Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [129]
“Good! Good!”
“I’ve not felt so happy since I invented the bactro-chlorine bomb.”
McAlpin bent over and emitted muffled bellowing laughter. Thaw went to his seat thinking what a waste of time unfriendliness was. Later on their way to the refectory he said to McAlpin, “Why didn’t you ask me to your party?”
“We had only a few tickets for the fancy-dress ball and had to give them to people who had asked Judy and me to their parties. I wanted to invite you but—er, it just wasn’t possible. I thought you wouldn’t mind because you were taking out that girl you picked up. How did you get on with her?”
CHAPTER 23.
Meetings
One evening Thaw came down to Sauchiehall Street when the air was mild and the lamps not yet lit. So fine a lake of yellow sky lay behind the western rooftops that he walked toward them in a direction opposite home and was overtaken by Aitken Drummond at Charing Cross.
“This isn’t your usual territory, Duncan.”
“I’m just walking.”
“I suppose you’re waiting for the ball to start?”
“Is there a ball tonight? No, I cannae afford a ticket.”
“I admit money is useful but don’t bother about a ticket. Come with me.”
They walked past the Grand Hotel then turned down a stunted unlit lane into a cluttered little yard. Thaw made out heaps of coke and coal, bins overflowing with garbage, stacks of milk, beer and fish crates. Drummond opened a door.
They entered so hot an air that Thaw felt stifled for a minute or two. Below a weak electric bulb an old man in a boiler suit sat smoking a pipe beside the furnace door. Drummond said, “This is Duncan Thaw, Dad. We’re going to the art school ball.”
Mr. Drummond took the pipe from his mouth and directed Thaw to an empty chair with the stem. His amused sunken mouth indicated a lack of teeth; his nose was almost as big as his son’s but more craggy; spectacles were pushed up on his brow, the legs mended with insulating tape. He said, “So you’re going dancing? It’s a waste of time, Douglas, a damned waste of time.”
“He’s called Duncan!” shouted Drummond.
“That doesn’t matter, it’s still a waste of time.”
“Who’s in the kitchen tonight?”
“Eh? Luigi.”
“Why not get Duncan and me something to eat? He’s hungry.”
“No, I’m not,” said Thaw.
Mr. Drummond left the room. Drummond pulled his father’s chair to the furnace door and opened it, showing a red-hot gullet of flame-roaring coal. He sat and spread his palms to the blaze saying, “It’s only a coincidence that I look like the Devil but I do enjoy heat. Pull your chair nearer, Duncan.” Mr. Drummond returned with a big plate of sandwiches and placed it on the floor between Thaw and Drummond. He said, “There’s cheese, there’s egg, there’s salmon, there’s meat paste. Help yourselves.”
He brought another chair from a corner, sat down and lifted a library book from the floor. “Do you read this man, Duncan?” he asked, showing the title of a novel by Aldous Huxley.
“Yes, but he annoys me. He shows a world with too little in it to believe or enjoy.”
“Too little?” said Mr. Drummond with a cackle of anarchic glee. “He leaves you with nothing, Duncan. Nothing whatsoever. Nothing at all. And he’s right.”
He turned a page and read while Thaw and Drummond ate.
“Tonight’s pay night!” said Drummond suddenly in a loud voice. Mr. Drummond looked up.
“I said you got paid tonight. Can I have some money?”
“The Glasgow Corporation, Duncan, gives this man one hundred and twenty pounds a year. He spends it on nothing but clothes and pocket money. He lives—”
“And materials,” said Drummond.
“And painting materials. He lives at home—he’s twenty-four—he pays nothing toward his rent or rates or fuel or light or food—”
“Food!” cried Drummond triumphantly. “I’m glad you mentioned food! Do you know what my father gave me for dinner today, Duncan? Fried kippers. Kippers, mind you, and fried with their heads and tails on.”
“Well, if you don’t like it you know what to do,” said Mr. Drummond mildly, returning the pipe to his