Authors: Alasdair Gray
“I won't be here long will I?” she asked, erect and facing him. She was black-haired, gaunt, the same height as him and dressed (he thought) more
attractively than the day before. She stood with right hand in the pocket of a trousersuit, the other gripping the strap of a bag slung from her shoulder. To stop himself looking hard at her he sat down and waited. She sighed, sat across the desk from him, took cigarette and matchbook from her bag, lit the cigarette and tossed a match into his ashtray.
He said, “I want to talk about your exam paper.”
“Yes. You want to apologize.”
“No!” he said, surprised and amused, “certainly not. I know you dislike my teaching methods â during the past term you've made that obvious. But I respect your attitude and don't want you to think I gave you abnormally low marks out of bad feeling.”
“But you did.”
“No. Let us take your paper a question at a time.”
He lifted the sheaf from the desk. She said swiftly, “No need. Did I write anything stupid in that paper?”
“No.”
“Did I express myself badly?”
“You expressed your
self
magnificently.”
“Did I show I understood the subject?”
“You showed that you thoroughly understand it.”
“Yet you failed me.”
“Yes. You did not answer my questions.” (He examined the paper.) “I did not ask you to compare the ancient Greek, English public-school and American state education systems. I asked you to summarize Hoffman and MacKinlay's accounts of these systems. I don't pretend Hoffman and MacKinlay's account is the only intelligent account
possible. On most points I preferred yours. But I did not ask for yours. The whole class knew my questions would be based on Hoffman and MacKinlay. You knew it.”
“Why are you terrified of your students' opinions?”
“They have nothing to do with me!” he said on a surprisingly petty note. Noticing this he blushed slightly. She stared at him then stubbed out her less than half smoked cigarette saying calmly, “I don't understand you but obviously you want me to think you're nothing but a conscientious, honest, decent, stupid bloke. All right, I believe it. Can I leave now?”
But it was he who stood up.
He went to the window, looked out and said, “How did you perform in your other subjects?”
“Surely you've heard about that from your colleagues?”
“Yes. Why did you do so badly?”
“For ⦠personal reasons. For personal reasons my attendance has been poor. But I didn't do very badly. I was a borderline case. With reasonable marks in your subject I might just have scraped through. You marked me as low as possible.”
“So you'll repeat the year?”
“I can't. They won't renew my grant.”
She spoke in so low a voice that he looked at her. Her head was bowed. He said crisply, “I may be able to help.”
She did not look up. He said, “If you're a borderline case I can explain to the Principal the special nature of your failure. If your reasons for poor attendance are not outrageous he might let you repeat a year. He's
not a harsh man.”
She shook her head and said, “There's no point. You see, I can't stand children â not whole roomfuls of them. Their problems bore me. Their manners sicken me. That's why my attendance was bad, and why I failed most of my practical tests. As for your subject, I could have got high marks if I'd wanted them but I decided to sink with flags flying and guns firing instead of just ⦠fading away. I suppose I did it to annoy you. Sorry!”
She looked at him with a slightly rueful but friendly smile. He nodded and said, “What will you do now?”
“Find a job somewhere ⦠I don't know.”
“Can I take you out to dinner?”
“Why?” she asked, startled. He did not answer. She said, “When?”
“Tomorrow night?”
She thought about that. “Thursday would be better.”
“Will we meet in the lounge of the North British Hotel? Say about seven?”
“Eight would be better.”
“All right.”
He went to the door and held it open saying, “Goodbye Miss Belfrage.”
She walked out past him saying, “Goodbye
Mister
Kerr.”
He closed the door, smiling at the mockery she had put into
Mister
. He was only comfortable with assertive women and had met none of these socially since leaving university.
Colin was ten minutes early for the meeting, Mavis Belfrage exactly on time. Each drank half a pint of lager in the lounge then shared a bottle of wine while dining in the restaurant. The invited woman mainly listened, the man who would pay for her mainly talked. He talked about Cambridge because he thought his life there more interesting than anything before or after; also because she seemed the sort of woman he had met at Cambridge. He told stories about dons, college servants and fellow students in a humorous, denigrating way which did not hide how much they had fascinated him. Mavis smiled and listened with an alertness which suggested she was trying to understand something behind his words. Wondering what it was he changed the subject to politics and was pleased when she began talking. She had left-wing radical views he thought sentimental in a woman with her expensive accent. He did not say so. Instead he described nuclear disarmament demonstrations he had marched with as a schoolboy, not mentioning that he had since become more conservative. When that topic was exhausted he was silent for a while, wondering how to get her talking about her own past. He ordered coffee and liqueurs then said abruptly, “What brought you to Scotland?”
“A man I once lived with came to work here.”
“O?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling at him.
“Em ⦠Why did you stay here afterwards?”
“Scotland is as good a place as anywhere else.”
Colin did not believe Scotland was as good a place as anywhere else. He suspected she was hiding something so changed the subject to avoid seeming suspicious.
“What are your plans for the future?”
“I never plan things,” she said shaking her head. “I put up with them until they turn nasty then take the nearest way out. Just now I don't see any way out.”
“That sounds serious. Why are you laughing?”
“Because I'm not a serious person and you obviously are!”
“I can't help it,” he said, laughing too.
“You don't have to talk to me all the time, Colin. You're a sort I can enjoy being quiet with.”
“That's a relief,” he said thankfully, and watched while she sipped the liqueur and smoked a cigarette. He liked the elegant way she did these things.
The night was wet and windy when they left the hotel and she accepted his offer of a lift. From a city centre brightened by the fronts of big shops he drove to a district lit only by lamp posts and the glow from curtained tenement windows. He did not know this district. “Left at the next turning,” and “Right now!” was all she said before telling him to stop at a kerb; then she turned to him and said, “Thank you Colin, I enjoyed this evening.”
“Won't you ask me in for a coffee?”
In a harder but quieter voice she said, “Listen, if you insist on coming in with me you have to be very quiet.
The landlady hates my guts and is looking for an excuse to turn me out.”
He nodded. They left the car. He closed the door carefully then followed her on tiptoe into the close of a tenement.
Two hours later they had made love and enjoyed it more than they had expected. Colin sat up in bed feeling better than he had ever felt before. He was astonished by how well he felt. Mavis seemed to be sleeping but without opening her eyes murmured, “You're quite a loverboy, aren't you?”
“You led me on.”
“You let me. Some men can't.”
“Have you had many men?”
“Have you had many women?”
He thought about two women he had once fucked with after a drunken party. It had been interesting but unsatisfying.
He said, “Let's not discuss that just now.”
From the bedclothes under her chin a hand with pointing forefinger slid out. She aimed it at his heart murmuring, “You are being secretive because you've nothing to hide.”
He laughed and agreed. Since his lively feelings needed an outlet he asked if he could make the cup of coffee he had asked for in the car.
“Yes, if you're quiet about it. There's water in the kettle.”
“Can I put on some heat?”
“No. The gas is worked by a shilling meter and I'm out of shillings.”
“I have a shilling.”
“Keep it. The slot meter is in the hall and I don't want that nosy old bitch seeing you.”
Amused by her English habit of calling a wee lobby
the hall
he said, “Will you put in the shilling? This room's freezing.”
“No,” (she snuggled deeper in the bedclothes) “I'm perfectly warm and cosy here.”
He slipped on the overcoat he had hung over a bundle of garments on a hook behind the door. An electric kettle stood in the hearth of a boarded-up fireplace. The board was papered, as were the walls, with a pattern like red brickwork, its realism enhanced by patches of genuine damp and dirt. Mavis had hidden the brickwork as much as possible by pinning childish drawings over it and posters showing the faces of Che Guevara, James Dean and popular singers whose faces were as sullen as her own sometimes looked.
While waiting for the kettle to boil he said abruptly, “I'm afraid I need you.”
“O I'm sorry!” she cried, staring at him.
“Why?”
She closed her eyes murmuring, “Nothing. It doesn't matter.”
“I want you to live with me.”
“O?”
“Will you live with me?”
“Why not? It will be convenient. I'm terribly short of money.”
“Is that the only reason why you'll live with me?”
In a low voice she said, “No, Colin.”
“You see I'd like us to get married.”
“There's too much of that going on nowadays.”
“I'd like it all the same.”
“Why?”
“I prefer things to be conventional.”
“I'm married already!” she said with a sudden smile of beautiful malicious glee. He shut his eyes for a moment then said, “When did you leave him?”
“Years ago.”
“Was he bad to you?”
“No, he was nice. I only go for nice men.”
“Why did you separate?”
“Because I'm a bit of a bitch.”
“You're not a bitch!”
“Nice men never believe I'm a bitch.”
The kettle boiled. He took it to a table by the bed where mugs and a jar of coffee powder stood among food tins and piles of magazines, mostly fashion magazines. While making the coffee something tugged at his mind. All the drawings on the wall showed big aeroplanes bombing tiny houses. He pointed to a heap of aeroplane magazines.
“Why are you fond of aeroplanes?”
“These belong to my son,” she said, smiling sweetly.
“How old is he?”
“Eight.”
“But!” cried Colin excitedly, “that means you're old! I mean, I'm sorry, older than me.”
“Had you not noticed?” she asked coldly.
“No! I always think women who attract me are my own age or younger. Where is your son?”
“With a friend. He usually sleeps here.”
“Where?” asked Colin looking round the tiny room.
“With me,” she said taking a cigarette case from under her pillow.
“Is that healthy?”
“I honestly don't know. Give me that lighter.”
“You've a horrible life Mavis,” he said holding a flame to the tip of her cigarette. She looked at him across it and whispered, “Do you really want me?”
“I
need
you.”
He removed her cigarette, kissed her then gave it back.
Then sat on the bed, warming his hands on the coffee mug and thinking hard.
“You'll be a lot happier with us,” he said at last. “The lad can have a room of his own.”
“Us?”
“My father and I. We took a house in Saint Leonard's Bank when I started at the college.”
She looked uneasy so he assured her, “We're buying it through a decent building society. He pays a third and I pay two. I have the bigger salary, you see.”
“What does your father do?”
“Keeps a hardware shop.”
“So your posh accent isn't inherited.”
“Acquired. I hope you don't mind.”
“Will ⦠your dad like me?”
“O yes, we never disagree about important things. I'll tell him tomorrow. But if you've no objection I'll come to bed again because I want to hold you again, just to make sure you're real.”
At six thirty next morning he returned to Saint Leonard's Bank, a pleasant lane between a public park and a terrace of neat little Victorian houses with small front gardens. Colin entered his home quietly and quietly washed, shaved and changed his clothes. A morning paper was thrust through the letter-box. He took it to the kitchen and read while waiting for his father
who entered half an hour later saying, “Aye aye, out all night were we?”
“Yes. I must tell you about that.”
“Son,” said his father starting to make breakfast for them, “you don't need to tell me a thing.”
“But I must tell you about this. I've met someone â a woman I'm keen on. I've asked her to stay with us.”
“For the weekend?”
“For the foreseeable future.”
“You want to marry her?” said his father, staring.
“Yes but I can't. She's married already and she has an eight-year-old son who'll stay with us too.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty Colin! Have you got her into trouble?”
“I have not made her pregnant. I have no practical reason for wanting her.”