But so what. So what if it was fucking sentimental. Was there not a place for sentimentality. Were you not allowed to start bloody greeting nowadays, was that it! Was that the way things were. Because if so Patrick would not be all that bloody bothered about hanging around, quite frankly. He would as soon be off; away. He would simply get away, be away, away from it all, all the fucking terribleness. He heard them in the staffroom. He was sitting there in his usual wooden chair and on and on they were talking about things that were totally unconnected with anything that could make sense of the world. They were saying things that were just such absolute shite, keech and tollie, such unbelievable rubbish. He had a magazine on his lap; he gripped its pages. He stared at the magazine. It concerned computers. Computers were not sentimental. Aye they were. They were just as sentimental as anything else. It was all a question of hanging on. There were certain concepts. Recursiveness for example. Hang onto that ya fucking idiot. The poor old temporary English teacher; this poor old temporary English teacher who had lately come aboard, was making some kind of remark to the effect of its being a pity that Wilson’s TALES OF THE BORDERS remained out of print. And Desmond had nearly fallen off his fucking chair. What do you mean? he cried, half smiling and half glowering i.e. a sneer, he was actually sneering at this poor guy who had lately been press-ganged into this so-called establishment of learning. What do you mean? he said.
But the temporary English teacher was standing his ground. He just replied as though he was taking Desmond’s question as of serious intent. Well, he said and he glanced round at the rest of the company, I just mean I think it’s a bit of a pity it’s out of print and looks like staying that way. Quite a lot of good stuff in it.
Ho! Desmond swivelled about on his arse, giving a mock gape in the direction of Joe Cairns who just shrugged. And then he said: As far as I’m concerned it’s a load of dross, a load of downright dross.
The temporary English teacher raised his eyebrows but did not speak. He started rolling a cigarette. Desmond and the others watched him for a moment. He wasnt the first to have rolled a cigarette in the staffroom but it was uncommon all the same. Possibly the guy was just using the action as a method of not speaking and eventually, when it seemed as though the conversation would veer off in some other direction altogether, Desmond cleared his throat and said directly to Alison: Have you read Wilson’s TALES OF THE BORDERS?
One or two.
Mrs Bryson smiled: They’re not great!
Desmond chuckled. No need to be polite about it. Overwritten unwieldy clutter. And worst of alclass="underline" an unspeakable sentimentality!
A very short silence, was breached by Patrick calling, Pardon?
Desmond paused. He turned slightly and looked at Patrick. After a moment he continued, I was just saying to Norman that I thought Wilson’s TALES OF THE BORDERS was a load of dross.
Mm.
Mrs Bryson smiled at Patrick. Do you know them Patrick? she said.
Aye eh, yes, I do … He glanced away from her. She liked Patrick and it embarrassed him. How come she liked him the way she did? Probably if she had been twenty years younger she wouldni have granted him the time of day. That was it about so many women, this kind of contradictory behaviour all the time so you didnt know if you were fucking coming or going, it was hopeless.
Mrs Bryson was smiling yet again. What was she smiling at now. Maybe just trying to keep the peace. And to the side of her Alison was saying something to Joe Cairns — science teacher and exprofessional footballer, man of the Twenty-First century, who didnt often come to the staffroom but here he was today. Patrick jerked his thumb in the direction of Desmond and he said, The trouble with this yin is he thinks there’s no room for sentimentality.
That’s correct, replied Desmond.
It’s your problem.
It’s not my problem it’s yours.
Patrick shook his head and he gazed down at the magazine and muttered, I canni be bothered talking about this.
Neither can I, particularly … Desmond sniffed and added, I just think there are great dangers in it.
What in TALES OF THE BORDERS?
Yeh, if ye like.
Mrs Bryson leaned forwards on her chair and she inhaled deeply on the cigarette she was smoking; she tapped ash into the ashtray on the coffee table beside her. I wouldnt have thought there were dangers in it, she said, glancing at Alison.
Okay then fine, replied Desmond. Admittedly there are a few snippets worth browsing over but I certainly wouldnt advocate it for the classroom.
But how no? asked the temporary English teacher.
Dross! Desmond shook his head and gave a brief sarcastic laugh. Dross!
Dross! Exactly!! Bloody dross! called Patrick. That’s why it’s so bloody ideal for the classroom. Because everything that goes on in the bloody place is a load of bloody dross in the first place! That’s how I’m bloody leaving!
WHAT!!!!
Everybody seemed astonished by this. They were all gawking at him. Even those teachers who rarely allowed themselves to get involved in staffroom conversations, they too were gawking at him.
I’m just bloody fed up with it, said Patrick. He shook his head and he lifted the magazine and footered with it. He then raised his head and addressed them collectively: Okay, as far as I’m concerned there’s something very very fishy about being a teacher. I mean we’re all secondbest for a kick-off, that’s what I canni go. Plus none of us wanted to be a teacher in the first bloody place but here we all are, bloody teaching, it’s bloody terrible so it is. I’m really bloody browned off with it all, I’m no kidding ye.
Desmond smiled, nodding his head. That is the most sentimental drivel you’ve spoken for months, he said.
O come on Des … murmured Alison.
Patrick stared at her. Above her head was a window. There was the wind and there was the rain. Above her head and beyond. It was all there. The temporary English teacher was speaking. He was saying, Becoming an English teacher was always first best to me.
Was it?
Yeh.
Patrick smiled.
Me too, said Mrs Bryson, and she glanced at Joe Cairns once again.
Patrick nodded. He gazed at the magazine on his lap. There was the face of a computer gazing back at him. Pat smiled. Desmond had begun talking as if in an aside, a genuine sort of an aside, and yet it was not genuine at all. He really was a fairly bad bastard and in reality he was addressing every individual within hearing range, and he was saying: He’s the bloke who can show Gödel’s Theorem to the average first-year class in a sentence remember!
That’s correct, said Patrick, I’ve just got to find the right sentence!
Some of the teachers laughed.
And Desmond replied, Okay but you actually believe it.
Course I actually fucking believe it! If I didni actually fucking believe it I wouldni actually be fucking teaching! He laughed for a moment and shook his head, and smiled slightly at Mrs Bryson who was giving him an admonitory look. So too was Alison. She had the right but Mrs Bryson didni. What did she do it for? How come she could take it upon herself to admonish a mature male adult of the species in this fashion? He had a mother of his own and several aunties including two great-aunts, living somewhere in the middle of Dumfries. He also had a sister-in-law and a mother and a wee niece by the name of Elizabeth whom he loved dearly. What he didnt have was a lover. That was what he needed. That was what he needed. He didni need any of this, this sort of shite, fucking Desmond and Mrs Fucking Bryson and that idiot of a temporary fucking English teacher.
Pat … Alison was whispering to him. In fact she was not whispering at all she was just speaking normally. He had been gripping onto the edges of the seat with both hands and maybe set to leap across and start punching in at Desmond. It was possible. He was a fucking bastard and Patrick hated him. He was the kind of bloke who devalued everything, who devalued every last thing in the world and he was the last kind of person who should ever have been let loose in a classroom. Or outside in the real world. It was an utter obscenity, an utter obscenity. What was it about them, about that kind of person, that got them there, that made them so successful. Just exactly that, their cynicism; the way they could sneer and scoff at every last thing that might be of value. Even Alison seemed impressed by it. Her husband was probably the same type. A millionaire seller of double-glazed windows. They could fucking stuff the schools full of them as far as Patrick was concerned. He was finished with it, finished with it; he was just finished with it.