I dont know fuck all about it, replied Patrick. He raised the magazine nearer his face. Martin Russell sat back on his chair. Patrick had offended him. He had offended him and he shouldnt have. They had been sitting on these selfsame chairs for the past couple of years and he was not a bad bloke. Pat lowered the magazine a little, and he said, I’m trying to avoid the news at the moment.
Martin nodded but he was obviously a bit hurt. It would be horrible to arrive at middle age and still be capable of that kind of emotion as an effect of that kind of trivia. Patrick glanced at him. He was no longer reading his Herald, just smoking his cigarette and staring at a spot on the carpet by his shoes. Patrick could ask him about his family; he was lately become a grandpa and liked to talk about families generally. Martin was okay — very quick and skilful with modelling clay and plasticine and he had produced some nice sculpture work for different school festivals and functions. Patrick could say something about that. Plus there was this habit he had of allowing his tea to cool without drinking any of it, then when the bell rang he would swallow the lot in a couple of long gulps. Probably it had to do with the wish to prolong the moment, that time which was his time, his time alone.
Desmond had arrived and so had Norman the temporary English teacher. They were in their chairs along with Alison and the others who belonged to the main group of talkers; at present the topic centred on a television comic adventure programme about undercover military detectives in Australia. Out the top of the window you could see quite an okay morning indeed, bright and sunny. It would soon be April. Maybe head down to Eric’s for the Easter break. The two of them could set sail for Scandinavia. If Eric’s wife came along she could maybe bring a pal to make up the foursome; nothing too forceful, just the break for Easter, a wee holiday away from the problems of everyday living in this time of technological, desanitized
Patrick had laid the magazine on the coffee table and stood up. He stepped to the window which was frosted but for the upper pane. Outside and across the playground lay the Renfrew Hills and beyond them the sea. If you dived in and swam due west you would end up probably in Greenland or northern Labrador. If you got that far. Probably you would drown first. In parts of Labrador and Greenland you can travel for days and not see a soul, a living soul. What like would that be. Not seeing a living soul, travelling across the icy wastes of Antarctica. Desmond was watching him. Patrick acknowledged him with a nod of the head. No doubt he had read Patrick’s mind and was scoffing at his daydream. Ach no he wasnt for christ sake. He had just looked away from the company for a moment towards the window, at which Patrick happened to be standing, and that was that. And he was now back listening in to the group’s conversation once more. Plunging through the glass window as in a highdive, landing feet first on the playground and making a dash for it through the gates, surprising the two polis who would probably be having a sneaky smoke while nobody was looking. But of course if he did want to leave he only had to walk out the door, because no one was stopping him, no one was stopping him.
Alison’s back was to him.
He sat down. He was actually quite tired. He hadnt slept too well. He had gone to bed as usual and went to sleep as usual but woke up at half-past two and from there on just dozed and woke up, dozed and woke up and gradually he lost all sense of reviviscence. When it was time to get up he felt in desperate need of a real and genuine sleep. So there you are and this explains the current lethargy of spirit. Unlike Alison who seemed to be fine. She seemed to be okay. She wasnt doing much of the talking but she had her rightful place in the group and was no doubt making a great contribution simply by the differing expressions on her face. Her face had differing expressions. You could cup her face in your hands and stare into her eyes. You didnt know what she was thinking though. In company with her she would be watching all that was happening but saying little and what was she thinking, you couldnt fucking tell. Alison, I desire to know precisely what you are thinking, at this very damn moment. Pat grinned, he chuckled, but stopped it. He frowned at the magazine and turned a page, and smiled, as if having found a thing there to be smiled at.
Martin Russell was still lost somewhere in the nethermost regions, perched on the edge of the chair and staring down at the floor, the carpet. Miles off. Probably on a different planet. That here he was thirty years on from the teachers’ trainers and what the fuck was it all about and why the fuck had he not just committed suicide with a straight good will all those years ago. And the skin having formed on his cup of lukewarm tea. Pat closed the magazine and dropped it onto the table, and he turned to him: Hey Martin, how was the weekend?
O — nothing startling Pat, what about yourself?
Eh, quite hectic I suppose. Up seeing the parents and the rest of it!
Martin nodded.
They’re great television watchers as well. If you dont like to watch the telly then dont go and visit them.
I know what ye mean. Mind you, sometimes there’s nothing better than putting the feet up and lying back there, letting it all wash right over ye.
True.
Switching off from everything.
Aye. I’ve no got a telly these days, I used to have one but I’ve no got it now. You think you’re watching it but you’re no, they’re actually watching you!
What?
Pat smiled, I’m saying when you watch the telly, ye aye think it’s you that’s doing the bloody watching but it’s no, it’s you that’s actually getting watched — the government’s got the fucking security forces all taking notes!
Martin nodded. He smiled briefly. Then he frowned for a moment and lowered his voice: You are leaving then Pat?
Aye.
Ah.
Ye heard?
Well, I was here when ye made the announcement last week.
Aw aye christ! Patrick nodded. He glanced at Martin, who was obviously awaiting further information. The cheeky auld bastard. He was expecting the all-important clarification: would Patrick be severing his links with the halls of education forever, or would he just be transferring to Barnskirk High which though of interest was scarcely earth-shattering.
And there too was MI6, right on cue. The door had opened unnoticed by anyone, and there he was, this jolly faced second headmaster coming to see if the troops were enjoying life and was anybody saying anything they shouldnt be saying. And he called: Morning gentlemen, ladies!
Some of the teachers returned the greeting. Such a fucking charade, when everybody hated the dickie. Good morning, called Patrick with a large smile.
Morning, said MI6, also with a large smile the bastard.
Patrick smiled once more; he was about to say something further but what was that something to be because he couldnt think of it. And he didnt want to say something stupit, something daft and silly. What was Alison smiling at? The side of her face was visible and she was smiling at something, which Desmond had probably said. And MI6 was still gazing across at Patrick, and he came a couple of steps closer, and he said: Exam Paper Study Group this evening Mister Doyle?
Eh aye, yes, I’m remembering.
Good. Fine.
Alison was saying something within the group at the fireside god, what could it be, she couldnt be saying something about him, she couldnt be making a fool of him, saying something that would make a fool of him, in front of them, Desmond and all them. You could actually imagine them all in league with the government security forces — like that Hollywood picture where the aliens take over one by one. Patrick had stopped reading science fiction at the age of fourteen, maybe it was time to start again. Maybe there were things of value to be learnt about foreign planets and the prevailing wisdom.