Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [137]
“Hullo!” he said, gazing joyfully back.
“Have you been ill, Duncan?”
“Just a bit.”
“What a shame.”
She still smiled, but her voice sympathized.
In the following weeks she brought him increasing splendour and discontent. He told her of a studio he was sharing near Kelvingrove Park.
“It’s a great big attic and by clubbing together it only costs a few shillings a week each. On Friday nights we go there from school and take turns at making a big meal. Most of the others get help from their girlfriends but Kenneth is a great chef. Last week he made Spanish onion soup with toast on top. Next week it’s my turn and I’m going to boil a haggis. A shop in Argyle Street has good big cheap ones and they’re nice with tatties and turnip. Afterwards we put off the lights and play records by the fire, jazz and classical. You should come.”
“It sounds marvellous.” She sighed. “I wish I could come.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Well … there’s a friend I always have to see on Fridays.” At tea breaks and lunch time they sat in the refectory or went to a café and returned holding hands and talking. He joined the school choir because she sang there, and after late practices they walked to her home. At the garden gate conversation suddenly failed, their mouths met in a ritual pressure and she slipped away with a soft “Goodnight,” leaving him as baffled as the first time they kissed. When they left the school together she always murmured “Excuse me a minute,” slipped into the ladies’ lavatory and left him outside for a quarter of an hour. She never recognized him if he was with friends. These insults filled reservoirs of rage which evaporated whenever she smiled at him. And when their bodies accidentally touched a current of stillness and silence flowed in from her and he felt that before touching Marjory he had never known rest. His calmest moods had been full of fear, hope, lust and memory, all clashing to make a discord of ideas and words. Her touch silenced these, letting him know nothing for a while but the pressure of hand or knee, and Marjory beside him, and sunlight on rooftops or a cloud seen through a window. That didn’t happen often. His frequentest pleasure was waking in the morning, hearing pigeons among the chimneypots and being warmed by the thought of soon seeing her. When words came at these times the memory of Marjory orchestrated them into phrases. He wrote poems and slid copies into her hands as they passed in the school corridors. He started combing his hair, brushing his teeth, polishing his shoes, changing underwear twice a week and (to the annoyance of Mr. Thaw, who laundered them) shirts four times a week. He wore the pin-striped suit to school and cleaned off the stains with turpentine, though this made temporary rashes on the skin. His manner with other girls grew more playful. He thought they were interested in him.
After school one evening he saw her on the edge of a group outside the annexe. She smiled and raised her hand and he said, “Remember tonight, Marjory?”
She grew agitated and distressed. “No, Duncan…. Duncan I think I … I’m sure I’ve something to do tonight…. This isn’t an excuse; I really have too much work to do.”
“Never mind,” said Thaw amiably. He entered the refectory and found McAlpin alone at a table. Thaw sat down, folded arms on the tabletop and hid his face in them. “Damn her,” he said muffledly. “Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.”
“What happened this time?”
Thaw explained. McAlpin said, “She’s afraid of you.”
“That’s impossible. I’m not aggressive. Even in masturbation fantasies I never dream of being cruel to real girls.”
After a pause, McAlpin said, “Imagine you