Its Colours They Are Fine

by Alan Spence

  ‘Jist goin t’ the lavvy.’

  From the lobby he heard the toilet being flushed so he waited in the dark until he heard the slam of the toilet door then the flop of Mrs Dolan’s feet on the stairs. The Dolans lived in the single end, the middle door of the three on their landing. The third house, another room and kitchen, was empty for the moment because the Andersons had emigrated to Canada.

  When he heard Mrs Dolan closing the door he stepped out on to the landing and slid down the banister to the stairhead. In the toilet there was only one small window very high up, and he left the door slightly open to let light seep in from the stairhead.

  A pigeon landed on the window-ledge and sat there gurgling and hooing, its feathers ruffled up into a ball. To pull the plug he climbed up on to the seat and swung on the chain, squawking out a Tarzan-call. The pigeon flurried off, scared by the noise, and he dropped from his creeperchain, six inches to the floor.

  He looked out through the stairhead window. Late afternoon. Out across the back and a patch of wasteground, over factory roofs and across a railway line stood Ibrox Stadium. He could see a patch of terracing and the roof of the stand. The pressbox on top looked like a little castle. When Rangers were playing at home you could count the goals and near misses just by listening to the roars. Today there was only a reserve game and the noise could hardly be heard. Soon it would be dark and they’d have to put on the floodlights.

  For tea they had sausages and egg and fried bread. After they’d eaten he sat down in his own chair at the fire with his Wonder Book of the World. The chair was wooden and painted bright blue.

  His father switched on the wireless to listen to the football results and check his pools.

  The picture of the Afghan Hound had been taken in a garden on a sunny day. The dog was running and its coat shone in the sun.

  ‘Four draws,’ said his father. ‘Ach well, maybe next week . . .’

  ‘There’s that dog mammy.’ He held up the book.

  ‘So it is.’

  ‘Funny tae find a dog lik that in Govan,’ said his father.

  ‘Right enough,’ said his mother. ‘Expect some’dy knocked it.’

  Nothing in the book looked like anything he had ever seen. There were pictures of cats but none of them looked like Dusty. They were either black and white or striped and they all looked clean and sleek. Dusty was a grubby grey colour and he spat and scratched if anyone tried to pet him. His mother said he’d been kept too long in the house. There was a section of the book about the weather with pictures of snow crystals that looked like flowers and stars. He thought he’d like to go out and play in the snow and he asked his mother if he could.

  ‘Oh well, jist for a wee while then. Ah’ll tell ye what. If ye come up early enough we kin put up the decorations before ye go tae bed.’

  He’d forgotten about the decorations. It was good to have something special like that to come home for. It was the kind of thing he’d forget about while he was actually playing, then there would be moments when he’d remember, and feel warm and comforted by the thought.

  He decided he’d get Joe and Jim and Annie and they’d build a snowman as big as a midden.

  Joe was having his tea and Jim felt like staying in and Annie’s mother wouldn’t let her out.

  He stood on the pavement outside the paper-shop, peering in through the lighted window at the Christmas annuals and selection boxes. The queue for the evening papers reached right to the door of the shop. The snow on the pavement was packed hard and greybrown, yellow in places under the streetlamps. He scraped at the snow with the inside of his boot, trying to rake up enough to make a snowball, but it was too powdery and it clung to the fingers of his woollen gloves, making his hands feel clogged and uncomfortable. He took off his gloves and scooped up some slush from the side of the road but the cold made his bare fingers sting, red. It felt as if he’d just been belted by Miss Heather.

  Annie’s big brother Tommy was clattering his way across the road, trailing behind him a sack full of empty bottles. He’d gathered them on the terracing at Ibrox and he was heading for the Family Department of the pub to cash in as many as he could. Every time the pub door opened the noise and light seeped out. It was a bit like pressing your hands over your ears then easing off then pressing again. If you did that again and again people’s voices sounded like mwah . . . mwah . . . mwah . . . mwah . . .

  He looked closely at the snow still clogging his gloves. It didn’t look at all like the crystals in his book. Disgusted, he slouched towards his close.

  Going up the stairs at night he always scurried or charged past each closet for fear of what might be lurking there ready to leap out at him. Keeping up his boldness, he whistled loudly. ‘Little Star of Bethlehem’. He was almost at the top when he remembered the decorations.

  The kitchen was very bright after the dimness of the landing with its sputtering gas light.

  ‘Nob’dy wis comin out tae play,’ he explained.

  His mother wiped her hands. ‘Right! What about these decorations!’

  The decorations left over from last year were in a cardboard box under the bed. He didn’t like it under there. It was dark and dirty, piled with old rubbish – books, clothes, boxes, tins. Once he’d crawled under looking for a comic, dust choking him, and he’d scuttled back in horror from bugs and darting silverfish. Since then he’d had bad dreams about the bed swarming with insects that got into his mouth when he tried to breathe.

  His father rummaged in the sideboard drawer for a packet of tin tacks and his mother brought out the box.

  Streamers and a few balloons and miracles of coloured paper that opened out into balls or long concertina snakes. On the table his mother spread out some empty cake boxes she’d brought home from work and cut them into shapes like Christmas trees and bells, and he got out his painting box and a saucerful of water and he coloured each one and left it to dry – green for the trees and yellow for the bells, the nearest he could get to gold.

  His father had bought something special.

  ‘Jist a wee surprise. It wis only a coupla coppers in Woollies.’

  From a cellophane bag he brought out a length of shimmering rustling silver.

  ‘What dis that say, daddy?’ He pointed at the label.

  ‘It says UNTARNISHABLE TINSEL GARLAND.’

  ‘What dis that mean?’

  ‘Well that’s what it is. It’s a tinsel garland. Tinsel’s the silvery stuff it’s made a. An a garland’s jist a big long sorta decoration, for hangin up. An untarnishable means . . . well . . . how wid ye explain it hen?’

  ‘Well,’ said his mother, ‘it jist means it canny get wasted. It always steys nice an shiny.’

  ‘Aw Jesus!’ said his father. ‘Ther’s only three tacks left!’

  ‘Maybe the paper-shop’ll be open.’

  ‘It wis open a wee minnit ago!’

  ‘Ah’ll go an see,’ said his father, putting on his coat and scarf. ‘Shouldnae be very long.’

  The painted cut-out trees and bells had long since dried and still his father hadn’t come back. His mother had blown up the balloons and she’d used the three tacks to put up some streamers. Then she remembered they had a roll of sticky tape. It was more awkward to use than the tacks so the job took a little longer. But gradually the room was transformed, brightened; magical colours strung across the ceiling. A game he liked to play was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling and trying to imagine it was actually the floor and the whole room was upside down. When he did it now it looked like a toy garden full of swaying paper plants.

  Round the lampshade in the centre of the room his mother was hanging the tinsel coil, standing on a chair to reach up. When she’d fixed it in place she climbed down and stood back and they watched the swinging lamp come slowly to rest. Then they looked at each other and laughed.

  When they heard his father’s key in the door his mother shooshed and put out the light. They were going to surprise him. He came in and fumble
d for the switch. They were laughing and when he saw the decorations he smiled but he looked bewildered and a bit sad.

  He put the box of tacks on the table.

  ‘So ye managed, eh,’ he said. He smiled again, his eyes still sad. ‘Ah’m sorry ah wis so long. The paper-shop wis shut an ah had tae go down nearly tae Govan Road.’

  Then they understood. He was sad because they’d done it all without him. Because they hadn’t waited. They said nothing. His mother filled the kettle. His father took off his coat.

  ‘Time you were in bed malad!’ he said.

  ‘Aw bit daddy, themorra’s Sunday!’

  ‘Bed!’

  ‘Och!’

  He could see it was useless to argue so he washed his hands and face and put on the old shirt he slept in.

  ‘Mammy, ah need a pee.’

  Rather than make him get dressed again to go out and down the stairs, she said he could use the sink. She turned on the tap and lifted him up to kneel on the ledge.

  When he pressed his face up close to the window he could see the back court lit here and there by the light from a window, shining out on to the yellow snow from the dark bulk of the tenements. There were even one or two Christmas trees and, up above, columns of palegrey smoke, rising from chimneys. When he leaned back he could see the reflection of their own kitchen. He imagined it was another room jutting out beyond the window, out into the dark. He could see the furniture, the curtain across the bed, his mother and father, the decorations and through it all, vaguely, the buildings, the night. And hung there, shimmering, in that room he could never enter, the tinsel garland that would never ever tarnish.

  Sheaves

  The patch of wasteground had always been called the Hunty. Nobody knew why. Nobody even knew what the name meant. It was roughly rectangular, the same length as the tenement block that backed on to it. There had once been a line of walls, railings and middens separating the Hunty from the actual back courts, but progressive decay, wind and rain, and several generations of children had eroded this barrier almost completely.

  Aleck and Joe had crossed into the Hunty and were crouching down playing at farms. Aleck had a toy tractor and a few plastic animals, and Joe had a Land-Rover and trailer, and some soldiers to use as farmworkers.

  Using bits of slate, they scraped up a patch of dirt and divided it into fields which they furrowed with lollipop sticks. Joe crammed some scrubby grass into his trailer and Aleck made a primitive farmhouse out of a cornflakes packet.

  They were both wearing T-shirts and khaki shorts, and for the first time since the start of the endless summer, Aleck suddenly shivered. The wind was cold. His clothes were too thin. That morning his mother had said it was the first day of autumn.

  ‘Gawn tae Sunday school this efternin?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Ach aye,’ said Aleck. ‘Mightaswell. Anywey, it’s harvest the day.’

  There had been a harvest service on the wireless that morning. Aleck had been half listening to it during breakfast. That was probably what had made him think about farms and bring out the toys they were playing with.

  ‘We aw slept in fur chapel,’ said Joe. ‘Huv tae go the night.’

  Apart from the rough grass, all that grew on the wasteground were nettles and dandelions. Aleck plucked a dandelion clock. Fluffy ball that had once been a bright yellow flower. Peethebed. He began blowing on it, sending the seeds drifting through the air, counting to tell the time.

  One . . . Two

  Each seed would hang, parachute down, land somewhere else and grow again.

  Three . . . Four

  Joe had grown tired of farming and he was using his soldiers as soldiers. They took over the cornflakes packet and killed some of the animals for food.

  Five . . . Six

  Joe made aeroplane noises and dive-bombed the farm with stones and clods of earth. The soldiers and animals were scattered, the fields churned up, laid waste.

  Seven . . . Eight

  Aleck wondered why dandelions were called peethebeds. Maybe you wet the bed if you ate them.

  Nine.

  Aleck’s mother opened the window and shouted him up. That meant it must be time to get ready for Sunday school. About half past one.

  He gathered up his things.

  ‘Mibbe see ye efter,’ said Joe.

  ‘Prob’ly,’ said Aleck.

  As he crossed the back court towards his close, he decided that the time told by a dandelion clock was magic. That was why it was different from ordinary time. If you caught one of the seeds you could make a secret wish. That proved they were magic. Only special people knew how it worked. Like Jesus and witches and medicine men. Magic time.

  He could see his mother working at the sink, the window slightly open. He stopped and cradled his toys against him with one arm, almost dropping them as he waved up at her.

  The theme music for the end of Family Favourites was crackling out above the rush of the tap. Behind the sports page, his father absently was singing along, adding the words here and there.

  ‘With a song in my heart

  Da da dee, da da dee, da da dee . . .’

  His mother, at the sink, was washing and cutting vegetables for soup, a pot with a bone for stock simmering away on one gas ring. On the other, a kettle of water for Aleck to wash himself was just coming to the boil.

  ‘Ah’ll let ye in here tae get washed in a minnit son.’

  ‘Och ah’m quite clean mammy. Ah’ll jist gie ma hands ’n face a wee wipe.’

  ‘A cat’s lick an a promise ye mean! Naw son, ye’ve goat tae wash yerself right. Ah mean yer manky. Ye canny go tae Sunday school lik that.’

  ‘Da da dee da doo

  I will live life through

  With a song in my heart

  FOOOOR YEW!’

  On the last line of the song his father stood up, arms outstretched, still holding the newspaper, hanging on to the long nasal concluding note, crescendo drowning out the radio, hearing himself as a miraculous combination of Al Jolson and Richard Tauber and Bing Crosby.

  ‘Whit a singer!’ he said, patting his chest.

  ‘Whit a heid ye mean!’ said his mother.

  ‘Ah’m tellin ye, ah shoulda been on the stage.’

  ‘Aye, scrubbin it!’ they replied, in unison, and they all laughed.

  She shifted the vegetables on to the running board, emptied the basin and unclogged the sink of peelings. Then she cleaned out the basin and poured in hot water from the kettle.

  ‘Right!’ she said, handing him a towel.

  Stirring the water with his hands, he made ripples and waves, whirlpools and storms. He squeezed the soap so that it slipped up and out of his grasp and blooped into the basin. He slapped the water with his palm, ruffled it up till its surface was a froth of bubbles. Then he washed his hands and arms, face and neck.

  ‘Aboot time tae!’ said his mother. ‘Yirra mucky pup, so yar.’

  She laid a sheet of newspaper on the floor in front of the fire and lifted the basin on to it.

  ‘Feet an legs!’ she said. He looked down at his grubby knees and didn’t bother to complain.

  Sometimes he didn’t mind being clean. It could give you a warm feeling inside, like being good. It was just so much of an effort.

  His mother laid out his shirt and his suit, his heavy shoes and a pair of clean white ankle socks.

  This was the horrible part, the part that was really disgusting. The clothes made him feel so stiff and uncomfortable.

  Slowly, sadly, he put them on.

  The shoes were solid polished black leather and he consciously clumped round the kitchen. He found it impossible to feel at ease. Clumpetty shoes and cissy white socks. He glowered down at his stupid feet, his shirt collar chafing his neck. He put away his blue socks and white sandshoes. They were what he liked to wear. When he wore them he could run fast, climb dykes, pad and stalk like an Indian. Playing football he could jink and dribble without making one wrong move. Blue and white flashing. A rightness
. A sureness of touch. The feel of things.

  Clump!

  ‘Whit’s the matter?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yer face is trippin ye.’

  ‘Nothin.’

  ‘Yer no gonnae start aboot thae shoes’n socks again ur ye?’

  ‘Naw. Ah’m awright mammy, honest.’

  He knew he couldn’t explain and he knew if he tried she would just go on about how lucky he was to have a decent set of clothes to wear. Then his father would chip in about when he was at school – bare feet or parish boots.

  His father had laid down the paper, so he picked it up and looked for the jokes and cartoons. Oor Wullie. The Broons. Merry Mac’s Fun Parade.

  Oor Wullie, Your Wullie, A’body’s Wullie. That always made him snigger because of the double meaning.

  Wullie and Fat Boab were being chased by PC Murdoch because they’d knocked off his helmet. As usual, everything ended happily. As usual, Murdoch had a kindly knowing twinkle in his eye. As usual, Wullie was on his bucket in the last frame, slapping his thighs and laughing.

  Real policemen didn’t wear helmets any more. They wore caps with black and white checks. They swore at you and moved you on for loitering and booked you for playing football in the street. Joe had been booked about three weeks before and he was waiting for a summons to go to court. There had been about eight of them playing, but only Joe had been caught. He’d been using his jacket as a goalpost and when he’d stopped to pick it up he’d fallen behind. The others had charged through closes and escaped across the Hunty. Aleck had torn his knee on some barbed wire and he’d worn an ostentatious bandage for a week. When anyone had asked what was wrong he’d tried to look sinister like a gangster and spat out his reply.

  ‘Ah goat it runnin fae the polis.’

  And he’d hoped it conjured up a picture of himself, gun-toting masked desperado in a running shoot-out across Govan. Wanted. Hunted.

  Clump!

  ‘An mind an keep thae shoes clean an don’t go gettin them scuffed playin football.’

  ‘Ah kin jist see me playin football in Sunday school!’