Mm.
Pat nodded. She was frowning at something. She maybe wanted to get out. That was probably it, she wanted to get out, just inside the fucking thing and she wanted out, to get away, because of him, the way he was carrying on, the usual. He was clenching the wheel of course. How come he was doing that? clenching the wheel. He was clenching the wheel because he was thingwi he was fucking bastard, he was thingwi.
At least she looked like she had relaxed. She was gazing out the window and she seemed to be comfortable and quite content. Maybe she wasni. But she seemed to be. What else can we do except infer. That’s all. She was gazing out the window, smoking. Did ye think I was going to kidnap you? he chuckled.
You never know.
Christ! Imagine being suspected of dishonourable intentions! It’s almost a compliment!
Is it — well it’s not meant to be.
Naw; right; I was actually meaning, just thinking, of myself I suppose, the act itself, the forceful sort of way. You’re right but it is sexist. Stupid. Sorry. Daft.
It’s okay.
Thanks for coming.
Och!
Naw I mean honest, really, thanks.
She nodded, twisting her body slightly to see more fully out of the side window. The car was stopped at a set of traffic lights. A pair of wee boys stood at the corner; one with newspapers under one arm, the other held a bottle of ginger. In the rearview mirror he saw the driver of the van parked behind picking his nose, an alsatian dog was sitting in the passenger sear. People have a different type of awareness in the presence of animals, and maybe even it all depends on the species of animal as well — if it had been a parrot for instance, he might have used a fucking hankie. Alison was still staring out the side window. It was stupid. Idiocy. Everything should have been straightforward. Having a woman beside you in the motor should be no big deal. When she came into the thing in the first place he should just have driven to some secluded niche where they could have conversed in intimate fashion, after which they each would have sought the other’s lips with their own lips, each’s own lips, his or hers for fuck sake even getting it into language is difficult.
She was definitely not at her ease.
But what had he been hoping for? Just what exactly? How could there be anything? There couldnt really be anything. She has suspected him of kidnapping! A joke of course but even so. If this had been East Anglia that would never have happened. In places like East Anglia there are certain events, a finite list of them, that may or may not occur and this was the event that would never occur. Plus also, if in East Anglia and further, a citizen of that fair shire, then his whole experientiality would differ. I am cracking up. In the presence of Alison Houston née Mirs whose right breast is noticeable, its bulge beneath her coat, I am cracking up. And in the offside wingmirror a driver signalling. These drivers who begin a whole carry on with you for no reason but that you have driving in common you’re supposed to be some sort of fucking soulmates! What was he signalling for?
Pat, where are we going?
Eh well I thought we would just go into town, up Glasgow Cross way, the Trongate, that area. There’s quite a few cafes there, near the Barrows, that open on a Sunday.
She tapped ash into the ashtray. She was nervous. It was him making her nervous. He was trying too hard and putting her off, getting her uncomfortable and so not able to assist the way she should, the way that was normal, when two people are alone together and attempting to communicate.
The driver who was signalling had just moved out into the opposite lane and was speeding past and giving an angry look. Well fuck him. A Sunday and you’re supposed to break the world all-comers landspeed record. Patrick cleared his throat. He said, What time are your parents coming then? I mean this afternoon.
4 o’clock.
Aw.
Actually they’re Drew’s parents, not mine.
O I see.
I get on fine with them though — better than Drew does; he’s always having rows with them.
What about?
Everything. It can be an ordeal at times, just being there in the same room. Ye never quite know what to do, what’s expected of ye.
Patrick nodded. He looked at her and started to blush when he met her gaze and he turned his head immediately as if to see out his side window. He wound down the window a fraction.
It’s too smoky, said Alison.
Uch naw it’s okay it’s just eh … He felt the blush now full on his face. It could only level out then decrease. He stared ahead. It was just that of their eyes meeting. It must have been the first such encounter since she had entered the motor. It was funny to think of somebody kissing her lips, touching her face, his fingertips maybe on her cheek just gently, it was funny to think that. There was a feeling in his chest or lungs, a rough sort of feeling — all that smoke from her fag right enough. Over the parapet of the bridge was the Carrick. Diving off into the Clyde. Catching a fish between your teeth. There was no rain in the sky. That dense white grey. They were going along to the Saltmarket. I dont even think the pubs are open yet, he said.
Alison made no answer.
Actually anyway I’m no even feeling like a pint, to be honest; are you?
No.
He grinned. Beer drinking’s overrated. That was how I suggested the Art Gallery, just for a change and that, keeping away from pubs.
It’s only that I have to watch the time Pat.
Of course, aye, I know — I just thought the surroundings, because they were different. I mean the Commodore Cafe! All these weans in for their Sunday brunch with the sherbet lollipops and coke etcetera, all giving us the eye!
Alison smiled.
The Commodore had offered security. Now she had none.
Dan d ran dan. What was the point. He shook his head. He noticed a cafe and signalled to park, and parked, putting the handbrake on and switching off the ignition — all of that, before looking at her.
Just to the side of the cafe entrance a man was standing, he was near enough a dosser as far as his clothes and general configuration could imply anything as to the nature of day-to-day existence and how a person makes progress, these small steps of advancement coincidental to the passage of the moon, the stars and sun, entire galazactic galazacticus. The actual cafe itself looked pathetic. I dont really fancy this place, he whispered as she prepared to get out of the car.
I dont either! she said.
Patrick laughed. But it wasnt a good laugh and the guy was watching them. He switched the ignition back on and as the motor moved out to the outer lane he said, He’s actually the owner’s nephew. His story’s quite sad. A few years back he was the maître d’hôtel at the Albany and a disaster struck during a banquet he was preparing.
Alison was listening. Are you talking nonsense? she said.
No.
She was waiting.
I’ll no say anything more but because I dont like gossiping.
She smiled, opened her handbag but closed it at once. I like to see you cheery Mister Doyle.
I’m always cheery Mirs Houston … Patrick swung the wheel, the motor passing through the lights and on up High Street. If only, and then they could have driven to some secluded niche near the Mediterranean seaside.
She looked at him. He smiled: Do you want to visit the oldest house in Glasgow?
No. She gazed out the window. I’d like to be able to sit down and drink a cup of coffee.
Pat frowned. What about just going to my place? having a coffee up there? Fancy it?
Okay. She nodded.
But why not; it was the ideal place. No worries about being seen by schoolweans or colleagues. It was one of the things that was bad, how it was so awkward just talking to members of the opposite sex, without the business being taken for something it wasnt. Especially awkward for someone like Alison, a married woman without weans, plus whose husband appeared to be not always living at home through no fault of either but just his job, its actual nature, leaving her the time and maybe even the mental state, to become involved with outsiders. And of course she was very much a woman who enjoyed the company of her colleagues, the company of other intellects, those with whom she could discuss freely the politics of the world. And no irony to govern that. Patrick said; I see Northamerica’s being its usual fascist self. Did you see the papers? about the assassination?