Alison smiled, but shook her head.
Ah well, either that or he’s just bloody mellowing with old age!
O come on Pat he’s no that auld!
Well he’s fucking christ he must be near forty!
Mm.
No think so?
Alison shrugged. I dont know … She had her arms folded and now she shivered. It was cold in the parlour; he seldom ever put on the fire. It wasnt meanness, he just never used the place.
Fancy a cup of tea?
I’ll have to be going soon actually.
Of course.
It’s only because Drew’s parents are coming.
Aye. Skip the tea!
I think I’ve still a coffee lying in your royal mugs!
It was my fucking Auntie Helen. I dont want to destroy her love by dumping the things in the fucking midgy! But I should, I should fucking dump them in the fucking midgy.
No ye shouldnt, she said.
Pat smiled at her and he touched her on the forearm, holding the parlour door open for her, and she entered the lobby, walking at a normal speed, her skirt swinging, maybe the way she still had her arms folded, having something to do with that. When he shut the kitchen door she was already at the fireside, rubbing her hands close in to the electric bars. She said: Do you have any dampness?
Eh I’m no sure.
It smells a wee bit like it. She shivered again.
Patrick nodded.
And that was that, that was to be it. That story of Joyce’s where the wife thinks about the boy who died of the flu. There was nothing to be said about it really. It was best just accepting matters, the way matters were. And you could say as well that for fuck sake at least she listened with a straight face. She hadni burst out laughing. That was something. It was, yes, but still better if she left immediately; ignore the tea. Patrick sniffed. He said, I’ve got to go and visit my brother’s family anyway, later on. He cleared his throat, turned to face the sink and filled the kettle after a few seconds’ silence. He cleared his throat and continued to speak: My brother’s kids are good; he’s got two of them, a wee boy and a wee lassie. I quite like kids. He grinned: What about yourself Alison, did you ever think of raising a family?
Yeh … After a moment she said, Later, rather than sooner. It’s not the best time.
Aw.
We’re a bit unsettled the now, Drew and myself.
Is that right?
Her nose wrinkled. Touch wood, she said, this year’s been a wee bit better but the last two were awful. The school I was at it was awful — really awful. She smiled: You’ve no idea. It was so good getting into here … She lighted another cigarette and sat on the armchair, sending a cloud of smoke into the fire, forgetfulness probably, thinking there was a chimney for smoke to go up. If you think Old Milne’s bad, the headmaster where I was …! she said.
Simpson, I’ve heard of him.
The way he treats teachers! It was just a constant battle. He actually penalised us for things. If ye forgot to turn off the light when you were leaving the classroom. He had the janitors patrolling just to see. O! Too many things, it was just really as if he had gone insane.
Old Milne’s insane.
No he’s not.
Aye he is.
He isnt really Pat.
Well, your definition of insanity differs from mine.
That’s as maybe.
Pat nodded. You’re right. What I mean really is about the actual role itself, the function of headmaster, that’s what’s insane. It’s an insane job. So that whoever has it has become insane, virtute officii — by virtue of the office. Even the way they aye prowl the corridors with their gowns on; you’re expecting to see them swirl it the way Dracula does, so that they vanish in a puff of smoke.
Alison chuckled. She continued talking about the difference between the two schools. It was good hearing her in this animated state and yet when all’s said and done she was usually like that, it was one of the great things about her, it was her usual self — whenever she was not in a state of extreme nervousness, like this afternoon. Because of worrying about him, about Patrick, about how he was and how the afternoon would turn out. Although it wasnt over yet, he could still turn nasty and do her a bad turn, kidnap her and set sail for the East Neuk of Anglia! Could she really have suspected him of something bad? It was awful to think that. She couldnt have. She must have been kidding him on. Which she does do. She had a good line in irony, a quiet kind, that fitted in entirely with her personality. It would be good just giving her a cuddle. Grabbing a hold of her and giving her a great big cuddle. Fuck penetration christ he just wanted to be close to her, to be holding her. Never mind her fucking body christ that’s got nothing to do with it.
But.
But what?
But she would probably
because he’d probably fucking get an erection, if holding her in a cuddle for christ sake her body fitting into his, he would get an erection. And she would feel it, obviously. And it would fucking make things awkward. So she would have to push him away. Else things would just — move on. And from there; well it would have to be the possibility of bed, jumping into bed together.
So:
one thing he had learned this afternoon:
playing the pipes was not a substitute for sex! Eh, christ, and that in itself was worth all the hassle, that in itself would be worth giving her a cuddle for, just a cheery one and a friendly one, between two friends, one of whom has just helped the other through a bad time. Okay. I just canni cope sometimes, he said.
Alison was looking at him. She had said something requiring an answer. It was about school.
You’re talking about your last school but I’m talking about this yin — in fact I’m no, I’m just trying to get away from the idea of making things particular, or even worse, specific.
Yeh but it’s about individuals, said Alison, so it cant help but be specific. It’s about individual teachers and it’s about individual children.
Well okay but you’re saying it in general plurals.
I dont know what ye mean.
Patrick nodded.
Could you explain it?
You’re trying to insist on the individuals and yet you’re doing it yourself with your pluralistic generalising.
After a moment she replied, I think you’re nitpicking.
I’m no.
I think you are.
He nodded. She continued watching him because she was expecting him to proceed with an attempted explanation, but he wasnt going on. He had lost the thread anyway, of the argument. Or maybe the actual truth is that he just couldni fucking be bothered. Which is a terrible thing to say. He stroked the brow of his head and he sighed, turned to the sink once more. She didnt want coffee though or tea because she was about to be going. The window was steamed up. The tobacco fug wasnt helping matters.
He was not going to get into her head at all. That was that. It didni matter what he said it was as if something was missing and what it was it was just that basic interest in him, she did not have it. That was it. And did he have it in her? So far no, it was as if he was only interested in himself, just going over and over about himself all the time, about what he was doing and what he was wanting out of life. But never a word about her. Had he even asked her a question? A true question I’m talking about; one that concerns the other person, one to shed some real spark of light on the subject. It was doubtful if he had. Otherwise he wouldnt have forgotten about it already. Being so bloody damn taken fucking up with his own problems. And he was fucking sick of it, his own problems for christ sake you get sick fucking hearing about them. The trouble being of course that they do not go away. The closer you get to them the likelihood of their disappearance does not diminish. You get surrounded by them. Everywhere ye look you see the same things, like the shadow-lines down in the back close, they’re always there no matter the time of day, the way the light hits, electric or otherwise, they are always there, like a greasy spot on the windscreen right in front of your fucking nose and everything you see is filtered through it, through the fucking grease, so there’s a greasy tree and there’s a greasy lorry and there’s a greasy pedestrian and so on and so forth.