up every night too and tap at the side-door till he had to let them in. Once they were in he had to let them have something before they would go away. He felt he had lost the place somewhere, but he didn’t see what he could do about it.
He gave up his job without telling his mother and spent his days at the Mitchell Library pursuing an elusive something he thought of as his studies. He looked particularly for books in one volume that would tell him what he wanted to know. He read Wells’ Outline of History in a hop, skip, and jump, and from Russell’s History of Western Philosophy he wrote out the names of the philosophers. He made notes on what he tried to read, haphazard notes, not always coherent or legible, but still notes. It made him feel more like a real student when he sat in the Mitchell Library and took notes. Odd items of information stuck to him, items as dead and separate as flies on flypaper, but for all that he was learning. Sometimes his eyes ached and he wondered if glasses would make him look more like a student or if he wouldn’t suit them.
It was a great pleasure to him to sit amongst the undergraduates and look at the legs of the girls from Queen Margaret College when they sat across from him with their knees crossed. It made him feel he was a student too. He went home every day at the usual time after a cheap lunch in a small back-room restaurant near Charing Cross, and every week he took the amount of his wages from one of the tea-chests and handed it over to his mother. Sometimes he thought of buying her a present or making her a gift of a hundred pounds or so, but he always decided not to bother. In the first place, she didn’t deserve it, the way she was always finding fault with him, and in the second place she would only ask questions, not scientific ones, but the wrong ones, like where did you get all that money. He admired himself for not having given up his job at once. It proved his consideration for others. He had been so busy getting the Brotherhood organized under the protection of El that he hadn’t had time to think of himself.
‘I suppose some folk would say I should get my head examined,’ he said to himself proudly, scratching it. ‘But worldly matters are beneath we poets.’
The thought reminded him he had meant to write poetry if ever he had time. He bought a beautiful big book, half- bound in leather, like a ledger except that it wasn’t ruled off for cash entries, and he meant to start writing poetry in it. But he had to hide it from his mother, and that made it hard for him to get a chance to write in it. He didn’t seem to have any time at all to himself, even though he wasn’t working. The Brotherhood found employment for him. They made him their errand-boy: because of his age it was he who had to go into town and buy what they wanted. They were quite changed from the weeks when a pocketful of silver was enough for them. They outflanked him: they didn’t want the money as money, they wanted things. And he had to go and get them.
‘We could buy a ball and strips and start a team,’ said Cuddy. ‘The Brotherhood Rangers. The Bethel Thistle, eh? A dark blue jersey with an orange lily.’
‘Is that all you can think of?’ Percy cried, despairing of his chosen people. ‘Football! Can you no’ think of anything else but football? Do you never think of culture? You could buy Shakespeare’s plays or a season ticket for the SNO. And who would you play? Tell me that! There’s no league for a street team for lads of your age, and folk would ask where you got the money for a strip.’
‘That’s all you can say,’ Noddy complained. ‘Whatever we want to buy you say folk’ll ask questions, that’s what you keep saying. Have we no’ to buy anything?’
In the end Percy went into town and bought them a strip. He bought them two strips, and three balls, and two dozen pair of football boots. But they never wore the strips or the boots except at night in the cellar, when they played a brawling game of five-a-side. Percy kept the jerseys, pants and stockings in his own house every day, telling his mother they were the strip of the school football team (the school hadn’t a team), and he was their trainer.
In a big shop in Renfield Street he bought a ukelele one week and a guitar the next because Noddy insisted money ought to be spent on his musical education. He took a bus to Shawlands one afternoon and bought a tape-recorder because somebody thought it would be fun to have one, and another afternoon he went across the river to Maryhill for a transistor set, and while he was there he bought himself an electric razor. It was high time he was shaving every day. He told his mother the foreman had got it as a Christmas present, didn’t like it and gave it to him for nothing. He had to tell her something. He couldn’t go into hiding every time he wanted to shave. Another day he went over to Govan and bought a record-player. Much of the stuff he was sent to buy wasn’t meant to be anyone’s particular property. The tape-recorder, the record-player, the transistor, the television were everybody’s and nobody’s. They were bought because of a general will for them, and they furnished the cellar as a club for the Brotherhood. They were kept in the cellar and used there and nowhere else. The electricity required was got by using an adapter plug in one of the light-sockets. These items were not only kept in the cellar, they had to be hidden in case the janitor came across them, and Percy lost sleep worrying they would be found in spite of all his precautions. He worried too when he saw every member of the Brotherhood wearing a wristlet watch. Some of them had a pocket-watch as well, and he was sure they would attract attention. They had cameras too, Leicas and Voigtländers and Zeiss Ikons, but they didn’t dare use them.
Friday nights were a great comfort to him. He had been beaten in his attempt to limit the spending of the money but he was determined not to yield on the Friday night service. He was grateful nobody opposed him. It was quite the opposite. In their orgy of spending they seemed to enjoy the Friday night with more zest and reverence than they had shown when he had sent them away with five bob each. They weren’t just obeying him from force of habit, or doing casually what they knew he wanted done. They were doing it because they wanted to. They had taken over his creed and ritual and made them their own.
By their very submission to him they corrupted him, like a country that by accepting a dictator gives him a legal authority and wider scope for fanaticism. He had set out to be their leader, and he had become their slave, and he followed the code of his masters. He wakened to wants he had never known when he was only a packer in the Coop in Nelson Street. If his boys could find things to buy, then so should he to keep up with them. He bought a leather pocket-book so as to have something to carry pound notes and fivers in, for although he rationed the Brotherhood he never went out without twenty pounds in his pocket. He bought binoculars that cost him forty pounds, two expensive fountain pens to write his poems with and a dictionary of quotations to give him a short cut to a knowledge of English poetry. Lying in bed one night he had foreboding he might have to leave in a hurry and travel far in search of peace and quiet, so he bought a big briefcase, in genuine pigskin, and hid it in the cellar against the rats’ wall. It had three compartments and he kept a suit of pyjamas and his shaving tackle, carefully wrapped, in one compartment. The other two would hold thousands, he was sure. He bought a pair of skates and went to the ice-skating at Cross my loof, more to see the pretty girls there, and try to pick up one of them, than because he was keen on skating. He bought a fishing-rod and basket, and boots and waders and a jacket and hat to match, though he knew nothing about fishing and didn’t know where to go fishing anyway. But he had read that fishing was a solitary and peaceful sport, fit for thoughtful men, and he hoped he would find time to be solitary and peaceful some day.
He bought himself a new suit after he stopped working because he believed a gentleman of leisure should be well dressed, and when his mother made a scene about it he said he had been saving up for it for a year. She snorted sceptically and said no more, so he bought another couple of suits and shirts and ties to go with them. If he was smart and well dressed he might have a better chance of getting a girl, and a poet whose life was dedicated to the pursuit of beauty shouldn’t be wearing shabby clothes.
Seeing Jasper’s motor-bike parked in the blind-alley aroused him to a new want. Why shouldn’t he have one too? He bought one. After all, Shelley had a boat. A poet must move with the times, and Shelley would certainly have had a motor-bike or a racing-car if he was alive today. What’s more, he would probably have written an ode to Speed. He began one himself, just to do what Shelley would have done, and wrote the first three lines in his leather-bound log-book.
O wild Speed, be thou me, impetuous