Its Colours They Are Fine

by Alan Spence

  ‘F2,’ he said.

  ‘Over ere,’ said Les, indicating two of the piles he’d made. ‘These other ones are FO and C2. Anythin else we’ve just t’leave ere.’

  The jotters were all a dingy brown colour with the Highway Code on the front. On the back were the multiplication tables and lists of weights and measures, to be memorised. Aleck was reading over the rules for road safety. He had never really thought about them before, though he must have looked at the words a million times, DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! At the kerb HALT! That was like the Life Boys. By the left, Quick MARCH! Aleck hated the stupid marching and drill. He really went to the Life Boys for the football. NEVER play games on the street. Where else was there to play? Mrs Stone their teacher was always on about keeping them off the streets. She was new at the school and she wanted to organise sports for them. She said it was good for them to be in the Life Boys or the Cubs. Healthy. Shuggie had been in the Cubs once but he’d been put out for stealing a scout-knife and fighting over it in the hall. Now whenever he saw Aleck with his Life Boy uniform he had a good laugh at it. Called him sailor-boy. NEVER follow a ball, hoop or playmate into the street. Playmate was a funny word. He tried to imagine himself using it, calling Shuggie his playmate. The thought made him laugh. I say, playmate!

  ‘Aleck!’ Shuggie’s voice was muffled as if he was shouting from down a hole. He had crawled along under the desks to get at a low cupboard in a far corner of the room. He had no room to crouch or turn. To get out again he would have to crawl backwards. He was kneeling there, hunched, coughing and choking on the dust he’d stirred up.

  ‘Gonnae see if ye kin find a stick or somethin,’ he said.

  Aleck looked around the room. ‘Wid a ruler dae?’ he asked.

  ‘It wid prob’ly brek,’ said Shuggie. ‘Somethin a wee bit heavier.’

  Aleck looked again and this time found a broken pointer. He held up the two bits. ‘Prob’ly cracked ower some’dy’s skull!’ he said.

  ‘Likely enough,’ said Les.

  ‘See if this’ll dae,’ said Aleck, passing the pointed end in to Shuggie.

  ‘Great!’ said Shuggie. He wedged it in at the jamb of the door and tried to prise it open. There was a loud crack as something splintered and broke, and he ducked his head from another shower of dust, and the door flapped back on its hinges.

  When the dust had settled he began scrabbling and groping in the cupboard. Then he let out a yell. ‘Aleck! C’mere an . . . Jesus! Wait tae ye see this!’

  Aleck hurried over, stooping down to peer under the desks as Shuggie came struggling out, backwards, feet first. He was dragging with him a cardboard box. Aleck tried to see what was in it. He could make out some colour, red and white, a streak of yellow. Then Shuggie was out and up on his feet, lifting the box clear, into the light.

  ‘Therr!’ he said, laying it down on the floor.

  Aleck looked and couldn’t believe it. The box was full of football jerseys, the old style, with collars. They had red and white stripes. On top was a goalkeeper’s jersey, yellow. Aleck kneeled down, open-mouthed, bright-eyed. He touched one of the jerseys, softly. It didn’t disappear. It was real. He let out a long slow breath, full of amazement and wonder.

  ‘D’ye think ther’s a full set?’ he said at last, grinning up at Shuggie.

  ‘Mibbe,’ said Shuggie, grinning back. ‘Mon wu’ll count them.’ He began, lifting them out and passing them to Aleck. They handled each one gently, lovingly, fearful in case such a treasure should crumble away.

  ‘Ten,’ said Aleck, ‘an a goalie’s jersey!’

  ‘A whole fuckin team!’ said Shuggie.

  ‘They’ve git numbers an everythin!’ said Aleck, laying them down beside the jotters.

  Shuggie searched through the pile till he found the number nine jersey. He draped it over his shoulders, the sleeves hanging down at the front, then he side-stepped past Les and dribbled the cardboard box across the floor.

  ‘Jist a minnit,’ said Aleck. ‘Whit ur we gonnae dae wi thum?’

  ‘Ah wis thinkin,’ said Shuggie. ‘Listen. Ye know how auld Stoney’s always oan aboot sports an that. Ah think we could get ur tae let us huv a team.’

  ‘God,’ said Aleck. ‘D’ye think she wid?’

  ‘Sure!’ said Shuggie. ‘Wu’ll take thum back up wi us an you kin ask ur.’

  ‘How me?’ said Aleck.

  ‘Och c’mon!’ said Shuggie. ‘She likes you. You’re good at compositions an that. If ah ask ur she’ll tell me tae go an take a running fuck.’

  ‘Jist imagine ur sayin that!’ said Aleck, laughing.

  ‘That’s whit she’d mean aw the same,’ said Shuggie.

  ‘Aw right,’ said Aleck. ‘Ah’ll ask ur. C’mon, we better get back up before ther’s a search-party oot lookin fur us.’

  Shuggie placed the jerseys carefully back in the box.

  ‘Tellt ye we’d find somethin din’t ah!’ he said to Les.

  ‘We better not forget the jotters,’ said Les.

  ‘Ach!’ said Shuggie. ‘Whit did ah tell ye Aleck? Gypsies ur ignorant. Pure fuckin ignorant.’

  ‘So you just happened to find them on a shelf while you were looking for the jotters?’ said Mrs Stone.

  ‘Yes miss!’ said Shuggie and Aleck, together. She didn’t look convinced.

  ‘How did you get yourself so dirty Hugh?’ she asked Shuggie. He had dusted himself down, but he still looked far from clean. Somehow he had managed to smear a lopsided moustache across his upper lip.

  ‘Ther wis a lot a dust ’n tap a the boax miss,’ he said.

  ‘On TOP of the BOX,’ she said. ‘Not on tap of the boax! Some of these days I’ll manage to teach you children some English!’

  But she was glad that the jerseys had been found. And it was agreed, they were to have a team. She would arrange a few friendly games for them with other schools and youth clubs. Then later she would see the headmaster about getting them into the schools league. But first they were to have a trial match. They were to pick two teams, a first and a second. The trial was fixed for the coming Saturday.

  But for now they had to give out the jotters. They had grammar to learn.

  The rest of the afternoon dragged. Aleck kept looking out the high window at the grey sky, dreaming, not really hearing Mrs Stone’s droning voice, wishing they were free so he could talk to the others about the team. He glanced across the passage at Shuggie. Inside the cover of his new jotter, he was drawing a football player, in a striped jersey, with a number nine on the back.

  They were not real gypsies, only people who travelled with the shows, moving from fairground to fairground, all over Scotland and England, and sometimes across to Ireland. But theirs was a wandering life and they lived in caravans, so people called them gypsies or tinkers.

  When they came to Glasgow, they lived on a rise of wasteground, backing on to a railway line, across the road from the school. Here they stayed for two or three months every winter, when the shows were at Kelvin Hall or Glasgow Green.

  The rise of ground had come to be called Gypsy’s Hill. Along the crest of it was a high wooden fence, each section about a foot wide and thick enough to stand on, dark wood, rotted and weathered by the years. The fence ran right round the gypsies’ encampment like a great stockade, enclosing it.

  At the foot of this stockade, Aleck and Shuggie were playing. The ground had frozen over and they had been trying to smooth a part of the slope, taking turns at sliding down it on a makeshift sledge, a chunk of linoleum they’d dragged out of a midden. But now the sun was growing warmer, thawing out the ground. Only the part of the hill in the shadow of the fence remained frozen, hard. There was practically a straight line, the line of the shadow, dividing this part from the rest, already growing soft and muddy.

  Aleck noticed it, the strangeness of it, and pointed it out to Shuggie.

  ‘Weird that, intit,’ he said.

  ‘So it is,’ said Shuggie.

  Neither of them had ever seen the like.
The line was so definite, the division so sharp.

  ‘Bet ye that’s thae gypsies,’ said Shuggie.

  ‘How d’ye mean?’ said Aleck.

  ‘Hauf ae thum’s witches an that,’ said Shuggie. ‘They know aw aboot magic an spells an stuff.’

  ‘Fortune tellin,’ said Aleck.

  ‘Tell’n ye,’ said Shuggie, ‘therr’s prob’ly aw kinds a bad magic aboot here. That’s how the grun’s still aw frozen here an naewherr else.’

  They looked up at the fence, looming, the thick upright sections like standing stones against the bright, watery sky.

  ‘Ma da says gypsies wid cut yer throat for a penny,’ said Shuggie. ‘Thur always kidnappin weans tae.’

  Aleck didn’t really believe it. He shivered, but only from the cold. He remembered from somewhere a bit of a poem.

  My mother said I never should

  Play with gypsies in the wood.

  Never play games on the street. Never follow a ball, hoop or playmate.

  ‘Think wur gonnae go up in a puff a smoke any minute?’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Naaa!’ said Shuggie. ‘Ah’m no feart ae gypsies ur tinkers ur naebody!’ and he went to the foot of the fence, Aleck following. They went to where there was a knot-hole a couple of feet from the ground. The hole had been worn away and was big enough for a foot-hold. Aleck crouched down and peered through.

  ‘Therr’s wee Valerie,’ he said. Shuggie crouched down beside him.

  Valerie was another reason Shuggie hated the gypsies, especially Les. She too was in their class at school. She had blonde hair, long and soft, parted in the middle and tied back from her face. Shuggie had always fancied her, but she had no time for him. She preferred Les, another gypsy, English like herself. They watched her now, framed by the rough oval of the hole in the fence. She was playing at shops, by herself. She had a few old bottles, filled with dirt and small stones. She was emptying these on to scraps of newspaper, wrapping them into small parcels and arranging them along the wooden steps leading to the door of a caravan. They watched her, moving before them, lost in her own world. Then Shuggie put his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle. She looked up but couldn’t see them. She was too far away and the hole was too small. She went back to her game.

  Shuggie climbed up on to the fence and reaching down helped Aleck up after him. They sat, straddling the fence, their legs dangling down on either side. From here they could see the whole camp spread out, huge vans and lorries, caravans with windows and doors and smoke rising from tin chimneys, gruff-looking men and women, going about their mysterious business, everywhere children and dogs.

  Shuggie called out Valerie’s name in a high-pitched, mocking voice. She looked up, saw them and turned her back, very deliberately going on playing. He called out again. This time she went up the steps into the caravan and a moment later a man came out. He had a thick sandy moustache. He was dressed in dungarees. He waved his fist and shouted at them.

  ‘Gaan! Get dahn ourra that!’

  Shuggie gave him the V-sign, a last act of bravado, but as he started towards them they were glad to scramble down from the fence, down to the foot of the hill and clear across the back courts, scared that the man would strike them down with a curse, shrivel them to ashes as they ran.

  Saturday morning was clear and cold. Shuggie and Aleck were the first to arrive at the pitches, at the far end of Bellahouston Park. Four or five other games were already under way and the sounds carried over, the sounds that were always so strangely empty in such an open space. Voices shouting. Leather against leather. Shuggie had brought his ball, specially dubbined and laced, blown up hard. They tapped it about to each other while they waited and gradually the others arrived, singly and in small groups. Mrs Stone was there to act as referee, and a few girls from the school, to watch. The teams had been picked from their class, which was the qualifying, and the one below. The first team had already been issued with the jerseys and they all wore their strips under their other clothes which they just had to slip off to be ready. Some had boots, others made do with heavy shoes.

  Among the girls was Valerie, who had come with Les. Les was at left back for the second team. Although he lacked a fanatical devotion, he sometimes liked a game, and he had put down his name and been picked. Shuggie was at centre forward for the first team, Aleck at outside right. The jerseys were all the one size so Aleck’s was too big for him, the sleeves coming down over his hands, and Shuggie’s was a bit tight, the cuffs stopping short of his big bony wrists. They laughed at each other. Aleck pranced up and down like a male model and Shuggie threw the ball after him, both performing for the girls watching as well as for each other.

  At last they were ready, the coin tossed for choice of ends, everybody more or less in their positions. At the centre, Shuggie rubbed his hands together, flexed his legs, jumped up and down on the spot. Then he hunched over the ball, ready, and at the first blast of Mrs Stone’s whistle, he kicked off and the game began.

  They played half an hour each way, stopping for five minutes at half time. The frozen bone-hard pitch was rutted and uneven, the grass rough and sparse, and the ball difficult to control, especially for the bigger, heavier defence of the second team, who floundered and grew more shaky and haphazard as the game went on. The other team were generally more nimble, surer on their feet, and in the end they won easily by six goals to two, Shuggie scoring three. At the final whistle they leapt in the air, threw up their arms, rushed to hug and slap each other on the back. It didn’t matter that it was just a stupid trial. They had won. They were entitled to strut and parade in their glorious red and white.

  Mrs Stone had to go then. That was why the game hadn’t been a full ninety minutes. But most of the boys decided to stay and play on.

  ‘Wonderful game boys!’ said Mrs Stone. ‘Wonderful! I’ll be seeing you all on Monday morning then. And don’t forget to bring back the jerseys.’

  They watched her go. Some of the girls went with her, but a few stayed, to go on watching, a giggling huddle on the touch-line. They re-shuffled the teams, to make things a bit more even. Four of the boys had gone so they were down to nine-a-side.

  They had been playing about twenty minutes when the ball broke to Aleck just on the half-way line. He moved infield and pushed it through the middle. Shuggie ran on to the pass. He shuffled past a defender and he was clear, moving on towards goal, but Les had moved back to cover. As he came in to tackle, Shuggie dummied to the left, expecting Les to follow, then swerved to the right again with the ball. This should have left Les stranded and off balance, but he was slow and instead of following Shuggie’s feint, he lunged forwards clumsily, missing the ball, catching Shuggie below the knee with a heavy tackety boot. Carried forward by their own momentum they collided, crashing together and falling to the ground.

  Shuggie was up first, hobbling, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, easing it by spitting out a steady rhythmic barrage at Les.

  ‘Gan ya durty fuckin black enamel bastard ye!’

  Les was just getting to his feet when Shuggie threw the first punch, catching him on the jaw and laying him out again. Then Les was up and they were swinging at each other. A few of the other boys tried to break it up and pull them apart. The girls were shrieking with delighted horror. The ball had rolled a few yards away and lay where it came to rest, unnoticed and forgotten.

  On Monday morning some of the girls had been talking to Mrs Stone. She was looking grim and righteous as she sent Aleck next door to fetch the boys from the other class who had played in the trial.

  ‘And tell those who have jerseys to bring them,’ she said. The others had been called out to the floor in front of her desk, without explanation. They waited, shuffling, awkward. She went on with some corrections. When Aleck came back with the rest she put down her pen and looked at them.

  Then she began. She was horrified. The girls had told her about the scuffle, about the amount of swearing that had gone on.

 
‘And I was disgusted,’ she said. ‘It seems I just can’t turn my back on you for a minute but you’re behaving like the lowest of animals. You’ve really disappointed me boys. If that’s a sample of your behaviour then you just can’t be trusted. And I’m certainly not willing to make any effort for a bunch of hooligans who are just going to disgrace me. So that’s it boys. No more football, and you’ve only yourselves to blame.’ She brought out the cardboard box and laid it down in front of her desk.

  ‘Those of you who have jerseys,’ she went on, ‘put them back in the box. The boys from next door, go back to your class. The rest of you sit down and get out your arithmetic jotters. Hugh and Leslie, stay where you are. I hear you were the worst offenders.’ She reached into the desk for her belt.

  ‘Actually brawling!’ she said. ‘Just think yourselves lucky I don’t send you to the headmaster. Right Leslie, you first. Cross your hands.’ She belted them both twice. She sent Les back to his seat and told Shuggie to pick up the box of jerseys.

  ‘You will take these jerseys,’ she said, ‘and put them back where you found them, and I will hear no more about football from any of you.’

  They were numbed. She had pronounced sentence, and they knew that it was final.

  ‘Right!’ she said, turning to the class. ‘Arithmetic.’

  Gypsy’s Touch was a sadistic kind of tig-game that had been dreamed up by Shuggie. Somebody would accidentally or deliberately brush against Les or another gypsy, and jump back as if contaminated. The aim of the game then was to transfer the infection, by touch, to somebody else who would try to pass it on again.

  Now that they all blamed Les for the collapse of their dreams of having a football team, the game was more popular.

  Shuggie jostled Les in the dinner-hall queue and recoiled.

  ‘Gypsy’s Touch!’ he gasped out, clutching his hand to his throat, then poking somebody else and beginning the game. The queue broke up in disorder as they chased and ran, ducked and climbed, desperate to avoid the Touch.