Martin was just sitting there on the edge of his chair, puffing very slowly on his fag and not taking the remotest interest in anything. He was a survivor. There was that skin as well. From now on Patrick would never drink another cup of tea until it had gone cold. Fine ya fucking bastards. He lowered his voice … Hey Martin, you know that German poet Hölderlin?
Who?
Hölderlin: he was a pal of Hegel’s; they were students the gether.
I cant say I do Pat, no.
Pat nodded, he sniffed slightly.
Was he good?
Uch aye, he was, I must say.
A pal of Hegel’s?
Aye. They were both born in the same year as a matter of fact: 1770 — the same as Beethoven.
Ah! 1770! Wordsworth was born then too.
…
You dont like him I take it?
Well, I fucking hate him, to be honest, but it’s probably just prejudice. I’ve never really read him all that much.
Did ye not have to study him?
I got round it.
Ah.
Do you like him?
Well eh I dont think he’s easily dismissed Pat.
Mm.
James Hogg was born in 1770 as well ye know.
Christ!
He and Wordsworth were the same age. Walter Scott was their junior by one year. Martin grinned. Ye didnt know that?
Fuck sake naw! Pat laughed.
Martin also laughed: There must’ve been something in the air eh!
I bet ye, aye. If ye track down the records you’ll probably find some strange data to do with temperatures and rainfall.
That’s right; plus the price of ruddy corn! The political situation in general! Martin flicked open his packet of cigarettes and got another cigarette alight … one wonders what was happening in 1769 eh? the million-dollar question!
The American War of Independence?
No, that was eh … When was Thomas Muir on the go? The ’90s. Hey, do you know that when Walter Scott was a boy of fifteen he actually met and was introduced to Burns?
Christ.
Yeh, fifteen years of age.
Patrick chuckled.
Mind you, said Martin, I wouldnt fancy having a classful of Walter Scotts!
For fuck sake, said Pat, can ye imagine them all sitting there! What would they be doing! It doesni bear thinking about.
Martin laughed quite loudly. A classful of Walter Scotts!
Add 1 7 7 0, said Patrick immediately, 15. 1 and 7 is 8 plus 7 equals 15.
Martin looked at him, then grinned. No it isnt, it’s one thousand seven hundred and seventy. Take your thousand and add your seven hundred then your seventy, and that’s what ye get, 1770, seventeen hundred and seventy.
Spoilsport!
The two of them chuckled. And Martin added: Change of subject Pat, were you not down for that Disciplinary Scheduling last night?
Not at all.
Ye sure?
Definitely. Otherwise MI6 would have made some sort of bloody comment.
Mm.
How?
O I was just wondering.
Patrick frowned.
It’s not important.
What did ye ask for then?
I was just wondering.
Pat shook his head. Christ sake Martin I mean ye wanting to get me really paranoiac!
I was just curious.
Pat gazed at him. Then he saw Alison by the door, holding it open for Diana and Mrs Bryson and Patrick stood up at once and looked at her and she looked away and followed Diana out, leaving Mrs Bryson to come behind. The door was shut now and nobody else was there. Desmond and the others were still sitting by the fireside.
Patrick stretched his arms aloft and he yawned in as genuine a manner as he could. But he didnt succeed and it sounded totally false and horrible and he walked to the window immediately and he stared out the top pane at the sky and the white clouds flying past at quite a fast clip, it had to be blowy outside, windy; sharp breezes. He would count to thirty and then leave the room. And south lay the hills. He turned. Martin was exhaling smoke and glancing at his wristwatch. Pat said, I wonder how far it is to Labrador from here?
Be about 3 to 3500 miles I would think.
Patrick nodded. Ten minutes in the sea and you’d be dead: hypothermia.
Is that right?
Aye, terrible eh — imagine being a fisherman that canni swim! Every day you were out working would be a form of hellish torment. Ye heard of these miners in South Africa? According to their religion hell is in the nether regions of the earth. So what that means is that these guys, when they go to their work every day, believe that they’re actually going to fucking hell — literally. Eh? That kind of thing’s beyond comprehension. Poor bastards.
Martin shook his head. Unbelievable!
Aye, said Patrick, except that it’s true.
God!
Yeh, terrible eh.
Wwhho!
Patrick collected his empty cup from the coffee table and carried it to the sink, rinsing it out and leaving it upturned in its place on the draining board. She would be well away by now. She would be in her classroom. She would be at her desk, browsing over the forthcoming lesson. The temporary English teacher was looking at him. Patrick gave him a brief wave.
Hiya Pat.
Hullo Norman, how’s the missis?
Fine.
Good. Patrick glanced at Desmond: Alright Desmond!
Morning Mister Doyle.
Yous going a walk at dinnertime?
Probably.
Pat nodded. See yous later then eh!
1769: in this year Napoleon Bonaparte was born. The information came via the sixth year and the sixth year is never wrong.
Fiona Grindlay was talking. Her da was still giving her a hard time because she wouldnt reveal the name of the father of her baby. Fiona was relating it to a short story she had read where there was this romance between young lass and young lad plus the dreaded mixture of horrendous parents and relatives, ending in death for the young couple. Fair enough; slightly sentimental but so what, you’re entitled to be slightly sentimental about something like that. Fiona went on to develop her own position in reference to the media. It was a good piece of reasoning. When she finished none spoke for several moments. But you could never be certain that these silences werent simply in deference to her motherhood. Patrick nodded. I think your reasoning’s fine Mirs Grindlay but when you’re talking about parents I wonder if maybe there’s space for Camus and his killing of these fuckers the kings.
Yes.
I dont think so at all, called Evelyn Reilly.
So what, said Pat.
She glared at him. She was a lassie who took her fags out. Her packet lay on the desk and she was twiddling a box of matches in her hands.
So what’s too simple, replied Paul Moore.
Wrong.
Paul stared at Patrick, then shook his head.
Good … Patrick glanced at Evelyn Reilly: Not you Mirs Reilly.
Fuck off, she said.
If ye want to smoke smoke.
If I want to smoke I’m smoking.
What about Fiona Grindlay?
There’s nothing about Fiona Grindlay plus that and the baby.
Brian Nixon stood up. He put his hands into his jerkin pockets and shut his eyes, laughing; he shook his head and sat down again. And the bloke behind slapped him on the shoulder then stood up. The others looked to be waiting for him to speak. Danny Persse was his name.
Patrick said, Okay; if there’s nothing more on the referent it’s time, it’s that moment. And you’re the guy Mister Persse.