She was so totally in control.
She was staring straight at him. What a look! It was straight. It was a straight look she was giving him; it was dislike. She seemed maybe as if really she maybe just disliked him. It wasnt a surprise; ordinary dislike, she just didnt like him, Mary Busby didnt like him either, so it was nothing startling, she just didnt like him. What was he to do now? It was a difficult one. What was he to do. He smiled at her. It was the same with that poor bloke Norman. He should never ever have done it to him.
It was a habit but. It was something he did a lot. He could even be said to do it to his maw and his da, and to Gavin, he did it all the time to Gavin, his brother, and that was how that slight estrangement had happened, because of what Patrick had done and said and made known, he had this habit, of wounding. He wounded people. He actually wounded them. He was the one. It was him. He could fucking destroy people. It wasni Alison that did that it was him, he was the one — not Desmond and not fucking Old Milne or any other bastard, just him.
That was funny that. It made ye feel hopeless.
If Alison hadnt come of course. What would’ve happened then? He had been needing someone to talk to. He was just getting awful lonely these days, sometimes thinking he was the only person in the world who thought about things and worried about them. What he felt was as if everything was going to blow up. Even Alison, when she said that about Northamerica, that’s how he felt. And then fucking the school, all the wee first yearers and the third as well. All of them. Even the fucking sixth years. It was probably best if he wasnt here any longer. Altogether — just away altogether, right out of it. Maybe China, that district somewhere in the north-eastern provinces where they’re supposed to be making incredible advances in the treatment of cancer-related diseases. Just go and fucking see for yourself, if it was all a communist plot or what the fuck, maybe it really was one up for socialism. And maybe get a job in the village itself, as an English-language tutor, or a lorry driver or something. There was a nice kind of life to be led in some of them, the villages, you could be happy in it, a self-containedness. Chiang Kai-Shek was the Greatbritish Hero. That, was the way of it, how things were in reality, the fact to be admitted. Greatbritain, the place to leave. Alison was looking inside a book. What was she looking into the book for. What was it she was to be doing by it, by that manoeuvre. Was
Was?
Was?
Was. It is not to be got beyond. It is not to be got beyond. Here is the moment and it is always out in the open, the palpability. Palpa palpae, a punch in the fucking mouth, feminine.
No. It is not anything; nothing.
The moment. It has lasted for seconds. Seconds. And her; her absorption in the book, not wholly a hundred percent; that fraction of awareness, a reflectiveness, and watching him out the corner of her eye. Yes. Fuck. Fucking terrible.
I know what we can do we can play the pipes.
!!
Alison was looking at her book. Patrick knew its cover. It was a fairy tale about a woman who comes to a sticky end through no fault of her own, but in effect is a victim of society i.e. a world of male manners. Fiona Grindlay, a mother in his sixth-year class. She told them all to fuck off, just like the woman in the story. Fiona Grindlay, a good wee lassie and real and strong and tough and ah christ strong and tough and ready to confront the dark forces, to stand there having said, okay, how far can a person retreat! I’m just going to stand here and brace myself, fair enough, let them do as they wish but they’ll have to drag me off, they’ll have to knock me down and drag me away.
Great.
Patrick was a teacher
Patrick was a fool
Patrick Patrick Patrick
da da da da school
Patrick sniffed: I think about their parents Alison. The way they just stand back and let their weans’ heids get totally swollen with all that rightwing keech we’ve got to stuff into them so’s we can sit back with the big wagepackets. It’s us that keep the things from falling apart. It’s us. Who else! We’re responsible for it, the present polity.
Alison stared at him.
It is; us.
Is that what ye believe? Her eyes screwed up: genuine puzzlement.
Eh, yes.
Well I think it’s nonsense. She shut the book and returned it up onto its shelf and leaned back on the chair.
Patrick said, Would ye take another coffee?
She nodded slightly. I really do think it’s nonsense Pat and if you honestly believe it to be true then I think you should leave altogether.
Exactly.
Alison muttered, It’s a ridiculous thing to say.
I dont think it is.
Well I do. Also I think it’s damn silly … She shook her head and reached for another fag.
Pat nodded. It was best he wasnt here any longer although having said that of course it was his fucking house and if anybody was not to be here it was her, it was Alison; it was probably best she went away. Unless she started to talk. If she really started to talk. So he could find out what she actually did think about things — her herself, and not just received opinion and conventional bloody fucking wisdom.
There were water biscuits and cheese to go with the coffee if she fancied it, or bread, he could make a couple of sandwiches although he wasnt hungry at all, it wasnt that long since he had had his breakfast.
He stood at the sink with his back to her, the tap turned on and the water gushing, and he would turn to confront her in a moment, eye to eye. Here’s your coffee Alison plus biscuits and cheese if you’ve a mind.
It was so.
The whole thing.
While the truth of the matter what was the truth of the matter was it sex? Is that what it was he was just wanting to have some sex with her yes of course he was he was wanting sex of course, of course he was, but not just that although what else of course he was wanting much else but the sex was so fucking important because of the way it would make him feel just wanted, just wanted by her as an ordinary bloke there in the ring like anybody else, a part of everything. Because he couldni even imagine it really, what like it would be the actual insertion and how she would be in the nude and that moment of insertion the tightening back it was just so disbelievable, the existence of it, the possibility; what would he be doing would he be holding her breasts. Holding her breasts.
Poor old Hölderlin. He was a poor unfortunate bastard. And Susette, poor auld fucking Susette, dying like that. It was a shame, it was such a shame, terrible, so pathetic, a downright fucking shame. He would be lying on her breasts.
How is the point arrived at it is arrived at by doing the things. He put a teaspoonful-and-a-half of coffee granules into his mug and exactly the same into hers. Then he worked off the lid of a tin he kept for biscuits although he knew fine well it was empty and the only biscuits were these stupit water efforts he kept in the cupboard and were only there for emergencies e.g. should he run out of bread and so on. And the dried milk sprinkled aboard, avast ye landlubbers, the crew of the jolly roger clambered aft the rigging. Fine, good. She didni take sugar of course. Why of course? Uch it was obvious. A woman like Alison. Far too fucking self-possessed for that sort of weakness. Yet she smoked like a fucking chimney! But that’s different. He grinned. He lifted her mug. He paused a moment and looked out the window. He turned and walked to her, saying, There’s water biscuits and cheese if you fancy it …?
No thanks Pat.
Because eh what I thought I would do and I dont want to embarrass you in any way at all but what I would like to do, or rather, what I thought I would do, only if you didnt mind right enough, obviously
She nodded.
It was just eh … He grinned and returned for his own coffee. He sat down with it on his chair. It’s these two pipes Alison, I know it sounds daft, but what I’ve done is kind of rigged them up into instruments. And what I’m actually doing is blowing on them, getting sort of musical sounds out them, a bit like eh — I dont really know, the concept I suppose is to do with improvisation, the way people take and use what they see lying about and I dont know just bloody christ use them, make music, like these washboard waistcoats the old bluesmen wore to make music. They used to strap them round their middle and strum away. Absolutely brilliant and crazy, just absolutely brilliant and fucking crazy!