Water-based? asked Davie.
Aye, more or less, and he wasni far wrong when you come to think about it.
Ninety percent of the body’s water.
Is it? asked Pat.
You’re the teacher!
Hahaha. That’s right! But what I’m really on about is fucking eh see when a match goes out, when the flame vanishes, leaving the smoke … It’s like your life. It’s like your existence. The spirit departing from your body — you could even think of it as the soul if ye were into theology and worshipping deities. Plus think of the Arabian Nights for instance, the genie of the lamp, the smoke issues from the spout and then whoof! the genie appears, called into existence, I’m here to do your bidding o master.
Sounds like the bloody working-class, said Arthur to Gavin.
Aye you’re fucking right, replied Gavin.
Aye but where’s there’s smoke there’s fire! said Davie.
The eternal optimist, said Gavin.
You’ve got to be. Eh Pat?
I dont know.
What do you think of Marx? asked Arthur.
Fucking great.
Aye. Arthur smiled.
Some things ye just cannot take away from him. No matter how hard they fucking try!
Gavin said, I’ll always agree with ye there brother. He was for the workers and that’s that, end of story.
I’m drinking to that, said Arthur and raised his whisky.
The others followed. Afterwards Davie said, There was this auld guy used to hang about with my feyther; he was a good auld cunt, a bit crabbit I mind — course I was a boy just, a snapper. Him and the feyther used to go for long walks; they’d meet up with their cronies down at Partick Cross subway station and then they’d all set off.
Where to? asked Pat.
I’m no sure. I dont think it was anywhere special but. Sometimes they just walked it to Whiteinch Park to watch the boys playing football … Davie nodded, he looked at the carpet.
After a brief silence Arthur said, What you telling us this for Davie?
I dont know, it’s got bloody lost somewhere. Davie chuckled: It must be the homebrew!
Dont fucking blame the homebrew! Arthur laughed and called to Gavin: Hear him! Blaming the homebrew because he’s getting fucking doty!
I am getting doty, Davie said, it’s that house of mine it’s like living in a bloody mental asylum. No kidding ye Paddy four teenagers I’ve got fuck sometimes ye wait an hour and a half to get to the bloody toilet!
Four teenagers! Horrendous.
Fucking worries! Ho! Davie shook his head, swallowed a mouthful of superlager.
After a moment Gavin said: What game did you go to on Saturday?
The Yoker, they were playing Perthshire. It was alright; no outstanding but alright. Heh what do ye make of this, there was only one goal scored and I missed it!
Gavin replied, Were ye gabbing?
Gabbing. Naw.
That makes a change!
Ha ha, said Pat.
Gavin laughed. He signalled for the whisky bottle and Pat got up to hand it across to him. But when Gavin made to take it Patrick snatched it away and laughed: Too slow brother, the reflexes are definitely going!
Aw aye? Anytime you want to prove it son. The table-tennis table is aye available down the road.
I’ll maybe take you up on that.
Last time he challenged me I thrashed him, said Gavin to the others. He thought he would beat me as well! What was it the first game again? Was it 21–6?
For fuck sake, cried Pat, imagine minding the score from a game of table-tennis ye played a fucking year ago!
It wasni a year ago.
Near enough.
Six fucking month ya lying bastard.
Imagine calling your brother a bastard!
Strange statement! said Arthur.
It is indeed.
Pat grinned, returning to his chair. And Arthur said to him: Tell me this, you being a teacher and all that I mean, do kids the day still get homework? The reason I ask, as far as I can make out my two never do anything, I mean fuck all Paddy, nothing. Where’s your homework I say to them. They just look at me as if I’m a fucking eejit.
The days of homework have gone forever, said Pat.
How come?
Times have changed.
Aye well it’s the weans that’re suffering.
So what?
Arthur continued to gaze at him, then he frowned, puzzled; uncertain as to the nature of fighting talk apparently because if one thing was sure it was the following: a glove had just smacked him on the gub. Maybe Pat should have flung a glass of beer over him instead, then he would have twigged what was what. But there’s only so much one person can do and that includes that great arbiter in the sky the teacher, s/he can teach the weans but no the fucking parents.
Patrick said: Do you know what I tell parents Arthur? I tell them to go and fuck themselves. Patrick held both hands up in a gesture of peace, he smiled for a moment; I’m no trying to get at you personally but I just fucking feel that you cant expect the teacher to be the everything, the heavyweight boxing champion of the world.
Arthur stared at him.
Know what I mean, I’m just being honest with ye. I dont think ye should expect the teacher to do everything. If you want your weans to get homework then give it to them your fucking self.
Gavin said: That actually sounds quite right-wing ye know.
Well it’s meant to be the fucking opposite and it is the fucking opposite.
Gavin nodded.
I’m just sick of folk getting at teachers all the time, said Pat to Arthur directly.
I wasnt getting at you.
I thought you were, sorry.
Well I wasnt. Arthur looked from him to Gavin, then he frowned, he started rolling another fag.
No think some of them deserve to get criticised? said Davie.
Aye but that’s the same in any job.
Some of them dont fucking teach at all, said Arthur. Let’s face it. They just sit at their desk and read a fucking book!
Pat didnt answer.
And then they expect these long holidays all the time!
Aye, I agree with ye there! Gavin glanced at Pat: Ye canni deny that.
Of course I can.
Ye mean ye do deny it?
Of course.
Gavin gazed at him, then laughed briefly. He looked at Pat but Pat looked away. Nor was Pat going to say anything further because he was fucking off home as soon as he swallowed what he had lying. There was no point sitting here yapping to a bunch of fucking prejudiced rightwing bastards. And Gavin turned on him once more: What d’you mean ye deny ye get long holidays?
I deny I get long holidays, that’s what I mean.
Back it up.
What d’you mean back it up?
Show me what you’re talking about?
Naw. You show me what you’re talking about.
I think I know what Paddy means, said Davie.
Good, tell me, replied Gavin.
I think I know what you mean Paddy.
Pat nodded.
Ye dont think ye get long holidays because when you’re off from the school you’re still doing other things connected with it, making up timetables and all that.
Patrick nodded.
I still say it’s the weans that suffer, muttered Arthur.
Patrick cleared his throat; he glanced at Gavin then sat forwards, hands on his knees, gazing at the carpet. He turned and lifted his whisky, sipped at it. He also had a bottle of homebrew lying now which Arthur had opened for him. It was too much. He was going to screw the head as far as this all was concerned. And the last thing was to get into fights, especially with guys that were twice your size. Arthur could just fucking sit on him and be able to carry on rolling one of his fags while Pat would be floundering beneath him trying to wriggle free. Although most of the weight he was carrying consisted of lard, lard. Gavin was speaking. Nicola’s name had cropped up and he was saying he had forgotten to go and pay an outstanding electricity bill. He called to Pat: She’ll no be too pleased brother!