Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [141]
“I see. She’s in love with her parents. Instead of learning to be adult by teaching me to be adult she basks idly at home. Oh, God, if you exist, hurt her, hurt her, God, let her find no comfort but in me, make life afflict her as it afflicts me. Oh, Aitken! Aitken! How dare she be happy without me?”
Thaw lay back glaring at the ceiling. After a pause Drummond said bitterly, “I understand your feelings.”
Janet sneered and said, “In case you don’t know, Duncan, he’s thinking about Molly— oh!”
Drummond’s foot below the blankets had struck her chin. She put her hands to her face and wept quietly. They stewed in their separate miseries and gradually fell asleep.
Thaw dreamed he was fornicating awkwardly with Marjory, who stood naked and erect like a caryatid. He rode astride her hips, holding himself off the ground by gripping her sides with knees and arms. The cold rigid body stayed inert at first, then gradually began to vibrate. He had a thin, lonely sensation of triumph.
He awoke late in the afternoon. Slowly drawing his feet from below Janet without disturbing her he carried his clothes into the kitchen, washed at the sink, dressed, gave water and cheese to the mice in the crate and rolled up the drawings he had made the night before. On the way to the front door he glanced into the bedroom. Janet no longer lay on the bed foot and there was movement under the blankets. In the close he met Mr. Drummond returning from the hotel, tall, spectacled, flat-capped, raincoat open over boiler suit.
“Hullo, Duncan. You’re not leaving? I’m just going to make dinner. I’ve some cod roe here.”
He indicated a paper parcel under his armpit.
“No thanks, Mr. Drummond.”
“Well, it’s a present from the chef. I neither pinched it nor paid for it. You’re sure you won’t have some?”
“No thanks. If I go back to your house I’m afraid I’ll never get away.”
Mr. Drummond laughed and started filling a short-stemmed pipe. “You’re a reader, aren’t you?”
“I read books, yes.”
“I’m inclined that way myself. I tried to make Aitken a reader, but I failed. Do you know how he passed his English exams?”
“No.”
“I read his schoolbooks, Scott, Jane Austen, and so on, and told him the stories. He can remember anything he hears, you see, but he’s never read a book from start to finish in his life, unless it was about art. Consequently his mind is cramped, narrow and lacking in sympathy for his fellow man. He’ll never prosper. But you’ll prosper, Duncan.”
“I hope so, Mr. Drummond.”
“Oh, yes, you’ll prosper, Duncan.”
Cheered by this prophecy Thaw walked quickly uphill to the school and passed Marjory in the entrance hall. He nodded coldly but she stopped him, smiled and said, “Where have you been, Duncan?”
“I’ve been sleeping.”
“Are you coming for a coffee?”
He was filled with relief and delight. She gave him her hand to hold on the way to the refectory. He thought, ‘This is an interesting world.’
CHAPTER 25.
Breaking
He took the 1875 Imperial Gazetteer of Scotland from his father’s bookcase and read:
MONKLAND CANAL, an artificial navigable communication between the city of Glasgow and the district of Monkland in Lanarkshire. The project of the canal was suggested in 1769 as a measure for securing to the inhabitants of Glasgow, at all times, a plentiful supply of coals. The Corporation of the city immediately employed the celebrated James Watt to survey the ground, obtained an act of parliament for carrying out the measure, and subscribed a number of shares to the stock. The work was begun in 1771. Previous to its formation the lands in the neighbourhood were comparatively shut up, the mineral fields unproductive, and only a thatched cottage was seen here and there to dot the surface. But once the canal was in operation a change, as if effected by magic, came over the face and feelings of the district, a change accelerated by the establishment of ironworks in the district of Monkland. Public works were erected, population gathered in masses by thousands, splendid edifices were called into existence, a property once considered