The motor was still where he had left it. Nobody had stolen it. The bonnet and wings and doors as unscratched as usual, the hubcaps all intact.
So then:
it was only half eleven.
Too early really.
The possibility of the motor failing to start, of having a bad accident on route, of a breakdown somewhere difficult, the polis picking him up. He checked the oil level, the level in the battery, looked at his tyres. These things to do with regular car driving that are boring. The mechanical aspects of any regular operation are boring. That includes conversation, having to chat to people from nothing, these things too are boring, no matter the embellishments.
What did you do this morning, inquires Alison.
O eh I went out eh and eh bought the papers and a bit of grub, checked the oil with the dipstick and had a shite and then I shaved and brushed the teeth to perfection in case of having bad breath because sometimes I think I have it and I dont think it’s eh very good, bad breath, because it puts people off.
And only the introduction of the bad breath makes it at all interesting as a result of the ambiguity presented: has he an ulcerous set of gums, decaying teeth, dirty plastic ones, a cancerous set of tonsils or bad fucking adenoids or so on, throat cancer. Although, if he could be bothered, if he really did want to make an attempt, he could simply tell the truth, and it would become interesting:
In fact Alison, my dear Mirs Houston, checking the oil isni too straightforward because I have to insert the heid beneath the upraised bonnet and there’s always for some fucking reason a lot of oil dripping out of someplace and if you arent fucking careful it lands on your napper. Sometimes I comb the fucking hair and it all comes out greasy black and manky. Plus the soiled patches on the pillow I mean see if you were to be in the same bed as me you would very soon — and so on. Plus of course if you neglect to raise the thing up properly, the bonnet, it falls down and decapitates ye.
Sunday morning peace, the quiet roads. Eventually, when he does get a new motor, he will be insisting on in-car entertainment. To be driving along the road listening to music or a discussion. It was the sort of thing Pat would enjoy. The sort of thing that takes the mind out the body, that allows the physical functioning, the bits in between, the nonambiguities, they take over and can relax the mind and the soul. The soul? Since when has talk of ‘soul’ become such an intimate part of his states of affairs? Soul. It must stem from a lazy approach to this morning, and also of course this morning in itself viz. Sunday, the day for Greatbritish Christians to get the soul surfacing.
Okay now, fine, when he meets Alison he has a variety of possibilities perhaps the most important of which is not to enter The Commodore Cafe. He should sit and wait for her in the car and when she turns up he should simply whisk her in and off they drive to somewhere else. That is Number 1: and once Number 1 is underway other possibilities will present themselves. And the bloody damn sky was clear of cloud, the sun melting last night’s frost. Maybe set off out Arrochar way and on over the Rest-and-be-thankful. Although cold outside the sun would heat the inside of the motor and would make things very pleasant indeed. They could mosey on down to Inverary for a nice cup of genteel tea and stroll out onto the pier, dynamite the resident aristocracy and then home for dinner. Boswell and Johnson once
Alison was already there. It was ten to twelve. She was standing in from the corner of the junction, next door to the cafe, which seemed to be shut, the outside door closed. Alison there, she was looking good; she had on eh clothes. She had spotted him in the car but made no sign. She stared in the direction of the schoolgates which were locked and bolted.
He slowed, winding the window down, and he waved to her and drove on into a U-turn, and parked for her. She walked round to the driver’s door. The owner’s inside, she said, he must be opening soon. Do you want to wait?
Eh
We could go somewhere else I suppose.
Aye. He smiled and looked away.
Do you think we should?
Eh, I think eh aye maybe it would be best.
She nodded.
Fancy it?
Yeh, she said and returned round to the passenger’s side. He leaned to open the door for her. When she was adjusting the seatbelt across her shoulders she spoke; she asked, Have you had a nice weekened then?
Eh okay I suppose, the usual … He smiled, letting the handbrake off and manoeuvering the car out into the centre of the road. What about yourself?
Alison sighed. Her perfume was strong and she was looking like she had a lot of make-up on at the eyes, maybe as if it was a mistake. That was funny, unexpected. And her cheek, there was something about her cheek, how it glistened. It’s just I’ve got my parents coming this afternoon, she said, and then she shivered in a kind of spasm.
Okay? asked Patrick.
Yeh.
He grinned. I was up seeing mine last night. Boring boring boring. Are all parents boring!
Cockadoodledoo. Judas Iscariot.
What I mean is, he said, just having to watch so much television. I dont mean that eh they’re boring as people.
I was just kidding.
Aw I know, I know. He smiled, he stared at the road ahead, a rawish sort of taste at the back of his throat, a dryness; he licked his lips. It wasni a good thing to say. How come she had said it?
She smiled, clicking open her handbag and giving herself a cigarette. Pat shook his head. And he shook his head again: All I said was they were boring and you come in with that — Judas Iscariot. Christ sake Alison, know what I mean.
It was silly, it just came out, I didnt mean it the way it sounded.
Naw I know, it’s just, christ.
I was only kidding Pat. She smiled again, flicked the lighter and inhaled, puffed out the smoke and returned the lighter to her handbag.
He was shaking his head once again but he stopped it quickly and settled his head down rigidly on his neck, feeling the flesh maybe doubling up at the jowels; he relaxed, sighing. A brief glance across at her. There was this wee lump of glitterstuff on her cheek, you could have actually picked it off with your fingernail. She flipped open the ashtray cover, tapped in ash from her fag. What was wrong with her? She was so bloody beautiful as well. But yet there was that
there was something. But he liked her an awful lot. He wanted to shut his eyes and screw up his face; he gripped the steering wheel, his arms inflexible, inflexible. He relaxed. It’s too early for the Art Gallery, he said, it doesni open till two on Sundays.
She did not reply. She watched the road ahead.
Where do you want to go? he asked.
O.
After a couple of moments he added: Because otherwise, really I mean … he smiled, I dont know where I’m driving.
A cafe?
Aye but it’s just I mean which one?
Mm. She then looked at her wristwatch. He felt like jamming the brakes on immediately.
He said, I only mentioned the Art Gallery because they’ve got quite a good yin, a cafe. I’m no interested in seeing the paintings. I was actually up a couple of weeks ago, seeing an exhibition.