by Alan Spence
Then, chuckling, he added, ‘An e’s even got a bit a string round is coat lik me! Course yer always thinkin somethin lik that aren’t ye? Like ah’ll be standin there feedin the birds an jist feelin fine, an then it’s lik ah’m watchin maself, y’know. Ther’s this voice sayin “Here’s me bein St Francis.”’
‘Ah know whit ye mean,’ he said. ‘Watchin yerself.’
‘In fact sometimes,’ said the man, ‘ah think yer never done playin at somethin or other. Still, ye could do worse than bein St Francis! Thing is but, next minute yer bein somethin else, yer snivellin away or yer narkin at somethin.’
‘That’s jist it,’ he said.
‘Ach well!’ The old man put the print carefully back in his bag, shoving it down beside a package wrapped in newspaper. ‘This is jist a bone for soup,’ he explained, ‘an some scraps for the dog.’
‘The puppy,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve seen um with ye at the burroo. Nice wee fella.’
‘The burroo!’ said the old man. ‘That’s it. Ah knew ah’d seen yer face before. Signin on this mornin. It’s a small world, eh! A small world.’ He smiled, thinking to himself, then went on, ‘Now there’s a thing. D’ye ever say somethin an then ye hear the words different? Like they mean somethin else? Like ah’m jist after sayin it’s a small world an ah looked up an remembered ah wis thinkin this place here wis a small world. The Palace ah mean. A wee world in itself. The different continents an that.’
‘Ah wis thinkin that as well,’ he said. ‘Whole world tae choose fae. Go where ye like.’
‘There yar then,’ said the man, grinning and nodding his head. ‘Ah see yer a Temperate Asia man yerself!’
‘Oh definitely,’ he said. ‘Never go anywher else!’ and they laughed. He was beginning to like the old man. There was something of a twinkle in his eye and he was a good talker. His voice too was easy on the ear. In the rhythm of it was a lilt that hadn’t quite been overlaid by Glasgow. It still had a lightness to it that was Highland perhaps, or Irish. He was muttering now about getting home soon to feed the dog. ‘How d’ye no bring um out wi ye?’ he asked.
‘Och,’ said the old man, ‘ye canny bring um in here. Ther’s this notice at the door. Big capital letters, it says NO SMOKING NO DOGS NO PERAMBULATORS.’ He said it in a clipped, mimicking voice. ‘Awful posh eh! Ah don’t know. See these folk wi ther notices. No bloody perambulators!’
He told the man about the notices he’d seen at Paddy’s, and they laughed again.
‘Oh that’s comical that is,’ said the man. ‘No need for alarm. Fish being cured. It’s lik somethin out the Marx Brothers!’
‘Makes me think a some doctor tryin tae cure this sick fish on a slab, an it’s slappin aboot an makin a rammy!’
‘An whit wis the other wan?’ said the man.
‘Wherraboots . . . Awrerr.’
‘Oh aye. That’s very clever. D’ye see aw the different meanins in it? Wherraboots means “Whereabouts” or “Where’s the boots”. An Awrerr means “Over there” or else “All rare”. Really really clever. Must be a bit ae a genius made it up. Jist shows ye aw the same. Words are queer things. Folk should be careful how they use them.’
For a moment the old man was silent again, inside himself, thinking. Then he said, ‘Ach aye. They should use words tae cheer ye up. No need for alarm. Imagine puttin that on big posters! Here, never you mind me sir. Ah’m jist ravin away! Tell me, did ye get anythin nice down in Paddy’s?’
He told him about the pullover and the shoes, then showed him the old record.
‘Is that no beautiful,’ said the man. ‘There is a flower that bloometh. Oh, that should definitely go on posters. Put it along wi the other wan. No need for alarm. How about that for the front page ae a newspaper! Great big headlines. THERE IS A FLOWER THAT BLOOMETH. NO NEED FOR ALARM!’
Handing back the record he said, ‘That’ll be a collector’s piece that. John McCormack. Lovely song. Flower that bloometh. Thing is, if everyb’dy could jist stop for a minute an appreciate the flower that bloometh then ther would be no need for alarm. No need for all that bloody nonsense ye read about in the papers. Here, ah’m away again! Ye should jist shut me up.’
Reaching into his bag, the old man brought out a half-bottle of wine and offered him a drink. He was momentarily thrown by it. The man was once again a dosser, an old winey, and he seemed to sense the reaction, adding ‘Oh no offence sir, no offence,’ and explaining that he just bought a bottle now and again, to have with a meal, or to share when he was ‘in good company’.
The whole thing seemed suddenly ridiculous, as if they were connoisseurs of the finest food and drink. It was like the way they had spoken of the grand tour they could make in their circuit of the Palace. Relaxing, he grinned and told the old man how daft he thought it all was.
‘A couple of swells,’ said the man, quoting an old song, and he raised his little finger as he took a swig from the bottle.
There was something not quite real in all this; to be idly passing the time of day with this strange old man. He had put the bottle away and was twinkling back at him like a grizzled old leprechaun.
‘Would ah be right in thinkin you’re fae Ireland?’ he asked.
‘Fancy you noticin that,’ said the man. ‘Ah thought ah’d jist about lost ma accent. Ah havnae been back there for donkey’s years. The auld country’s in a terrible state these days, eh? Ah’ve lived in a few places since ah left mind ye. But somehow ah’ve finished up here. Are ye a Glasgow man yerself?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘ah’ve lived here most a ma life, but ah wis actually born in Campbeltown.’
‘Is that no incredible,’ said the man. ‘D’ye know ah lived there for five year.’
‘Away!’
‘Small world right enough, eh!’
‘We left when ah wis jist wee like, but ah used tae go back for ma holidays when ah wis auld enough tae go campin an that.’
‘Oh aye, it’s a great wee place Campbeltown. Course it’ll be changed nowadays. Jist lik everywher else. Prob’ly full a cafés an chip shops an bingo. They’ll likely av made the saint’s cave intae a museum wi a turnstile. An they’ll be sellin genuine relics. Actual chuckies wi real birdshit on them!’
‘Ah’d forgot all about that cave. Imagine you knowin about it! Whit wis the saint called again?’
‘Kieran.’
‘That’s it. St Kieran.’
(A hollow, green with seaweed, in the rocks battered by the waves; an ancient design carved on a flat slab of stone; call of gulls; the sound of the sea.)
‘Ye know e’s supposed tae uv carved that stone imself.’
‘Oh ah don’t doubt it,’ said the man. ‘A circle wisn’t it, wi a kinda Celtic cross in it.’
‘Amazin tae think ae it still lyin ther.’
‘Unless some’dy’s sold it tae an American!’
‘They must a been tough these auld fellas aw the same, livin in a cave lik that. Tellin ye, we don’t know we’re livin.’
‘Oh that’s true,’ said the old man. ‘Makes a single-end in Partick look lik a palace! Makes ye appreciate yer wee comforts.’ Bringing out his bottle again, he swigged some more wine. ‘Here’s tae Campbeltown! Sure ye don’t want a wee slug?’
‘Naw, naw,’ he said. ‘Ah’m fine thanks.’
‘Tell me,’ said the man, ‘d’ye ever mind a gettin fish off the boats?’
‘Ah do,’ he said. ‘Ah mind a goin down wi ma mother early in the mornin, when it wis still dark.’
(Boats bobbing in the harbour, everything bigger than life. Bulking shapes, the men unloading their catches on to the quay, shimmering silver harvest, glinting in the moon’s pale light. Bustle as crates and barrels were filled to the brim and to overflowing, always a few fish for the baskets of the waiting women. The town taking shape in the first grey light. The creak of the fish-frail his mother carried home.)
‘That’s incredible,’ he said. ‘Ah kin remember that really clear. Ah kin jist aboot smell the fish!’
&
nbsp; ‘Amazin thing the memory,’ said the man. ‘It’s all in here y’know,’ tapping his head. ‘Everythin.’
‘Ah’ve often thought that,’ he said. ‘Ah’m always rememberin things, even fae when ah wis wee. An whit’s funny is, a lot a the time it’s jist daft things that come back tae ye. Things that don’t matter.’
‘Ah!’ said the man. ‘That’s wher yer wrong, see, cos it ALL matters. Every wee thing. If you remember somethin, ye kin be sure it’s important. Ther’ll be some meanin behind it somewher. Course, at the same time, none ae it matters a damn!’
Laughing, he offered him the bottle again, and this time he took a sip, shuddering as the taste of the wine hit him.
‘Good stuff that,’ said the man. ‘None ae yer rubbish. Listen, while we’re doin a wee bit reminiscin about Campbeltown, did ye ever go tae Davaar Island?’
‘Walked across tae it at low tide!’ he said.
‘An see the paintin in the cave?’
‘Ah did that,’ he said.
(Jesus, his hands raised in benediction, painted on the wall of the cave, where the sunlight, shafting in through an opening, lit up a halo round the head.)
‘Ah don’t mind tellin ye,’ said the man, ‘the first time ah saw that it fair took ma breath away. Ah wisnae expectin it like. The sun must av jist come out fae behind a cloud, an there it was, aw lit up.’
Now they were passing the bottle between them, like old cronies, as they talked. His liking for the old man was growing. There was a strangeness in a lot of what he said, but there seemed to be a depth to it, a wisdom he could recognise and almost grasp, and a feeling that mirth was never far away.
The old man drained the last drops of wine and, stuffing the bottle back in his bag, said, ‘There ye go, another dead man!’ then, looking about him, ‘Ye have tae watch the parkies don’t catch ye drinkin or they’ll put ye out on yer ear.’
‘Kin they do that?’ he asked.
‘Oh well,’ said the man, ‘it’s mibbe no up on the notice, ah mean it disnae actually say NO BEVVYING! But ah think they might take a wee bit exception. An that wid be us. Out in the cauld.’
‘That wid be a shame,’ he said. ‘It’s nice in here.’
‘Warm.’
‘Like a big greenhouse.’
‘A greenpalace!’
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Like somethin out a story. The Winter Gardens. Somethin fae another age.’
‘Magic,’ said the man. ‘D’ye ever look at the statues? Very nice they are. But ah’ll tell ye somethin that bothers me. They’ve all got fine names lik Eve and Ruth an Sisters of Bethany, but what ah want tae know is what’s King Robert of Sicily doin in among them? That’s the fella jist at the right as ye come in the door. Ah mean who is e anyway? Ah what’s e doin sittin in the bare buff wi a monkey in is lap?’
‘Takes all sorts,’ he said.
‘An then ther’s Cain at the other side,’ said the man. ‘Poor bugger. Funny thing as well, ah don’t know if ye’ve noticed, but right next tae um ther’s this door that leads in tae another bit ae the garden, a wee side bit, and ther’s a big barrier across it. Now isn’t that jist like the thing? Auld Cain sittin ther wi is face trippin um, an all thae beautiful flowers jist across the way, an a big CLOSED sign keepin um out!’
‘That’s it, isn’t it.’
‘An doesn’t the bit that’s locked always look the best?’
‘The grass is always greener.’
‘Ah mean, that jist has tae be the finest part ae the Palace. Ah’ve peeked in there many a time when nobody wis lookin. Poor auld Cain.’
‘Hisnae got a look in,’ he said. ‘Here, ther’s somethin ah wis gonnae show ye. Ah wis in Community House the day an a wee wifie gave me this.’ The gospel tract had been crumpled in his pocket. He smoothed it out and showed it to the old man. ‘Ther’s another headline for ye!’
‘COME BACK TO GOD,’ read the old man. ‘COME HOME. Ye could do worse.’ Reading over the story, he went on, ‘Community House ye got this? It’s a queer sorta thing for them.’
‘Aw naw,’ he said. ‘The wee wifie didnae belong there. She wis jist in fur a cuppa tea, lik me.’
‘Ah wis wonderin!’ said the man. ‘Still, ah suppose these folk mean well enough. If they’d jist stop grabbin ye bi the collar!’
‘Right enough,’ he said.
‘But tell me,’ said the man, ‘did ye ever go tae Iona itself?’
‘Ah did not,’ he said, ‘but ah’ve heard a lot about it.’
‘God,’ said the old man. ‘Whit a place that is.’ Again he was far away, and his voice was more quiet as he went on, feeling for words. ‘It’s no like . . . how kin ah explain it? It’s nothin ah could describe tae ye, y’know. Ah mean ah could tell ye all about the place, the abbey an the ruins an the sea an . . . everythin! But even if ah could describe every last wee thing on that island, ah still wouldnae be able tae say it. It’s jist a feelin. Ther’s jist this incredible peace, an it’s as if nothin’s ever changed. Ye kinda half expect tae see Columba imself. Ah mean it’s like . . . e’s still there! As sure as God, it’s magic. Ah’m no even explainin whit ah mean. But the time ah wis ther . . . it wis only for a week mind ye, but ah’ve never forgot it . . . anyway when ah went ah wis in a bad state, cos ah’d jist lost ma wife ye see. But as soon as ah got there ah felt this peace ah’m tellin ye about. An then ther wis one evenin . . . ah’d been out for a walk an ah wis comin back down tae the abbey. An ah stopped, an looked about me, an it wis jist gettin dark, an ther wis jist the stillness, an this fine fine rain soakin intae me, but it didnae matter, an nothin else mattered, an ther wis jist this feelin a being out maself . . . an it wis like ah wasn’t even feelin it, there wis jist the feelin itself . . . an it wis like ther wis no time, an ah wis part a everythin that had ever been . . . an ah KNEW!’
The old man’s eyes were bright with the remembrance, and his wrinkled face, for a moment, looked ancient, as if he had looked deep into the mystery of things and found at the heart of it a smile.
The crunch of footsteps on the path brought them back to where they were, as a young couple passed by, arm in arm.
‘Ach well,’ said the old man. ‘It’s gettin late. Ah better get home an feed that dog before e chews the house down! It’s been nice talkin tae ye sir. Maybe see ye next week at the burroo.’
‘Should do,’ he said.
‘Cheerio then,’ said the old man, picking up his bag to go. ‘An remember, No Need For Alarm!’
‘Right!’ he said, waving, and the old man was gone.
He sat for a while, trying to gather himself. His head was fuddled from the wine. The afternoon had drifted away in talk with the old man, whose words had seemed to have a crazy kind of sanity to them. He had enjoyed the company and didn’t feel much like going back to his half-room. But eventually he stirred himself to get up and head out.
Further along, the two Indian women were still sitting. He suddenly thought how far they must be from the bright land that was their home.
In the passageway, he heard footsteps behind him and a park-keeper came striding past and across to the statue of Cain. Perched in the statue’s lap was the old man’s empty wine-bottle. The keeper snatched it and threw it into a litter-basket, turning and glowering round about. For a moment he thought he was about to be accused. Perhaps the keeper had smelled the wine on his breath as he passed. He prepared an imaginary dialogue in which he replied to the keeper, with dignity, ‘I ask you sir, do I look like an old wine-mopper?’
But in fact the keeper just barged right past him, as if he didn’t exist, muttering something to himself.
He couldn’t keep a smile from his face at the thought of the old man leaving the bottle in Cain’s lap. He could almost imagine him, his arm round the stone shoulder, telling Cain to cheer up and see the flower that bloometh, reassuring him there was no need for alarm.
Standing at the pond, he looked down into the water, watching the fish swim slowly round, the shapes they traced,
gliding, darting, the rhythm of their movement a perfect flow. Reflected in the water was the glass domed roof, a circle of sky at the bottom of the pond, the frame of the dome a radial pattern, broken by the rippling fish, the rocks, the trailing plants.
He thought of the cornice-work, cut in half, in his room, and the emptiness he felt from it; and remembering, going back, he saw the whole design, on the ceiling of their room in Govan.
(Lying with his wife on their wedding-night, first night in their own home. Because it was wartime, furniture was scarce and they hadn’t a proper bed, just a mattress in the middle of the floor. The air-raid sirens had been whining, but they were staying where they were. The week before, a shelter had been hit in Clydebank. Here at least they could have a little time together. By the side of the makeshift bed they had lit a small candle, the blackout curtains tightly closed, and in its flickering light he had lain awake half the night, staring up at that pattern on the ceiling, hearing the bombs drop somewhere else, safe in her arms, lost in her soft warmth.)
Looking up at the dome, he could see the snow was falling thick. Near the top it was even beginning to settle. The quality of the light was a sad yellow-grey. Leaning forward he could see his own reflection in the pond, breaking up, dissolving as the fish rippled across.
Another memory was coming to the surface, a memory from further back.
(He was back in the house in Campbeltown; he was only four or five years old. He could see the design on the carpet where he had played. The carpet had been old and frayed but the patterns had still been clear. Out of the shapes, he had made a whole world, of flowers and faces, stars and leaves, all merging into each other, fishes and birds, a stain that looked like a boat. He remembered the smell of the room, the familiar enclosing warmth of the house around him. He would lie there, curled, in that circle on the carpet. It was his place, his territory. Within it he was safe. He remembered the feeling; centred, contained, whole; listening to the heavy comforting tick of the clock on the mantelpiece, the sounds his mother made, working about the house. Every evening at the same time she would look up at the clock, and tell him his father would be on his way. And he would jump up and run outside to watch for him. And there he would be coming slowly up the steep cobbled street. And his father would wave, and he would go pounding down the hill, running to meet him in a surge of simple joy, and his father would lift him on to his shoulder and carry him home.)
