by Alan Spence
(Guidelines for her chalk against the black – like the lines on the pages of his jotter – date in the left hand margin – NAME in the middle of the top line – below that (miss two lines) the title of the composition – ‘What I want to be’ – sun shafting in through the window, lighting on dancing particles of dust – dust of chalk in the air – sunlight – what I want – to be.)
At the beginning of the long summer holidays it had seemed as if they could never end. Eight weeks was an eternity stretching before them. Now, incredibly, five of those precious weeks had passed.
‘Imagine huvin tae go back tae school ’n a cuppla weeks,’ said Aleck.
‘You’re no sa bad,’ said Joe. ‘Youse proddies uv goat a week merr than us.’
‘Ach well,’ said Aleck. ‘Youse ur always gettin hoalidays a obligation. Jist wan saint efter another. Ah think we should get an extra two weeks tae make up fur it.’
Joe stuck out his tongue and gave Aleck the V-sign. Then he grinned.
‘Heh Aleck, comin wu’ll no bother gawn back tae school? Wu’ll jist run away an dog it forever.’
‘That wid be brilliant!’ said Aleck. ‘Wherr could we go?’
Joe held up his arrow.
‘We could go tae America an live wi REAL Indians. Ah’ve goat an auntie in Canada.’
‘Ach thur’s nae real Indians left,’ said Aleck. ‘They aw get pit oot ’n daft wee reservations.’
‘How aboot India then?’ said Joe. ‘Or Africa? We could live in a tree hoose.’
‘Pick bananas ’n oranges,’ said Aleck.
‘Hunt animals.’
‘Make pals wi some a them but,’ said Aleck. ‘Lions ’n tigers an that.’
‘Make pals wi the darkies tae.’
‘Great white chiefs.’
‘Me chief Joseph.’ He pouted his lips and spoke in as deep a voice as he could, beating his chest with his fist.
‘Me chief Alexander,’ said Aleck, raising his bow. ‘We wid huv tae gie wursels better names but.’
‘Walla Walla Wooski!’ said Joe.
‘We could paint wursels tae,’ said Aleck. ‘Werr feathers an bones.’
‘Imagine bein cannibals,’ said Joe. ‘We could jist eat white men that got loast in the jungle.’
‘Fancy gawn intae the chippy,’ said Aleck, ‘an askin fur two single fish an a whiteman supper!’
‘Sausage rolls wi pricks in them,’ said Joe, laughing.
‘At’s horrible!’ said Aleck, making a face as if he was going to be sick.
(Louie in the chip shop – like Sweeney Todd – cutting people up for pies – rubbing his hands and gloating over the carcass of a fat schoolboy – ambushed in the back court.)
‘People ur supposed tae taste like pork,’ he said at last. ‘Think ah’ll stoap eatin meat.’
‘Ach don’t be daft,’ said Joe. ‘If we didnae eat animals we’d get ett wursels.’
‘Suppose so,’ said Aleck.
He put the finishing touches to his bow. Joe taped the last arrowhead. They went padding off across Congos and Zambezis of their own making, to see what was to be hunted.
Aleck lay with his eyes closed on the flat roof of the midden, the warmth of the sun on his bare arms and legs, his face against the stone. And nothing existed outside himself in that moment. (Colour, mainly red, behind his eyes – warm, warm – low sounds, a feeling, a murmur – flies, drone – voices far away – a dream, faint breeze – laughter, a car, tin can dropped in a bin – warm, he lay like some great slow lizard, coiled and lazing on a warm rock – he could almost remember it.)
He sat up suddenly and looked around. The colours were still behind his eyes. He focused on Joe on the ground below, stalking a pigeon. Joe. The back court. Hunting. It was real. He was Aleck. His whole life had actually happened.
Joe shot his arrow and the pigeon flustered off to circle round and perch on a railing.
‘Bastard!’ said Joe.
The arrow skimmed the wall where the pigeon had sat and landed on the other side in the next back court.
‘Gonnae nik doon an get that Aleck?’ said Joe, looking up.
From his high perch on the dyke Aleck could see both back courts.
‘Ther’s some fullas watchin yer doo,’ he said. ‘Thu’ll prob’ly huv the perry us fur tryin tae shoot it.’
Aleck climbed down on to the wall.
‘If ye hear me gettin mangled yu’ll know whit’s happened,’ he said.
‘Ach well,’ said Joe, ‘it wis nice knowin ye.’
Aleck dropped down on to the other side of the wall.
The men gave no sign that they had even noticed him but he hesitated to move for the arrow, which had landed almost at their feet.
It was funny to think of them as bird watchers. Most of them were in their twenties or thirties, one or two were older. Men without jobs who seemed to spend their whole time loafing or shambling around, always in a cluster, scuffling and shabby, always finding ways to fill the time till the glorious weekend when there was money for wine and they were loud and alive and glowing, singing and fighting and sick.
Watching the pigeons was a mystery with its secrets, its initiates, a language of its own. They would cup their hands to their mouths and echo the bird’s own call. They used strange words like fantail and others that Aleck could never quite make out or understand. Some of them even built wooden doocots, box-hutches where the birds could feed. Doocot meant dovecot because doo was short for dove. Dovecot. Cot for a dove. But the pigeons were mostly grey, although if you could look closely you might see colours. Like an oilstain on the road under the light. Gurgling and strutting and grey. Doves should be soft and graceful and white. Like the dove sent from the ark, to find land where it could rest. Miss Riddie had told them the story and taught them the song.
(The words chalked on the blackboard – teacher with her pointer – repeat after me –
O that I had wings like a dove
Then I would fly away and be at rest
Lo then would I wander far off
And remain in the wilderness
di dum diddy dum diddy dum/diddy dum diddy dum didum.)
One of the men picked up the arrow. He looked straight at Aleck and snapped the arrow in two. He was grinning.
‘Aw . . . izzat no a shame . . . ah’ve went an broke it!’
The others laughed and he threw the pieces aside.
‘Get tae buggery wi yer bows ’n arras or ah’ll snap yer fuckin neck!’
Aleck ran and scrambled back across the wall.
The pigeon rose and soared over the rooftops and out of sight.
The afternoon sticky and hot and the pavement tar soft and melting. Aleck and Joe were scraping their initials with their arrows.
(The way the tar opened under the pressure – glistening black scar on the pavement’s dusty grey – initials – names.)
‘Tar’s brilliant stuff, intit,’ said Joe.
‘So it is,’ said Aleck. ‘See the smell aff it when it’s jist been laid! Makes ye wanty sink yer teeth inty it!’
‘So it dis. Ah love smells lik that.’
‘The smell a the subway!’
‘New shoe boaxes!’
‘Rubber tyres!’
‘Terrific!’
Joe dug into the tar, wound the arrow till its end was coiled and clogged.
‘Looks lik a big toly disn’t it!’
They dug out lumps with their hands, kneaded and stretched and smeared it.
‘Really dis make ye wanty eat it.’
‘D’you remember eatin sand when ye wur wee?’ asked Aleck.
‘Naw, ah don’t think so,’ said Joe. ‘How, d’you?’
‘Aye. Sandpies it wis. Looked great. Tasted horrible but.’
(Mouthful of dirt – becoming mud – grit between the teeth.)
‘Jesus!’ said Joe. ‘How ur we gonnae get this stuff aff?’
Aleck looked at his blackened hands. ‘Margarine’s supposed tae take it aff,’ he said.
‘We could always leave them,’ said Joe. ‘Cover wursels in it so’s we look lik darkies.’
‘Fur gawn tae the jungle,’ said Aleck. He picked up his bow and arrows.
‘Ach look at that!’ said Joe. His arrow had split digging into the tar. He threw it away, disgusted.
‘Never mind,’ said Aleck. ‘’Mon wu’ll go up tae mah hoose ’n clean it aff.’
Margarine smeared on their tarry hands, a greasy mess, the fat and the tar merging to make a mucky green as they rubbed and scraped and tried to clean it off.
‘Horrible, intit,’ said Joe, looking at his hands.
‘Imagine seein thaym comin ower yer shooder ’n a dark night,’ said Aleck. He wailed and thrust gnarled slimy claws towards Joe. They stalked each other round the kitchen, menacing the furniture with green and trembling werewolf paws.
‘Smelly,’ said Aleck, stopping in mid-growl to sniff his hands. He went to the sink and tried washing them clean under the tap but the cold water couldn’t dissolve the grease which still clung in globules and streaks.
‘Ah canny really be bothered bilin up a kettle a watter,’ he said.
‘Gie’s up that auld towel aff the flerr, wull ye.’
With the towel they managed to rub off most of the dirt.
‘At’s no bad,’ said Joe. ‘Prob’ly werr aff in a day ur two.’
They looked at the dirt still ingrained in the skin and under their nails.
‘Dead quiet,’ said Joe, unaccustomed to the emptiness of the house. Joe had brothers and sisters and his house was always loud with their noise.
‘Suppose so,’ said Aleck.
The tick of the clock. Stillness. Noises from the back court.
‘Think ah’ll jist stey in,’ said Aleck. ‘That’s hauf four the noo, an ma mammy’ll be hame fae ur work at five.’
‘When dis yer da get in?’ asked Joe.
‘Aboot hauf five ur somethin.’
Joe lifted his bow and moved towards the door.
‘Fancy gin doon tae the ferry efter tea?’ he said.
‘The ferry?’
‘Aye, we could nik acroass tae Partick an play aboot therr ’nen come back. Disnae cost anythin.’
‘At’s a great idea,’ said Aleck. ‘See ye efter tea then.’
He handed Joe one of his arrows.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘That’s us git wan each.’
Past a pub with a cluster of neon grapes above the door, past a mission hall called Bethel, left off Govan Road and along a narrow lane, through the docks to the ferry steps.
Ferry steps. They were often invoked as part of a prophecy, against the drunk and incapable. Spat out like a curse – ‘That yin’ll finish up at the fit a the ferry steps.’
Aleck and Joe sat at the top of the steep slippery wooden steps, waiting for the ferry to cross from the Partick side.
‘Imagin slippin fae here,’ said Joe. ‘Ye’d jist tummel right in.’
They looked in silence, down to where the steps disappeared into black invisible depth, the oily river lapping softly.
‘Here it comes!’ said Aleck.
They stood up and watched as the squat brown ferry chugged across towards them.
The water swirled up the steps as it bumped and thudded to rest.
The ferry had the same kind of low dumpy bulk as a tug, though it was much smaller. It had a long low deck with sides to a height of about three feet running along its whole length and open at each end. Spanning the middle section was a canopy. This gave shelter for the passengers in the rain and also covered the pilot’s wheel-house. The whole ferry, including the canopy, was painted the same dull brown.
Aleck and Joe went to the front and leaned over the side. Smoke phutted from the chimney as the ferry chugged its way out. Joe had left his bow at home but Aleck had brought his with him, the one remaining arrow tucked under his belt. He trailed the bow in the water, watching the wake ripple out behind it, the boat rocking gently beneath them, the feel of the deck through their thin-soled shoes.
Towering along both banks were the great jutting cranes of the shipyards, a tanker further downstream, gulls circling overhead.
They’d been told a little about the river in school. How it began as a trickle away in the southern uplands and wound its way down through sheepfarms and mining towns and eventually flowed through Glasgow and beyond to the firth and the open sea.
‘Funny tae think ’n aw this watter comin fae a wee stream up ’n the hills,’ said Aleck.
‘Intit,’ said Joe.
‘Ah mean, the same watter,’ said Aleck.
They were silent, looking down at the oily flow. Grey with colours. Like the pigeon.
The journey was too quickly over. At the Partick side they charged up the steps then stopped and looked around them. The ferry started back across.
Miss Riddie had told them about Partick and Govan growing side by side. The deepening of the river. Shipbuilding. Cheap houses for the shipyard workers. She had said they were like reflections, Partick and Govan, with the river like a mirror in between.
The grey buildings looked the same, but they were not their own. They felt lost and threatened. The strange streets and unfamiliar faces were hostile. At the corner opposite, a group of men loafing. Boys their own age, playing, looking towards them. They would have to go past them to get clear of the ferry.
‘D’you know anywherr tae go?’ asked Aleck.
‘Naw. No really,’ said Joe.
‘D’ye fancy jist gawn back?’
‘Comin?’
‘Right, c’mon!’
They squatted on the steps waiting. If Partick and Govan were on opposite sides of the mirror, only one side was real. It depended on where you had been brought up. And for Aleck and Joe, Govan was the only reality they knew. When they were back once more on the steps at the Govan side, Joe turned to Aleck.
‘Hey! D’ye fancy jist steyin oan the ferry an gawn back an furrat a coupla times? Jist fur a wee hurl?’
‘At’s a great idea!’ said Aleck. They jumped back on to the ferry just in time before it moved off.
The low sun was bright on the water and the shadows it cast were long. ‘Heh Aleck,’ said Joe. ‘Ye could haud up the driver wi yer bow ’n arra an get um tae take us tae America or Africa or wherrever it wis.’
‘Imagine!’ said Aleck. He looked at the bow. ‘Och wid ye lookit the state ae it!’ The string had split the cane at one end and the split had continued half way down its length.
‘Never mind,’ said Joe.
‘Disnae really matter, ah suppose.’
At the Partick side they decided to jump off and join the oncoming passengers for the journey back, just for the sake of the leap from the deck to the steps. But when they tried to get back on the pilot blocked their way.
‘Right!’ he said. ‘Yizzur steyin aff. Yizzuv bin up an doon aff this boat lik a fuckin yoyo. D’ye think it’s jist fur playin oan? Noo goan! Get!’
They stood helpless, watching as the ferry moved off towards their home shore.
‘Whit’ll we dae noo?’ asked Aleck.
‘Ther’s another ferry up at the Art Galleries,’ said Joe. ‘We could walk it up.’
‘Wull that no take us a while?’ said Aleck.
‘Nothin else we kin dae.’ Joe looked out after the ferry, now almost at the Govan side.
‘Bastard!’ he said.
‘Cunt!’ said Aleck.
He threw his split bow and his last arrow into the water and watched them being swirled out by the current. He wondered how far they would be carried. Out past the shipyards, past Greenock and Gourock to the firth, past the islands, out past Ireland, out to the Atlantic, out . . .
Aleck suddenly shivered. The sky was beginning to darken. The river was deep and wide. They were far from home, in an alien land.
‘Fuckin Partick,’ said Joe.
They began the slow climb to the top of the ferry steps.
Gypsy
‘Gypsies
ur worse than cathlicks!’ said Shuggie to Aleck. ‘Nae kiddin. They havnae a fuckin clue.’
Les the gypsy said nothing. He just laughed and carried on tearing open packets of jotters and stacking them on an old table. The storeroom was thick with dust and a yellow winter light filtered in through the one window, which was small and grimy with bars on the outside. There was a single light bulb but it had fused and the janitor hadn’t got round to replacing it.
Shuggie and Aleck were savouring the few minutes of freedom from the classroom, clambering over packing-cases and ancient desks, all chipped and battered, scrawled on and carved. They climbed and rummaged, poked and dug, from the highest shelf to the darkest grubbiest corner, expecting always to unearth some fabled, long-lost treasure.
But Les insisted on going on with the work they’d been sent to do. That was what had rankled Shuggie, though he hated the gypsy anyway.
‘Wotcha think yer gonna find?’ asked Les.
‘Wojja finkya gonna foind?’ said Shuggie, mocking his English accent.
‘Very funny,’ said Les.
‘Vewy fanny,’ said Shuggie. ‘Anywey, never you mind whit. Jist you wait an see.’
‘Some’dy funn a stuffed owl wance,’ said Aleck. ‘In a gless case it wis. An some’dy else funn a dead dead dead auld fotie a the Rangers.’
‘Whit ye talkin tae that cunt fur?’ said Shuggie.
‘Ach c’mon,’ said Aleck. ‘E’s no daein any herm. Ah mean wu’ve goat tae soart oot the jotters sometime.’
‘Aw ah’m sayin is thur’s nae hurry,’ said Shuggie. ‘We kin take wur time. Nae need tae belt intae it as if wur daein piecework.’
‘Ach well,’ said Aleck. There was a silence. Then he went on, telling Les, ‘An thur’s supposed tae be gasmasks, an fitba strips, an bladders, an loads a great books, an jist . . . hunners a things!’
‘Must be pretty well hidden!’ said Les, looking round the room and laughing.
‘Smartarse!’ said Shuggie, then, turning to Aleck, ‘D’ye wanty gie tit-features a haun then?’
‘Aw right,’ said Aleck, jumping down from the desk-top where he was squatting.
‘Freezin in ere, innit,’ said Les.
For answer, Aleck nodded and shuddered, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. ‘Nae radiators in here,’ he said. He lifted down a packet of jotters and tore it open.