Patrick glanced at his watch. The weans didnt notice him doing it thank god. But he had taken great care for just that reason.
When the bell rang he was sitting on his stool with his elbows on the edge of the desk. He didnt look at the kids as they headed toward the door. He didnt feel like a terrible hypocrite. But nor did his stomach feel in as great a condition as it could be. A couple of the kids looked as if they considered lingering. Sometimes they did that in order to ask a question. There was nothing wrong with this in first-year classes. Patrick inclined his head in the direction opposite them and they soon departed.
When Patrick’s parents forced him into going to university because let us face it they hadnt done that at all although having said this of course he had in no sense desired to attend that institution, especially because he had or had not wanted to go in the first fucking place.
So that’s that then.
Out in the corridor he walked to the banister and leant his elbows there. All the weans marching about below. He continued along towards the staircase in a slow manner, his hands in his trouser pockets, jacket buttoned. His shoulders were hunched in an effort to retain body heat, this being a situation wherein attempting just that seemed necessary to the following second’s survival. The following second’s survival. An insulation. When Patrick’s parents had forced him into going to uni
ah shut up; who the fuck cares, who the fuck cares. Patrick swung his shoulders from side to side, it was all so fucking stupid, daft, plain daft, just fucking crazy, crazily diabolic, crazy in diabolic fashion, in the style of Goya’s black period. He stopped his shoulders from swinging.
He could have become involved with prostitutes, or at least have obtained sex on that basis. What basis? Nothing. What basis? Nothing, just that sort of basis. But what sort of basis are you talking about? I’m not talking about any basis. The children filing past him here at the head of the stairs, filing past him o so respectfully filing past him, so respectfully. Patrick nodded, smiling at the one or two he recognised more than others. Insulation. That insulation. Protecting oneself against the encroachments, the encroachments. There was Old Milne below, stalking the ground floor in his MA gown. What a man! What a chap! He was a curious fellow. A Congregationalist Protestant Christian. A believer in the teachings of the Congregationalist Protestant Christian teachers. In his absent-minded quandary
he was aye in this absent-minded quandary. Prowling the corridors lost in thought. A contradiction, to absent-mindedly prowl — no doubt he was just wandering the place in a kind of limbo. Pat could see the man as a fellow sufferer, the sort of headmaster he himself
he himself!! What was he talking about he himself; he himself? what did that mean he himself. He himself! In the name of fuck.
Mister Doyle …
Mister Doyle …
Yes aye …
It was Isabel and Shenaz. What were they up to. Plus another couple hovering to their rear, all with these cheeky wee looks on their faces. Ach no really cheeky, just fucking happy, in some unfathomable way.
Your shoelaces are undone sir.
Lassies dont call men sir!
Your shoelaces are undone Mister Doyle.
O christ. Such an old fucking carry on, these merry pranks of the innocent they were so fucking horrendous. Aye eh … he smiled, glancing at the kids to the rear and it included Catriona. He didnt bother checking his shoelaces; he did know this particular pair of shoes and shoelaces however and strange as it may seem the laces did have a habit of working their way undone, it was as if they had faulty fucking eyes or tongues or insteps or something. It was himself to blame for buying the cheaper efforts; why did he not buy dearer goods. There were shops selling shoes right at this very moment. He could just rush out and buy a pair. Why didnt he. Because he had to go and be with another class of weans for christ sake why else. He would make a point of this tomorrow morning, Saturday. Saturday is the day to go shopping. The lassies were still there. What were they still there for. He winked and grinned and walked on quickly. The main purpose was often just to make such contact with a teacher beyond the classroom, to let him see they thought funny things about him. Funny things. Unclear things. Could it be sexual? Of course. And they were well aware of his marital status. What age were they at all? Wee first-yearers! Twelve or thirteen. The stirrings. No doubt about it. Isabel had probably been dared to speak and only agreed if Shenaz would stand by her, plus Catriona in the near vicinity, her being thought to be the teacher’s pet. But she wasnt the teacher’s pet. He occasionally used her because she had a good memory and he would have to stop it because just it was not fucking fair, poor wee lassie christ it was just not fair. In fact she reminded him of Louise McGilvaray. That was a name from the past! Louise McGilvaray, god. She was a nice looking lassie. Probably married with a couple of kids by this time. If he hadni’ve gone to fucking uni that would’ve been him, married to Louise and living the life of Reilly. But if he really meant it he wouldni be so fucking flippant.
Eh ah …
it was Old Milne. Pardon?
Eh ah …
And the weans had vanished. Old Milne, with his hands clasped behind his back, tucked beneath the gown.
I had been wanting to have a word with you Mister Doyle.
Well I was actually in a hurry the now.
Old Milne’s baffled look!!! That somebody could be in a hurry when he was wanting to talk!
I was supposed to be meeting somebody … Patrick stopped; he glanced at his wristwatch. He was gibbering. If he had been supposed to be meeting somebody it would mean he was either going to be late or else miss the next period altogether. The headmaster was gazing at him. Pat smiled. He pointed at his watch. In fact I thought it was later than this. I was actually thinking of the interval.
Mm … Old Milne relaxed, the roles being re-redefined.
And the two continued to stand there. It was a crucial factor about the headmaster, this failure he had of clinching matters; these conversational pauses he seemed to introduce so that the other person became dutybound to blurt something out. Patrick was not fucking falling for it. It was incredible the arrogance the old dickie had. He was almost lounging there, slightly rocking on the balls of his fucking feet! How inferior he must have regarded Pat. Christ almighty. And now that nice actor’s speaking voice which had come into existence courtesy of a few thousand ounces of thick black pipe tobacco or so he liked to confide to folk at the annual licensed functions. At ten minutes to four then Mister Doyle … in my eh ah …
And he continued to fucking stand there as if he was muttering internally! What the fuck could he be muttering about internally in the name of god what on earth was up!
He was being carpeted. Doyle was on the carpet! Ten to four in the heidie’s office he was going to get a punishment exercise. Auld fucking fart. Well if Pat was about to get carpeted then he wouldni find out till Monday morning because one thing was definite, fuck him and his office.
And leaving such an event cloaked in mystery was only good sense. How foolish he would be to attend and discover. Definitely much better to postpone matters. Even going on sick-leave for a fortnight, and playing the pipes. Playing the pipes for fuck sake! And maybe Alison’s thighs!
Ten to four in his office but what a joke. What an actual joke. Poor auld Old Milne; his absolute certainty that everybody will stick to the rules of the game. He was probably an edwardian aristocrat in disguise. And still standing there! Maybe Pat was supposed to end the interview! Gazing straight at him. Maybe he was trying to form some kind of tacit relationship — convert him into a Congregationalist Protestant Christian! In the name of the holies! Patrick gestured in the direction of the corridor. He said: I’ve got to go to the toilet Mister Milne.