What was the DHSS? Apart from a shadowy form of nightmare. There was a guy lived down the stair from Pat and it was terrible meeting him in the close or out in the street because of these fucking horrendous yarns. And these yarns were absolutely fucking genuine. But his big brother was the worst. Because of what he didn’t say. Gavin didni say things. He went about not saying things. That was how he survived, he went about and didni say things, especially to his young brother; that was to whom he did not speak most of all, and most particularly about the things that mattered, the things of essential consequence in the world — these were the things Gavin never spoke about with his young brother. So how in the name of god were folk to find things out, if those who knew kept it all fucking to themselves! Hopeless. But never mind, here was Patrick about to be finding out at first hand. Was he though. How come? Nobody was actually forcing him to resign. Even now it was as though the friendliness was there as a purpose, to make him feel like staying in the job. Maybe Alison had buttonholed them all. Maybe she had told Desmond to lay off. That was the sort of thing she would take on herself. That was how she was in the world, with people, that was the way she was. Why was she married to a bastard that didni appreciate her, that made her stay out at all these boring after-hour drinking sessions. Christmas Pantomimes. Who really gave a fuck about such shenanigans. Especially ten weeks after the event. Christ almighty it was shameful. Imagine finding yourself in such a position. It was beyond talking about. Just actually being in such a pub, in such a group of people, at such a time of day, week or fucking year. This was it. This was fucking it. Patrick smiled. He smiled and he shook his head. It was really just so fucking bad. There was nothing that ever could be worse. How could anything ever be worse. There wasnt anything. Alison was looking at him. He smiled. No, he said, thanks Alison, but to be honest with ye I’m just sick of the whole carry on, teaching and the rest of it. I mean for fuck sake I might end up like him! Patrick grinned, gesturing across at Desmond who was sitting on the other side of the table.
Desmond waited. He sighed, then answered, I always admire your use of sarcasm; it’s so eh blatant.
Some of the others chuckled. Joe Cairns looked a bit apprehensive. He was quite pally with both Desmond and Pat and didnt like taking sides.
Alison moved. She was leaning to nudge ash off the tip of her cigarette into the ashtray. The action stopped Patrick from saying whatever he was about to say. He had been about to say something and now no longer. He had no idea what it had been. Could it have been something good. No, it would have been something bad, something silly, something to have made him appear an idiot. Alison was safeguarding him. It was good the way she could do that, make him stop dead, to not do it, whatever it was, to not do whatever it was, that he was doing, to make him not do whatever it was he was doing, in the middle of doing, or just about to: this was it, her ability to safeguard the susceptibilities of folk, different folk; all sorts of folk from all sorts of walks of life, all having the one thing in common, the one thing in common, all these other people, they had in common that they were not Mister Patrick Doyle — Master Patrick Doyle, a wee boy, not yet a man, not yet a husband and/or father, a bachelor, a single chap. What a life. What a fucking life. When even bastards like the cynical Desmond
the cynical Desmond. What the hell right did he have to call the bloke cynical! And was he not just the cliché of it all. The Staffroom Cynic. He probably wasnt cynical at all; he was probably just embittered, like everybody else, having had to settle for secondbest. Ah well. There was no point talking any longer. The time for that had passed. If it had ever existed. The temporary English teacher was looking at him. He had asked Patrick if he wanted a pint.
Naw, thanks.
Ye sure?
Patrick frowned. The temporary English teacher was smiling in a very amicable manner. Patrick smiled back at him, he was actually quite a nice guy. Patrick quite liked him. No, he said, thanks all the same.
Well what about a wee whisky?
A wee whisky.
Eh?
Eh aye, okay — ta … He grinned at Alison and added: It’s Friday Mirs Houston, surely I’m entitled to one wee whisky? Then he turned immediately from her, not wanting to witness her response, he was not wanting to witness her response. Because what would happen if he broke down! What would happen if he laid his head in her lap! If he laid his head onto her lap. Into her lap. Snugly. The warmth on his cheeks; and his tears wetting her thighs through the dress, her patting his head, a poor wee boy, much given to asexual caresses of a maternal fix.
As soon as he stepped outside he was hungry; he hadnt bothered to eat while the others were doing so and now here he was paying the penalty. He returned to the bar at once. He bought a bridie, a hot bridie. But the pastry was too crisp. It covered the front of his shirt in burnt flakings. It was desperate. But what else could he do except eat, he was fucking starving, so he gulped the rest of it down almost before reaching the exit.
Along the road the group walked slowly, Alison tagging along at the rear, gazing into a shop-window. Pat gazed in alongside her. And she said, Are you okay?
Yes.
She nodded.
I’m totally fine.
You could go home sick you know.
Aye.
Old Milne wouldnt mind.
I know he wouldni; but I’m fine … he smiled although he didnt feel like it. And he had to walk on ahead of her. He passed Diana and Mrs Bryson. Desmond and Joe Cairns were walking with the temporary English teacher and he stayed with the trio as they approached the schoolgates. They were talking about going for a pint on the way home from school. Patrick would go as well, just as long as it wasnt to the arts centre for the entire night. Their all being teachers during the daytime and wiring into the pints at the arts centre during the evening. No point in discussing such glaring symbolism. Just too fucking depressing to be true.
Patrick burped quietly. He felt the beer into his belly, tasted the nauseousness. He allowed the other three to continue on and he turned to see Alison and Mrs Bryson, but instead came face to face with one of the janitors, Mister Peters, a right crabbit bastard who aye seemed to seek out Patrick to make his complaints. And he muttered, Your boss …
Patrick nodded. What’s he done now?
What’s he done now! It’s what he’s no done. That upgrading we were supposed to be in for, well we areni, cause he’s no even bloody bothered his backside.
What? That’s out of order.
You’re telling me it’s out of order. The janitor lowered his voice; a wee group of latecoming weans hared into the building. I’ll tell ye something else, he said, that boss of yours, he’s in for a rude awakening — and I’m no joking.
He’s your boss as well as mine.
Aw is he!
Aye. Patrick smiled a very false smile.
I see, said the janitor. His mouth set, his gaze shifted away from Patrick and became a scowl; immediately he walked off in the direction of the lower ground.
Someone had appeared behind Pat. It was MI6, the second headmaster.
Hello, said Pat.
Hello Mister Doyle. Friday eh! The weekend looms the weekend looms.
Patrick nodded, glanced at his wristwatch. The lobby was deserted now. Patrick was late. He nodded again and strode towards the staircase. He had just been given a reminder on timekeeping. The janitor had been given his on timewasting. This was one of the central functions of the post of second headmaster, to remind staff of any shortcomings they may have. Patrick went up the steps quickly, and along the corridor but broke stride before reaching his own classroom, to enter Alison’s. She stared at him. So did about thirty third-year pupils. Excuse me Mirs Houston … he waved to her and she followed him outside. Sorry, he said, just confirming you’re going for a pint later on.