Free Mavis Belfrage by Alasdair Gray

desk and sat down holding his head as if it ached. He said wearily, “Go away. Leave me alone. For God’s sake leave me alone McGrotty.”
    Though not looking straight at the boy the teacher knew what happened next. McGrotty lowered hands, wiped cheeks with jacket sleeve, walked to the door. McGrotty opened it, stepped out, hesitated, yelled, “Ye big fat stupit wet plaster ye!” slammed the door and ran away. The teacher had no wish to run after him. His depression was not much deepened by McGrotty’s parting words. He thought, “I could have belted him if I’d wanted to. He knows it and that’s why he’s mad at me.” A minute later the teacher got up, locked the classroom cupboards, locked the classroom door behind him, followed McGrotty downstairs and gave the keys to the headmaster’s secretary.
2
    He was not the last teacher to leave school that Friday. At the playground gate a small three-wheeled vehicle propelled by a rear engine overtook him. This braked and the driver asked if he wanted a lift into town. Hedid and climbed in beside a grey-haired woman with a leg in a metal brace. She said, “You’re usually away a lot earlier.”
    â€œYes, I had someone to sort out. One-B-nine got out of hand and I had to keep the ringleader behind for extra discipline – three of the best – wham wham wham. I think he got the message.”
    â€œWas it Sludden?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMcPake?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWho was it?”
    â€œMcGrotty.”
    â€œI’ve always found McGrotty a poor spiritless creature. It’s Sludden and McPake I keep my eye on in one-B-nine.”
    â€œThey never bother
me
.”
    â€œWhich shows you can’t generalize about children from one class to the next. You live in town?”
    â€œNo, out Carntyne way.”
    â€œMeeting your wife in town?”
    â€œNo, Friday is my night off.”
    â€œYour night off what?”
    He frowned because her terse questions made him feel uncomfortably childish. At last he said, “Have you noticed how almost everything we do becomes a habit?”
    â€œIt’s inevitable at our age.”
    â€œIt may be inevitable but it worries me. I can stand it at work – teaching would be impossible without routines – but surely private life should be different? Yet on Sunday we have the usual long lie, late breakfastand afternoon stroll in the park. On Monday or Tuesday I change my library book, on Wednesday or Thursday a babysitter comes and we go out to a film or visit friends. And when we visit friends our conversations are much the same as last time. Never any new ideas. Never any new … behaviour. So on Fridays I have a night off. I go into town and let the unexpected happen.”
    â€œDoes your wife take nights off?”
    â€œShe doesn’t want them. Our son isn’t quite two yet. But she doesn’t mind me enjoying some freedom. She knows I won’t get drunk, or waste money, or do anything stupid. My wife,” said the teacher as if making a puzzling discovery, “is a very
intelligent
woman.”
    â€œIt would seem so. Where will I drop you?”
    â€œAnywhere near Sauchiehall Street. I’m going to the Delta tearoom.”
    â€œI can easily drop you there. Several of our staff usually meet there after school don’t they? Don’t Jean and Tom Forbes?”
    â€œYes,” said the teacher defensively, “but others go there too – art students, and people who work in television and … journalists and … unconventional people like that. Interesting people.”
    â€œThen it’s very wise of you to go there too.”
    He looked at her suspiciously. She said, “On your night off, I mean. I was an art student once. I felt wonderfully interesting in those days.”
3
    In the Delta tearoom three of his colleagues sat round a table in silence punctuated by occasional remarks.