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
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
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