Do you smoke dope? said Arthur.
We were talking about it before ye came in, said Gavin.
I dont actually smoke at all, said Pat. I wish I did!
Strange statement, replied Arthur.
Gavin laughed.
It is but, said Arthur.
Davie said: I used to smoke dope. Before I discovered sex! He laughed and flourished both hands at the start of another air and he cried: The Deil’s Awa Wi The Exciseman!
As the music played Pat called to Gavin: I saw maw and da at the weekend. Saturday, I was up on Saturday.
Aye.
Da was looking fine.
Aye … Gavin nodded and his eyelids closed and he leaned back on the chair, his head resting on the back of the frame.
Patrick understood that he was not wanting to speak of family matters, not at present. Not in company. Fine. Quite right. He was probably a bit intoxicated anyway and not in the right mood. This homebrew was strong. Everybody got intoxicated these days. Even the poor wee first-yearers were drinking too much. Mind you it was better than heroin. Or was it; at least with heroin they got an early death whereas with alcohol they were left to traverse the flagstones for a further couple of score years.
Heh Gavin how’s the kids? he called.
The kids are fine the kids are fine, fine. Gavin smiled falsely and added, We went up for you on Sunday and you werent in.
Aw …
Gavin’s eyelids were closed again, his head back on the frame of the chair: Nicola was worried about you. Gavin opened his eyes and said to his mates: The wife worries about him but no about me. She worries about her brother-in-law but no about her husband, she doesni give a fuck about him, her man.
Typical female, muttered Arthur.
Davie shrugged. I’ve no seen the wife for a month. She went away and hasni returned — sounds like the line from a song eh! Naw but Gavin what d’you expect; women have got this thing about young brothers. It’s a fact, every woman likes a young brother. They’re no bloody interested in husbands. That right Arthur?
Dont fucking ask me.
Davie glanced round to Patrick.
Gavin cried: No point looking at him ya daft cunt he is the young brother, he’s fucking biased! Gavin shook his head, sitting forwards on the chair; he swallowed a mouthful of homebrew and said, Plus he’s a fucking teacher, a brainbox. That correct brother!
It’s true aye, I’m a brainbox; I passed my exams at uni and so on right to the very top and now here ye are this is me the man ye see in front of ye. Here’s fucking looking at you brother! Patrick smiled falsely and raised the glass to his lips, pausing before finishing what was left in it. Mind you, he continued, I could go to sleep here if you’ve got no objections, I’m beginning to feel a wee bit sleepy.
Gavin gazed at him; then he replied, No objections at all, do what ye like.
It’s a comfy carpet, said Davie. I’ll vouch for it. Top marks.
Ten out of ten, grinned Arthur.
Patrick smiled then stopped the smile, he counted the bottles on the table. The levels of irony were become slippery. The problem was this: should I remain in the company and surmount all? Or should I give up, make my excuses and leave? The fact that here in the living room of his big brother’s home was exceedingly comfortable played a large role in the final decision which was this: let us remain and surmount all. My head was birling this morning, he said directly to Davie and to Arthur, so I fuckt off at dinner time. I just says to hell with it I’m going home, I’m going home. So I went home. Well, I came here instead.
Quite right too, frowned Arthur.
Aye, said Davie.
I disagree … Gavin had lighted a cigarette and he blew a puff of smoke at the ceiling. I disagree, he said, I think you’re both talking shite. He’s got a job and he should look after it. We’ve no got a job. More than half of Scotland’s no got a job. So you dont start treating it with impunity if you’re lucky enough to have one.
Silence.
Patrick chuckled.
You dont, said Gavin.
Patrick nodded, smiled.
Gavin glanced at Arthur: No think so Arthur?
Eh …
Davie grinned and winked at Arthur. Brothers, he said, you’re better to keep out of it. I had a brother once. Know what I did? Eh Paddy? Know what I did? I fucking killed him. So I did. I done him in. I grabs a hold him by the neck: heh you I says I dont like you — and I had this blade on me so I stuck it into him. Just like that! Davie laughed.
Patrick laughed a moment later. Gavin didnt; but he did smile. Then Arthur muttered, You’re going to end up in a fucking institution ya mad bastard.
Davie slapped himself on the kneecap and laughed loudly, then gestured at the bottles of beer: Seize us one Paddy eh?
Pat handed him one, then he hesitated and got to his feet. He said, Eh … I think I better add something to the cargo.
No need, replied Gavin.
There isni, said Arthur. Honest, I’ve got loads up the stair — even if I say so myself.
He has, said Gavin.
Davie chuckled. His kitchen’s chokablok with it. Everywhere ye look, bottles and bottles, all shapes and sizes; milk bottles and ginger bottles, bloody medicine bottles and bleach bottles; jamjars as well!
The others laughed, including Gavin.
Patrick added, Nevertheless chaps, a wee halfbottle would come in handy.
Well, said Gavin, put like that …
A man after my own heart, said Arthur.
Rain was drizzling down. He waited at the closemouth but it wasnt about to cease for him so he upturned the jacket collar and stepped out and down the steps to the pavement and hurried along to the main road. The man serving behind the chicken-net in the licensed grocer looked so unlikely he could have been the owner, dressed in such a clatty manner; clatty shirt and clatty trousers and a clatty cardigan of immense nondescription. A man of fifty-nine years and four months by the looks of it. A man of slackish jawbone, of scraggy neck tissue, dropped adam’s apple and large hairs hanging from his nostrils and ears. If this man was an invalid and very close relation of Patrick’s, not to say father, and had Patrick been obliged, as dutiful son or nephew perhaps, to shave this man’s neck and face — then in the name of God and Immanuel Kant he could never ever manage to perform such a fucking obligation even be it fucking filial for christ sake never mind morall and this sort of morall demands the extra ‘1’ at all times, being the noumenal essentiality.
A bottle of Grouse and a dozen cans of superlager please.
The guy that helped Hölderlin was a Scotsman by the name of Von Sinclair. He was one of the mainstays of the wee coterie of folk who intellectualised around the taverns and cafes; he wrote a bit of poetry himself — it was maybe him that got Hölderlin set up as a tutor to Susette’s kid.
Behind the counter and well away from the possibility of sneaky little fingers lay a fair selection of chocolate bars and sweeties and Patrick added a variety of them in on the order for wee Elizabeth and John. There was a strangeish kind of smell breaking through that of the diverse spirits and wines. A sweetly kind of smell which didnt seem to have much connection with chocolate bars. It was maybe the guy serving, wearing a strong after-shave to disguise the pong from his socks. Or maybe he smoked a pipe with that funny Dutch tobacco that smelled of myrrh and frankincense.
Or was it carbolic soap and incense?
Death was close at hand!
It cost him an extra five pee for a plastic carrier bag. The man stared craftily at him while asking for the dough, then he looked away. Patrick had already signed his cheque for the sum and had to dig into the pockets for the coin. But he brought his hands out his pockets, even though there was money there, and he said: Look this is out of order, charging me for a carrier bag after I’ve spent so much on the actual drink itself I mean let’s face it, you should be quite happy to give me one for nothing.