Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [138]
Thaw said, “I’ve thought of that. And next time we meet I’ll nod to her distantly and she’ll be specially inquiring and charming. She’ll suggest we have coffee together. Oh, she wants me. Slightly. Sometimes.”
“Maybe she’s frigid.”
“Of course she’s frigid. So am I. But nobody stays the same forever and even lumps of ice, surely, will melt if they rub together long enough. Perhaps she’s not frigid. Perhaps she loves someone else.”
“She’s honest, Duncan—I doubt if there’s anyone else.”
“Do you? I would doubt but … she’s so much more bonny each time I see her that I feel she must love somebody.”
McAlpin said, “Hm!” and glanced sideways at Thaw beneath lethargic eyelids.
He sat on the top deck of the homeward tramcar and his rage at her, increased with the distance between them. A voice said, “Hullo, Duncan.”
It took a moment to recognize June Haig, who was going downstairs. He rose and followed, saying, “Hullo, June. You are a bad girl.”
“Oh? Why that?”
“Last year you kept me waiting for nothing for a whole hour at Paisley’s corner.”
She gave him a quick startled smile. “Did I? Oh, yes. Something happened.”
He saw that she didn’t remember. He grinned and said “Don’t worry. The point is …” —the tramcar stopped and they crossed to the pavement— “the point is, will you forget again if we arrange to meet again?”
“Oh no.”
“Yes you will, if we don’t meet soon. What about Paisley’s corner tomorrow night? About seven?”
“Yes, all right, then.”
“Good. I’ll be there.”
He turned and walked quickly home. June had aroused him like an erotic fantasy, yet he hadn’t once blushed or stammered. He wondered why this arousal made him her equal when his feeling for Marjory made him subordinate. In the living room he walked up and down for a while, then said, “Dad, tomorrow night I’m taking out a girl. I want you to give me five pounds.”
Mr. Thaw turned slowly and stared at him.
“What kind of girl is this?”
“Her kind is no business of yours. I want to be free and open-handed. A few shillings will keep me mean and cautious and I’ll get no pleasure at all. I need pleasure.”
“And how often do you intend to have it?”
“I don’t care. I don’t know. I’m only thinking of tomorrow night.”
Mr. Thaw scratched his head. “Your grant is a hundred and twenty a year. With that I’m to clothe, house, feed you and pay for materials and pocket money. You won’t work in the holidays because it interferes with your artistic self-expression—”
“Don’t talk to me about self-expression!” cried Thaw fiercely.
“Do you think I’d paint if I’d nothing better to express than this rotten self? If my self was made of decent material I could relax with it, but self-disgust keeps forcing me out after the truth, the truth, the truth!”
“I can make neither head nor tail of that,” said Mr. Thaw, “but I know the result. The result is that I toil so that you can paint. And now you want over a quarter of my weekly salary to spend on pleasure. What kind of fool do you think I am?”
After a moment Thaw said, “In future I’ll handle my grant money myself. I know you don’t mind me sleeping here, but I’ll try not to ask for other favours.”
“You’ll try and you’ll fail because you’re so damned impractical. But all right, all right. Try anyway.”
“Thank you. It’ll be two months before the next grant comes through. Please give me five pounds, Dad.”
His father looked hard at him, then brought out a wallet and handed over the money.
In Paisley’s shop door next night he knew after ten minutes that June would not come, yet numbness in his limbs and heart kept him waiting an hour longer. A lame old man in a dirty coat approached and asked for money. Thaw stared resentfully into bloodshot eyes,