Weekend Read online

  Also by William McIlvanney

  Fiction

  Remedy is None

  Gift from Nessus

  The Big Man

  Walking Wounded

  The Kiln

  Weekend

  The Detective Laidlaw trilogy

  Laidlaw

  The Papers of Tony Veitch

  Strange Loyalties

  Poetry

  The Longships in Harbour

  In Through the Head

  These Words: Weddings and After

  Non Fiction

  Shades of Grey – Glasgow 1956–1987, with Oscar Marzaroli

  Surviving the Shipwreck

  ‘In an enlightened world, Weekend would sell like lottery tickets … Among the most compelling and convincing characters is the Updikian-sounding Harry Beck, whose party banter could have been scripted by a whisky-soaked Woody Allen.’

  Alan Taylor, Sunday Herald

  ‘A poignantly funny variation on a French farce … wonderfully witty and wistful’

  John Harding, Daily Mail

  ‘It’s more than 10 years since William McIlvanney’s last novel, The Kiln. That book, and his much earlier Docherty, are two of the best novels of the last half century … Now, long awaited, comes Weekend, and it is every bit as good’

  Allan Massie, Scotland on Sunday

  ‘Deftly switching the narration between characters, McIlvanney examines the frailties of human nature, and the underlying motives that drive the often-inexplicable behaviour we all indulge in when it comes to sexual relationships. Adeptly, he also makes us empathise with several difficult, self-involved characters, and juxtaposes the highbrow literary theory of the weekend’s study with the base human desires wonderfully, pulling the two together in a climax which is considered yet surprisingly moving. A subtly thrilling return.’

  Doug Johnstone, The List

  ‘McIlvanney offers a masterclass in how to treat our very ancient modern condition: with as much high seriousness and sly wit as it deserves, with compassion for our foolishness and awe at our powers of endurance’

  Ronald Frame, Scottish Review of Books

  ‘All his old characteristics are there – the finely wrought style, the deft one-liners, the arresting authorial interventions, the omnipresent mockery (self-mockery), the undertow of sadness at the harlequinade of life – but his writing, cleansed of all traces of rage and violence, now has a deftness and gentleness not always evident before … [a] fine novel’

  Joseph Farrell, Times Literary Supplement

  WEEKEND

  William McIlvanney

  This edition published in Great Britain in 2014 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

  First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Hodder and Stoughton

  A division of Hodder Headline

  Copyright © 2006 by William McIlvanney

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Extract from Phoenix Too Frequent by Christopher Fry © 1946 reproduced by kind permission of Oxford University Press.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on

  request from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 78211 196 2

  www.canongate.tv

  For Siobhán McCole Lynch – the best – with love and thanks

  Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been sphinxed

  but don’t let it spoil your weekend.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Acknowledgements

  One

  It was that time when, during an evening’s drinking, conversation puts away the telescopic rifle and takes out the scattergun. Jacqui had been the first to reach that point, Alison thought.

  ‘Crap,’ Jacqui was saying. ‘All men. Crap. Why do we bother?’

  Kate was laughing her nervous laugh.

  ‘I could believe you more,’ Alison said, ‘if you didn’t seem hypnotised by the bum-parade at the bar.’

  ‘Choosing a target,’ Jacqui said. She went into an American accent. ‘I feel like kicking ass.’

  Alison managed not to yawn. She didn’t like Jacqui in this mood, one which she was putting on more and more, like power dressing. It had been like that ever since Kevin walked out on her. That must have been a traumatic moment, it was true. But it bothered Alison that what had been an understandable reaction was threatening to extend into a lifestyle.

  Alison understood how she must have felt but, concerned as she was for Jacqui, she couldn’t quite see how she was justified in judging everybody by one dire experience. One creepy man didn’t define a species. Why did Jacqui have to come on like an embittered veteran of the sex war when she had only been involved seriously in one skirmish? She sometimes acted like fifty instead of twenty-one. At twenty-six, Alison still felt more open to experience than Jacqui seemed, though not as vulnerable as Kate, she had to admit. But then who was?

  Alison watched Kate reacting to any loud laugh or shouted comment that happened in the bar, sensitive as a thoroughbred filly to every shift in the wind. She looked younger than nineteen. She hadn’t even realised yet how good-looking she was. The thought endeared her to Alison all over again. Surrounded by people who wore their ordinariness like peacock feathers, Kate’s modesty was luminous. In a place where so many voices seemed to be inventing what life owed them, she appeared still to be waiting for life to discover her.

  Alison thought of a television programme she had seen some time ago. It was supposed to be an attempt to discover new pop stars. One of the contestants was a weedy boy with an ego so big he should have had an articulated lorry to carry it around. His voice was awful but, when he was voted out, all he felt was contempt for the stupidity of the voters. He explained why, stroking a scrawny moustache that looked as if his father might have given him it for Christmas, like a cowboy suit. But he should never have allowed his son out of the house with it on. ‘You see,’ the boy said, explaining why he should have won. ‘What they don’t seem to understand is. You can teach anybody how to sing. But you can’t teach good looks.’ Nor, it had occurred to Alison, how to recognise them.

  The wild egotist would have fitted in perfectly in this bar. Alison was wondering when, instead of waiting for the world to tell us what we need to know about ourselves, people had decided to tell the world what it needed to know about them. She felt that Jacqui was already hardening into an example of that attitude: take one pinpoint of experience and project it assumptively to infinity. Life is what you say it is, not what it tells you it is.

  When Kevin left, Alison and Kate had arrived in Jacqui’s flat to help her through the trauma – at least that was what Alison had thought they were doing. They had finished up moving in with her. But instead of helping her to get beyond her bad time, they seemed to have allowed her simply to get comfortable in it. Their sympathy had apparently reinforced her bitterness rather than alleviating it.

  As if confirming what Alison was thinking, Jacqui looked round the bar critically, like a judge at an amateur-dramatics competition who wasn’t impressed. Kate observed her anxiously.

  ‘I still fancy going,’ Kate said.

  ‘For what?’ Jacqui said. ‘What can you get there you can’t get here?’ She indicated the busy bar. ‘If you want it, that is.’

  Alison resented Jacqui’s enjoyment of the influence she had over Kate. It was obvious that Kate was keen to go on the study weekend Professor Lawson had organised. It was also obvious that she didn’t feel confident enough to go without Jacqui’s company. Alison smiled. It was so like Kate to g
et excited about something as banal as a trip to Cannamore. Peter Pan with tits – to go on a study weekend will be a great adventure. Still, such naïve enthusiasm was refreshing. In deciding to try to help Kate manoeuvre Jacqui into going on the trip, Alison admitted to herself that she had her own reasons for wanting to be in the flat without them this weekend. But maybe altruism was always leavened with self-interest.

  ‘What can you get there that you can’t get here?’ Alison said. ‘Maybe the chance to explore more than somebody else’s crotch.’

  ‘You mean there is more?’ Jacqui said.

  ‘Oh, enough with the Cynic-of-the-Year stuff,’ Alison said. ‘For a start, you’ll have a chance to talk to men without any assumptions being made. In places like this, you smile and some of them think you’ve thrown your knickers at them.’

  ‘Men? You mean like Andrew Lawson?’

  ‘He’s nice,’ Kate said. ‘He’s very nice.’

  ‘I didn’t say he wasn’t.’

  ‘At least he says some interesting things,’ Alison said.

  ‘He said I was to phone him tonight if we decided to go,’ Kate said. ‘He’s got two cancellations. He’ll be waiting to hear.’

  Jacqui turned her mouth down.

  ‘Come on,’ Kate said. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I went last year,’ Alison said. ‘It was really good.’

  Jacqui took a delaying sip of her Bacardi and Coke.

  ‘Where is it anyway?’

  ‘Willowvale,’ Kate said.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ Jacqui said.

  ‘You missed the lecture when Andrew Lawson told us about it. He told us a lot about the place. It sounds really interesting.’

  ‘Willowvale?’

  Its foundations had been laid in the imagination of a Victorian mill-owner, Andrew Lawson had told his students. He knew that because the present owner, Gordon Mitchell, had given him a copy of a monograph called Edward Muldoon: The Other Carnegie, by P. Vincent J. Witherspoon. Gordon had offered him the pamphlet not just because he was a frequent visitor but because he was obviously as fascinated by the place as its owner was. From the first time he went there with his students, he had sensed the building not just as a place but as a brooding presence. Like a stranger looming large but saying nothing, it challenged him to understand it.

  The monograph, Andrew quickly decided, wasn’t about to tell the true story of Willowvale. As he read, turning back from time to time to look at the black-and-white cover, it occurred to him that the way the author presented his own name was a clue. P. Vincent J. Witherspoon was as stiff as a starched collar. The date of the printing was 1926 but P. Vincent J., to give him his informal name, would already be old by that time and must have remained a discreet Victorian while the twenties roared around him.

  Also, he had been a personal friend of Edward Muldoon, a slightly more youthful, admiring one, and was writing after Muldoon’s death. It was an act of homage, a Victorian statue in words, offering a life as a frozen stance rather than a fluid reality. Witherspoon was anxious not only to choose the most flattering posture he could find for his friend but for himself as well. There would be no treacherous deviation into harsh truth from this staunch supporter. That the monograph appeared to have been printed privately with Witherspoon’s own money must have allowed his work to avoid any interference from others.

  Witherspoon wasn’t actively dishonest. Hints of an interpretation of Muldoon’s life bleaker than the one on offer here were scattered through his writing like polite coughing, which you were left to interpret as you would. Andrew learned to appreciate trying to work out what the tangential remarks and discreet silences might mean.

  ‘It might be said that his beloved spouse found their splendid new dwelling less congenial than might have been anticipated.’ She was probably miserable, Andrew thought. ‘Yet even Croesus must have deemed it necessary to curtail the grandiosity of his ambitions.’ Muldoon ran out of money?

  Andrew even began to enjoy Witherspoon’s evasive prose. It somehow suited Willowvale, the monument the monograph had been written essentially to celebrate. Like the building, the words were ornate beyond necessity. They baffled instant understanding of their purpose, as Willowvale did. Through careful rereadings, Andrew found himself engaged in an imaginative inhabiting of a darker life than the one being presented to him.

  Witherspoon had a long and florid section near the beginning of his account where he suggested what had been the origins of Muldoon’s compulsion to build Willowvale. Many of his expressions reverberated in Andrew’s mind: ‘He was a visionary among the dark satanic mills’, ‘a place where truth might disport itself among congenial company’, ‘wealth metamorphosed into wisdom’, ‘a sea-girt Eden’, ‘a dwelling for his dreams’. Bringing the punctiliousness of an academic to such language, trying to sift fact from linguistic fabrication, Andrew worked out his own sense of the life of Edward Muldoon and what Willowvale was supposed to mean. Muldoon had been the son of a Scottish mill-owner whose crass love of money had offended his youthful sensitivities. After a failed attempt to be a painter, he had grudgingly accepted his destiny as a capitalist. Like many converts to a faith, he had become assiduous in the practice of it. Perhaps out of revenge, some thought, he made his father’s success look like the work of a dilettante. One mill became many.

  But Andrew was convinced that those who thought he was merely extending his father’s achievement were mistaken. The intensity of his new religion had an almost mystical dimension to it. Witherspoon had some basis for seeing him as a visionary. The more money he made, the more likely he was to be able to transubstantiate it into his vision, which was Willowvale.

  ‘So where is Willowvale?’ Jacqui said.

  She saw Kate’s face become more animated, presumably because the question suggested serious interest and therefore the prospect of going.

  ‘On Cannamore,’ Kate said.

  ‘But that’s an island.’

  ‘They have things called ferries,’ Alison said.

  ‘I don’t like the sea. I get seasick easily.’

  ‘Maybe you should wait till they build an airport,’ Alison said.

  Alison’s superciliousness was beginning to annoy Jacqui again. Because she had worked as personal assistant to a lawyer for a few years before coming to university, she had these moods when she seemed to treat younger people as if they were still in kindergarten. She was like someone who visits London for a weekend and decides she’s cosmopolitan and very, very grown-up. She even dressed for the part. For her, casual was formality with a button undone. She was being particularly condescending tonight.

  ‘What’s it all in aid of anyway?’ Jacqui said, brooding on Alison.

  ‘See it as part of the course,’ Kate said. ‘We have informal lectures. And discussion afterwards. Andrew Lawson’s doing one on Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. David Cudlipp’s talking about Farewell, Miss Julie Logan. And Harry Beck’s supposed to be tying it all up in some way.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ Jacqui said. ‘I’m surprised there’s still free places.’

  ‘I wonder what Harry Beck’ll be talking about,’ Kate said, as if it were a matter of great fascination.

  ‘He’s probably wondering himself,’ Alison said.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Jacqui said.

  ‘I just think he looks like someone with a very dishevelled life,’ Alison said. ‘Sometimes when he comes into class, he looks as if he’s not sure what he’s doing there. It can take him ten minutes to focus on the work.’

  ‘You seem to focus on him quickly enough,’ Jacqui said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve seen you looking at him,’ Jacqui said.

  ‘I always do that when I want to see somebody.’

  ‘Staring? With your lips parted?’

  ‘I’m a mouth-breather.’

  Jacqui couldn’t understand why Alison was being so offhand about Harry Beck. She had often said he was attractive. The sudden shift o
f attitude was annoying.

  ‘There’s something about him,’ Jacqui said. ‘I like the darkness in him.’

  ‘He’s really got a past him, hasn’t he?’ Kate said.

  ‘Doesn’t everybody?’ Alison said.

  ‘Something definitely happened to him,’ Kate said. ‘And he’s having to live with it.’

  ‘You’ve been reading Wuthering Heights again,’ Alison said.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Jacqui said to Kate. ‘He was married, wasn’t he? But he doesn’t seem to have any children. Maybe he couldn’t have any. Maybe it’s that. Or maybe he loved somebody he could never get.’

  ‘There’s something troubled about him,’ Kate said.

  ‘It’s probably a bad back,’ Alison said. ‘Anyway, now’s your chance to find out.’

  She looked at Jacqui. Jacqui wondered how she had come to be in the position of having an interest in Harry Beck. It was as if she was being deputised to stand in for Alison.

  ‘They have a free-for-all session on Saturday night,’ Alison said. ‘The students can do their own thing. Talks. Poetry. Anything goes. The barriers come down. It was great fun last year when I was there.’

  ‘So why aren’t you going again?’ Jacqui said.

  ‘I’ve got that history essay to write. It’ll take me all weekend.’

  ‘You just want the flat to yourself. With Kate and me away. Peace and quiet.’

  ‘I wish I could go.’

  ‘You can,’ Kate said to Jacqui.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jacqui said. ‘I could’ve pulled Harry Beck here if I wanted to. Without going to the ends of the earth. Anyway, I’ve heard he’s so unreliable, you never know whether he’s going to turn up or not. Harry Beck?’

  ‘Harry Beck,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been under the covers with you a few times.’

  The accent was American.

  He recognised an innocent remark wearing garters. He had heard it before and he knew that she meant reading him in bed. He assumed she must mean the column since, as far as he knew, the books were out of print. Dan Galbraith had just introduced them to each other and now he fetched her the gin and tonic she had asked for and left them. As they spoke, he noticed that the man she had come to the party with seemed to have decided to start a drinking competition. He was apparently trying to see if he could drink himself under the table. He looked like succeeding.