had a clearer vision. The truth is he couldnay remember a single damn thing about it. What could he remember? Nothing. He had been drunk. Another fucking night of nothing.
That was him, that was his life. Tonight too. The beautiful Barbara. Bla bla. Just shit, all shit. Humbug and crap nonsense. In three hours’ time he would have to go to work. That was the reality. Wage-slavery. All of his hopes and dreams. What was he doing with his life? It was just fucking shit and he was just utterly daft, a mental kind of lunatic, and he would never sleep anyway, what was the damn point of it all? He turned onto his back; it was like nowhere to go; he didnt have any place, and Fiona there. She was looking at him. Why are ye sighing? she said.
I’m not sighing.
Yes ye are. What’s wrong?
Nothing’s wrong.
She kept looking at him.
You have an inquiring gaze, he said.
She kept looking at him.
But I dont criticise ye for that. Which reminds me. Am I right in saying this, or have I got a faulty memory: before we left the pub – am I dreaming, did you accuse me of having a shocking sense of humour? If so it is a most interesting phenomenon because at one time I fancied myself a comedian. Honest.
I dont like comedians, they think they’re smart and they arent. They act like schoolboys most of them. That’s what they remind me of, boys from the third year acting big.
Does that include the females? he said and added quickly, But how can ye not like comedians? Although there again . . .
She muttered, Oh God.
Okay?
She sighed.
Now it’s you sighing, he said.
Your feet are cold.
Because I was making the tea.
Do ye not have a pair of slippers?
He chuckled.
What’s so funny?
The very word itself! Slippers, how it represents an entire way of life, like a whole world. So a whole world of meaning. What it all signifies. Just the word itself; that’s what I’m talking about. The way I see it, being a comedian in periods of social abjection is the pinnacle of public achievement. Either a comedian or a sports star. It’s only temporary. Once ye pass through this what-dye-call-it doldrumistic phase ye need them, comedians and athletes, football players, then ye start to get musicians after that, artists and writers; then a few years later everybody’s fighting for independence. So it’s a form of liberation.
You’re not a comedian you’re a musician.
No I’m not.
Yes you are.
I play music but I’m not a musician. I know musicians, I’m not one.
Yes you are.
No I’m not. He raised his head to see her and their hips touched, their hip bones.
So him with the ponytail, is he one?
Eh . . .
Yer duvet’s too wee. Look, she said, clutching the duvet up to her chin, waggling her feet at the bottom. He pushed his arm beneath her shoulders and neck. She allowed it. He let his other hand lie there on the bed. So is he? she said. Tony whatever ye call him. Is she with him now?
Who?
Her, the blonde woman.
I dont know. Maybe. Barbara, yeah, probably she is, I would say, probably.
Mm.
If he had allowed his arm to come right the way round her it would have been touching over her breasts, just below, but nudging them. Maybe she was thinking the same, she shivered. Did she? Slightly. She did. Her head came onto his chest and the twinges again immediate but a great feeling and he wished he was naked, he just felt like that, to do with just being free or something, his body being free, even if he fucking wasnay – stupid thing to say of course he was, of course. Just stupid. He was aye guilty of that, stupidity.
But if she was naked, her tits – boobs, softly, he felt them; she was turned into him slightly and he did. Her hair tickling his face. It tickled very much and affected his nose and his eyes. He didnt mention this in case it went against him. It would not have been a criticism but people take things differently. He had to move. Are ye cold? he said.
No.
Shivering is a reflex action anyway and we cannay be responsible for reflexes. It’s not like intentional, like it’s an intentional thing. There’s all these different parts of the body and if some outside thing happens it just reacts, the body.
Fiona was silent.
Anyway, you will be glad to know I gave up the idea of being a comedian.
You’re a musician.
I was too droll. Droll’s good but no in Glasgow. Ye get compared to the greats.
The who?
The greats. Chic Murray, if ye’ve heard of him. Have ye heard of him?
No. Maybe. I dont think so.
Andy shrugged. Ye find it in countries going through a bad patch of inferiority, a kind of mass infantile behaviour. We all suffer from it, like in primary school we’re all sitting there and the teacher has to leave the room, so everybody starts farting and burping. The boys do anyway. Maybe girls dont.
I’m not sure what ye’re talking about.
Dont they?
What?
Doesnt matter. It’s just like a theory I have. Or used to have! You’ve just shot it down in flames.
Fiona chuckled.
I felt that! Your facial muscles twitched.
I was only wanting to say about countries going through a bad patch, did ye mean the whole country?
Eh . . .
Ye said countries going through a bad patch.
Yeah.
Do ye mean countries?
Sorry, what?
Fiona said, Is it the whole country ye mean or is it like working-class people?
Eh, working-class people, I suppose. Yeah. He raised his head a little to see her face but could only see her hair, until she turned her head and settled her hand on his stomach and nestled into him side on. And she yawned. He was aware of her boobs almost like squashed on the side of his chest, they were squashed and just – fleshy. The shirt she wore was open and her boobs bare against him, she was not wearing a bra. She had taken off her bra and he was hard. He was going to say something, whatever, whatever it was. She had taken off her bra. Her breasts were squashed in against his chest and felt just – he drew his arm round her more tightly. She eased herself away. Who’s the wee girl in the photograph? she said. The one on the wall, standing next to you.
My daughter.
After a moment Fiona said, I knew ye were married. I knew ye were.
Well, divorced. How about you? Do you have any kids?
I knew ye were going to ask that.
Well because . . .
Because ye’re nosy.
Andy smiled.
Ye are, she said, ye pretend not to be. She removed from his chest but raised herself, closing her shirt; she sat up with her back to the bed-end, leaving an absence, he was so aware of the absence, of her absence. The warmth of her, from her. Why are ye smiling? she said.
I’m not smiling.
What are ye doing?
Not smiling. A gentleman doesnt smile at a lady.
Fiona