over the plates, the three people eating, this man and woman and man, while within the limits of each an intense caterwaul. We are alone! We are isolate beings! The good Lord alone
Fucking bastards.
And of course Patrick, going in for a bath to avoid being alone with his da.
Pardon?
And of course Patrick, going in for a bath to avoid being alone with his da.
Is that possible?
Fucking right it is ye kidding! The only reason. His maw had to go into the kitchenette to see to the grub and Pat would have been left in the living room with his daddy. And he couldni handle it. The very thought. It is just that he canni quite feel them, the pair of them, his maw and his da, he would like to be able to feel them. He does get urges to cuddle them but that is different, almost the exact opposite.
Mr John Doyle, a man of 5′ 6½″, with a head that is bald at the crown, having hair round the sides, who used to sport a moustache when Pat was a boy. He still works as a machinesetter in a factory. He is not a deep thinker but so what and go and fuck yourself. Patrick reached for the teapot. He half refilled his cup. His maw was gazing at her plate. She had glanced at him. Anybody want a refill? he said.
Mrs Doyle held her cup for him.
Mr Doyle said, Yous pair are too quick. I’ll have mine in a minute. I like to take my time. It’s no good for your digestion either, if you drink your tea while you’re eating.
He glanced at Pat who nodded, even though he had actually finished eating. There again but he had been eating and drinking together during the meal. There were always problems in this life. Even being more like his da could be worthwhile. A man in his mid-to late-fifties, which is young compared to some folk with sons as old as Gavin and Pat. Charlie Chaplin had been fathering weans into his eighties. If Patrick had been his own father not only would he be a grandfather he would be an ordinary run-of-the-mill sex-performing male.
Gavin was the lucky one. He took things nice and easy and didnt get upset over trifles and things of mammoth import. No. What he did
But he did get on with living. He had his wife and his two great wee children, just like his own da; the two of them, the father and the elder son, being involved with the women they’re involved with, the wives and the lovers and the mothers and so on, the sentimental sort of shitey stuff. Patrick
It is not his fault. He just cannot get on with things. It is a form of living that so far he is unable to encounter in a personally meaningful manner. He is involved with other affairs. He is involved with a pair of electrician’s pipes. He is going to take this pair of electrician’s pipes and create harmony — no he isni, that isnt even what he’s after, he just wants to fucking make music from them. Not exactly music either. Something else. Not anything greater. It isnt to do with that. Something else. Something good. Just something good and fucking new, newish, different anyway, at least. He smiled. He smiled at his maw. She was holding a plate of biscuits to him. And why not? If plates are to be held why not by mothers and why not with biscuits? Delicatus delicatessen. Otherwise he would just end up in bother. If he was no able to play the pipes. Something would happen. Something bad. He knew it. Maybe he would murder Old Milne! Or else be murdered by him. Old Milne would make a good murderer. So would Patrick right enough. The pair have that in common. If nothing else.