Read Online Walking Wounded by William McIlvanney - Free Book Online
Authors: William McIlvanney
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Christmas is a bad time for the men. The slightest bit of trouble could cause a riot. And what did you do? At the end of the meal you smashed your plate on the floor. You jumped on to the table and danced through all the other empty plates. You broke three chairs. And it took four warders to get you out of there. Is that a fair report?â
âTwo chairs, sur. One of them wouldny brek.â
The governor decided to let the pedantry pass.
âJust tell me why, McQueen.â
He looked off into the distance that lay outside the window and the governor was aware again of the opaque quality of McQueenâs eyes. They were the eyes â the governor had to admit it â of a visionary. A private, bizarre, non-conformist visionary. You could never be sure what was going on in McQueenâs head but you could always be sure it was something. If only he would keep it in there, whatever it was, the governor thought. McQueen looked back at the governor and the governor briefly felt their roles reversed. He knew that McQueen was going to tell him, but with something that felt like condescension. It was as if McQueen had set the governor a simple problem and he was saddened that the governor couldnât solve it. He would tell him but in the manner of a disappointed teacher reluctantly admitting that his pupil hadnât made much progress.
âThe turkey, sur,â he said.
âThe turkey?â
âThe turkey, sur.â
âWhat was wrong with the turkey?â
âDid you see the turkey, sur?â
âI saw the turkey. McQueen. I ate the turkey. McQueen.It may interest you to know that during any working day I eat the same food as the inmates. I donât have lunches sent up from the Ritz. I care about this establishment. I think every inmate in here deserves to be punished. But punished in specific ways. And spoiling the food isnât one of them. I check the kitchen every single day. That was a very special Christmas meal we made. The turkey was of high quality. I tasted it!â
âIt wasnât the taste.â
âI beg your pardon?â
âSur. It wasnât the taste. Sur.â
âNo, no. Thatâs not what I mean. You thought the turkey tasted all right?â
âIâve tasted better, sur. But it was all right.â
The governor looked down at the impeccable order of his desk. There was the matching set of marled fountain-pen and propelling pencil which his wife had given him years ago on his first senior appointment. There was the photograph of Catriona and Kim and Jason, looking laundered. There were the books of reference, sandbags between him and procedural error. There was the correspondence waiting to be signed, not an edge of a sheet out of place. The only thing that hinted at the invading chaos of a life like McQueenâs was the big desk blotter. It was covered in hieroglyphics, countless comments and signatures that had come out backwards, overlaying one another and creating a complex palimpsest as difficult to decipher as an ancient manuscript. He would have to renew it soon.
Looking at the blotter, he felt the familiar feeling that came from talking to McQueen. He was trying to define the feeling. About three years ago, Catriona and he had gone to a play. It was the last time they had been to the theatre. They had sat through an hour-and-three-quarters during which people did things that had no connection with anything they had done before and made remarks to one another that seemed to come out of thin air. One character spokefor ten minutes at one point without interruption and then the play went on as if she hadnât opened her mouth. As far as Catriona and he were concerned, she might as well not have. They stayed for the whole performance out of a kind of baffled guilt, exchanging looks. Were they the only ones who hadnât read the guide-book? At the interval, an ageing man who had two attractive girls with him had said,
âTwo chairs, sur. One of them wouldny brek.â
The governor decided to let the pedantry pass.
âJust tell me why, McQueen.â
He looked off into the distance that lay outside the window and the governor was aware again of the opaque quality of McQueenâs eyes. They were the eyes â the governor had to admit it â of a visionary. A private, bizarre, non-conformist visionary. You could never be sure what was going on in McQueenâs head but you could always be sure it was something. If only he would keep it in there, whatever it was, the governor thought. McQueen looked back at the governor and the governor briefly felt their roles reversed. He knew that McQueen was going to tell him, but with something that felt like condescension. It was as if McQueen had set the governor a simple problem and he was saddened that the governor couldnât solve it. He would tell him but in the manner of a disappointed teacher reluctantly admitting that his pupil hadnât made much progress.
âThe turkey, sur,â he said.
âThe turkey?â
âThe turkey, sur.â
âWhat was wrong with the turkey?â
âDid you see the turkey, sur?â
âI saw the turkey. McQueen. I ate the turkey. McQueen.It may interest you to know that during any working day I eat the same food as the inmates. I donât have lunches sent up from the Ritz. I care about this establishment. I think every inmate in here deserves to be punished. But punished in specific ways. And spoiling the food isnât one of them. I check the kitchen every single day. That was a very special Christmas meal we made. The turkey was of high quality. I tasted it!â
âIt wasnât the taste.â
âI beg your pardon?â
âSur. It wasnât the taste. Sur.â
âNo, no. Thatâs not what I mean. You thought the turkey tasted all right?â
âIâve tasted better, sur. But it was all right.â
The governor looked down at the impeccable order of his desk. There was the matching set of marled fountain-pen and propelling pencil which his wife had given him years ago on his first senior appointment. There was the photograph of Catriona and Kim and Jason, looking laundered. There were the books of reference, sandbags between him and procedural error. There was the correspondence waiting to be signed, not an edge of a sheet out of place. The only thing that hinted at the invading chaos of a life like McQueenâs was the big desk blotter. It was covered in hieroglyphics, countless comments and signatures that had come out backwards, overlaying one another and creating a complex palimpsest as difficult to decipher as an ancient manuscript. He would have to renew it soon.
Looking at the blotter, he felt the familiar feeling that came from talking to McQueen. He was trying to define the feeling. About three years ago, Catriona and he had gone to a play. It was the last time they had been to the theatre. They had sat through an hour-and-three-quarters during which people did things that had no connection with anything they had done before and made remarks to one another that seemed to come out of thin air. One character spokefor ten minutes at one point without interruption and then the play went on as if she hadnât opened her mouth. As far as Catriona and he were concerned, she might as well not have. They stayed for the whole performance out of a kind of baffled guilt, exchanging looks. Were they the only ones who hadnât read the guide-book? At the interval, an ageing man who had two attractive girls with him had said,
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