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Authors: William McIlvanney
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the question seriously.
âSee when they refine it, sur? What is the exact process?â
The governor was watching McQueen, realising something. But McQueen was too caught up in pursuit of his own ideas to notice. The governor observed him from a distance, like a business-manager full of grave responsibilities looking out of his office window to see a grown-up layabout, who should know better, chasing after butterflies in the park.
âSee what I mean, sur? What happens when they turn a turkey into turkey roll? What is it they do, sur? Do you know? Do I know? Do any of the ordinary people know? They take out the bones. Right? They must take out the bones, sur. But nowadays, who knows? Maybe they powder them, sur. And mix it in with the whole mish-mash. But what exactly do they do? What is the machinery like , sur? And.â McQueen paused with the look of a man who has found the incontrovertible point, the argument with which you must agree. âWhat else do they put in? Itâs guaranteed they put in something, sur. If turkey rollâs not a substitute for turkey, why not just have the turkey? Eh?â McQueen wassmiling in triumph. âItâs cheaper. And what are they doing to make it cheaper? They could put any kind of crap in there, sur, and we wouldnât know. Preservatives. Bits of dead dogs for all we know. Weâre being had, sur. Everybodyâs being had. Turkey roll isnât turkey. Sur.â
The governor was looking at McQueen. What he had realised was that McQueen was enjoying this. All the men did that. Let out of their routine for any purpose, they contrived to make an event of it. It was part of the emotional economy of prison, like a man going to be hanged who decides heâll try to enjoy the walk to the gallows. The governor understood that.
But McQueenâs was an extreme case. He had just been brought up from solitary on a very grave breach of discipline. It could be incitement to riot. And he had contrived to turn his appearance before the governor into a metaphysical discussion on what constitutes a turkey. Was he serious?
The governor studied McQueen, who let himself be studied without apparent discomfort. The intensity of McQueenâs commitment to the great turkey question seemed unreal but his reaction to the Christmas dinner had been real enough. You had to wonder if round turkeys were just an excuse but when you looked at McQueen they sure enough felt like a reason.
Prison magnified trivia. Everything came at you as if it was under a microscope. If a man you didnât like raised his forefinger, it looked like an obelisk. The governor had known a man who was killed for not paying the tobacco he owed. The tobacco, carefully used, would have made five cigarettes. The governor had a blessedly brief vision of the terrible complexities with which he was dealing. Habit came to his rescue.
âMcQueen,â the governor said. âThatâs it? Because the turkey was round?â
âIt wasnât turkey, sur.â
âIt was turkey roll.â
âWe were promised turkey.â
âEverybody else seemed satisfied.â
âThatâs up to them.â
The governor contemplated the strange wildness of McQueenâs behaviour and gave it up.
âYouâre back to solitary, McQueen,â he said. âTill I decide. I see no justification for your behaviour. I donât even see that youâre sorry for it. Are you? I mean, was that the only way you could express yourself?â
McQueen shrugged.
âYou said it yerself, sur. Ye canât complain to the waiter, can ye?â
The governor wondered how he was supposed to have said it himself. Then he remembered having mentioned the idea of a waiter serving from the wrong side. There it was again, tangential attempts to meet. One of us, the governor thought, is wrong. Or perhaps we both are. He hadnât time to pursue the thought.
âMcQueen. Iâm disappointed
âSee when they refine it, sur? What is the exact process?â
The governor was watching McQueen, realising something. But McQueen was too caught up in pursuit of his own ideas to notice. The governor observed him from a distance, like a business-manager full of grave responsibilities looking out of his office window to see a grown-up layabout, who should know better, chasing after butterflies in the park.
âSee what I mean, sur? What happens when they turn a turkey into turkey roll? What is it they do, sur? Do you know? Do I know? Do any of the ordinary people know? They take out the bones. Right? They must take out the bones, sur. But nowadays, who knows? Maybe they powder them, sur. And mix it in with the whole mish-mash. But what exactly do they do? What is the machinery like , sur? And.â McQueen paused with the look of a man who has found the incontrovertible point, the argument with which you must agree. âWhat else do they put in? Itâs guaranteed they put in something, sur. If turkey rollâs not a substitute for turkey, why not just have the turkey? Eh?â McQueen wassmiling in triumph. âItâs cheaper. And what are they doing to make it cheaper? They could put any kind of crap in there, sur, and we wouldnât know. Preservatives. Bits of dead dogs for all we know. Weâre being had, sur. Everybodyâs being had. Turkey roll isnât turkey. Sur.â
The governor was looking at McQueen. What he had realised was that McQueen was enjoying this. All the men did that. Let out of their routine for any purpose, they contrived to make an event of it. It was part of the emotional economy of prison, like a man going to be hanged who decides heâll try to enjoy the walk to the gallows. The governor understood that.
But McQueenâs was an extreme case. He had just been brought up from solitary on a very grave breach of discipline. It could be incitement to riot. And he had contrived to turn his appearance before the governor into a metaphysical discussion on what constitutes a turkey. Was he serious?
The governor studied McQueen, who let himself be studied without apparent discomfort. The intensity of McQueenâs commitment to the great turkey question seemed unreal but his reaction to the Christmas dinner had been real enough. You had to wonder if round turkeys were just an excuse but when you looked at McQueen they sure enough felt like a reason.
Prison magnified trivia. Everything came at you as if it was under a microscope. If a man you didnât like raised his forefinger, it looked like an obelisk. The governor had known a man who was killed for not paying the tobacco he owed. The tobacco, carefully used, would have made five cigarettes. The governor had a blessedly brief vision of the terrible complexities with which he was dealing. Habit came to his rescue.
âMcQueen,â the governor said. âThatâs it? Because the turkey was round?â
âIt wasnât turkey, sur.â
âIt was turkey roll.â
âWe were promised turkey.â
âEverybody else seemed satisfied.â
âThatâs up to them.â
The governor contemplated the strange wildness of McQueenâs behaviour and gave it up.
âYouâre back to solitary, McQueen,â he said. âTill I decide. I see no justification for your behaviour. I donât even see that youâre sorry for it. Are you? I mean, was that the only way you could express yourself?â
McQueen shrugged.
âYou said it yerself, sur. Ye canât complain to the waiter, can ye?â
The governor wondered how he was supposed to have said it himself. Then he remembered having mentioned the idea of a waiter serving from the wrong side. There it was again, tangential attempts to meet. One of us, the governor thought, is wrong. Or perhaps we both are. He hadnât time to pursue the thought.
âMcQueen. Iâm disappointed
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