Its Colours They Are Fine

by Alan Spence

  He went back to the table, scowling at Eddie.

  ‘Never mind Shug,’ said Eddie. ‘Thur no worth it. Fuck them all!’

  Across the hall Shuggie saw Betty and Helen going into the ladies’ toilet. The two boys were hovering around, waiting for them.

  ‘Ah’m gawn tae the lavvy,’ he said, heading for the other side of the hall.

  ‘Me tae,’ said Eddie, following.

  Shuggie saw the two boys as he came up to them. He singled out the one that had been dancing with Helen, and deliberately brushed against him as he passed.

  ‘Watch who yer shovin son!’ said Shuggie, pushing the boy again.

  ‘Wait a minnit!’ said the boy.

  ‘Think yer a fuckin hard man?’ said Shuggie, and he butted the boy in the face and brought his knee up into his groin. The boy’s friend stepped forward but Eddie stuck in his boot, stopping him.

  ‘We’re the Govan Team pal, so don’t fuckin mess!’ said Eddie.

  A few girls had screamed and there was a commotion round about as people backed away. Three bouncers were heading across to see what the trouble was.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Eddie. ‘Nae point in takin oan them as well. The boays ur aw away acroass the other side.’

  Shuggie turned to the boy he’d hit and said, ‘You’re claimed ootside!’ as Eddie dragged him on to the dance-floor where they split up and made their separate ways back to the others.

  Betty and Helen came out of the toilet and looked around them, bewildered.

  They had left a bit early and they stood across the road from the dance-hall, waiting; Shuggie and Eddie, Rab, Bugsy and Pudge, and two others, Jackie and Stu. Opposite the big red neon sign that said DANCING flashed on and off, on and off, lighting up the pavement.

  Through the doorway the crowds were beginning to spill out. Shuggie’s eyes were fixed, watching for the two boys. ‘Shouldnae be long noo,’ he said.

  ‘This should be good,’ said Eddie. ‘Didye see that wee guy’s face when ah says we wur the Govan Team! Jist aboot shat is sel! That wis the best laugh. Fuckin tremendous!’

  Shuggie laughed and reached into his pocket, feeling the steel comb with the long pointed handle.

  ‘Mental!’ he said.

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Rab.

  The Rain Dance

  With improvised maracas – a shake of small stones in a tin can; with tambourine, cymbal and drum – assembly of biscuit-tins and lids; with a bell, a rattle and a party squeaker left over from Christmas; with streamers, with a rose, with a paper hat, Kathleen was paraded through the lamplit streets of the scheme. Her maids and ladies-in-waiting were girls from the same office, Agnes and Jean linking arms with her, the rest of the clattering procession straggled out behind.

  Faces appeared briefly at windows as they passed, drawn for a moment from the television before fading back into its blue light, jerking shadows on the ceiling. Curtains were opened on living-room windows, screens that the procession moved across and was gone. Curtains were closed.

  Some there were that leaned out and waved, or stood watching from closemouth and pavement, some smiling and glad, others tightlipped and knowing.

  ‘Tommy Brady’s lassie.’

  ‘Gettin merried at Martha Street themorra.’

  ‘Merried oantae a proddie tae.’

  Passing silent judgement on this double heresy. Not only marrying a Protestant, but marrying at Martha Street Registry Office. And for a Catholic girl, that was no wedding at all.

  But the girls were untroubled as they sang into the night. The bells are ringin for me and my gal. The clamour and racket of the bridal dance.

  ‘Everybody is knowin

  To a weddin they’re goin

  An for weeks they’ve been sewin

  Every Susie and Sal.’

  Breaking off into shouts and laughing whenever man or boy should stray across their path. Then they would gather round the victim, willing or not, sometimes lurching across to the opposite pavement, or even stopping cars in the middle of the road. And Kathleen would be jostled towards the captive, offered for the ceremonial kiss, a final flirtation, benediction, farewell.

  There was a young boy of about fourteen who blushed and was clumsy and missed her mouth.

  There was an old silverhaired man, out for a walk with his dog. He smiled and kissed her forehead and said, ‘God bless ye lass.’ Then he added, tugging the lead, ‘An whit aboot Rab?’ So she bent and kissed the dog’s wet nose.

  There was a boy with the smell of drink on him, who had known Kathleen at school. The girls clapped and stamped and cheered as he gave her a long deep kiss, probing with his tongue.

  ‘Drunken bugger!’ said Kathleen, laughing and prising him clear at last.

  ‘It’s a bit late fur that son,’ said Agnes.

  ‘That’s the wey it goes,’ he said.

  They moved on, their voices raised again.

  ‘And she sang and she sang

  And she sang so sweet

  His name is Brian

  Ah hope ye will agree.’

  (A song from their childhood. A memory of long summer evenings. Her friends in a circle moving round her in step, chanting the magic name, the name of the boyfriend, the name that would release her, to take her place again in the circle of linked hands. Songs and games. Just a few summers. Chalk-marks on the pavement.)

  They rounded a corner, past a stretch of open ground. The noise and the singing came echoing back from a gable end. Their pace grew slower. It began to rain.

  Brian had to get a bus to Hillhead so Tommy saw him to the bus-stop in Hope Street. Tommy had to get a bus to Pollok.

  ‘Ah’ll see ye doontae the bus-stoap,’ said Brian.

  Supporting each other, they made their erratic way down past Central Station towards Midland Street. By the time they got there it had started to rain and they were glad of the shelter of the railway bridge above them.

  ‘Ah’m tell’n ye Brian,’ Tommy was saying, ‘Canada . . . at’s wherr yis should go. See wance yer time’s oot at the college . . . land a opportunity . . . See Peter . . . ye huvnae met Peter . . . Peter’s ma son . . . Kathleen’s big brurra . . . ah’ll show ye a fotie . . .’

  ‘At’s awright Tommy,’ said Brian, ‘ye showed me it arready. Jist pit yer wallet back in yer poacket before ye drap it.’

  ‘Aye . . . aw aye. Yirra good boay Brian. Tell’n ye . . . See you an Kathleen . . .’ He broke off as a train rumbled overhead.

  ‘Mon ah’ll see ye up tae the bus-stoap,’ he went on.

  ‘Naw, look . . .’ said Brian, ‘wu’ve arready been up therr; ah mean, don’t think ah don’t appreciate it . . .’

  ‘Sawright,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Anywey,’ said Brian, ‘it’s wet. Nae point in the two ae us gettin soakin. Look . . . here’s yer bus comin. Ah kin jist dive roon tae St Enoch’s an get a subway.’

  They both got on the bus, Brian guiding Tommy into a seat.

  ‘Ah’ll see ye themorra then,’ said Brian. ‘That’s if ye’ve sobered up!’

  ‘You don’t need tae worry aboot me,’ said Tommy, slowly nodding his head, spreading his fingers like an opening fan. ‘Nae bother!’

  ‘Right yar,’ said Brian. ‘Martha Street themorra.’

  ‘Themorra,’ said Tommy, poking the air with an emphatic finger.

  Then somehow Brian was outside on the pavement, knocking on the window. Tommy wiped the steamed-up glass and through the clear patch saw Brian’s face, focused, mouthing words he couldn’t hear. Then he was gone and the window misted over again as the bus moved out into the main stream of traffic and across Jamaica Bridge.

  Kathleen had gone to bed but Mary her mother still sat, leaning on the windowsill, seeing nothing but the rain streaming down the glass. The window had clouded a bit from her breath and she drew a face on it with her finger. Like a child’s drawing, the mouth turned down and doleful. Half past eleven. Tommy shouldn’t be long now. She had made a pot of tea and poured herself a cup.
Thinking maybe, that the smell of the tea would bring him home. Funny how you half-believed things like that. No sooner would the tea be ready than somebody’s head would be round the door. Tommy or Kathleen or Peter. Three years now Peter had been gone. And now it was Kathleen. One more day. The house would be strange without her. Just herself and Tommy. And Kathleen and Brian would begin it all again. Mary liked Brian well enough but she was troubled about the wedding. She remembered the bit in the missal about not marrying outside the church. And that meant both ways. It meant marrying a Catholic and it meant a proper church wedding. So she was worried for Kathleen. Father Boyle had put the fear in her about the wedding not being blessed. Not that Kathleen cared, or Tommy either. Little enough he cared about anything, especially the church. Sundays he usually spent recovering from Saturday nights and only rarely could she drag him along to Mass.

  And now he was somewhere out there, roaming and daft and drunk. Him and Brian both. But he couldn’t be much longer now, allowing for the last lingering pint and the chip-shop queue and the time it took him to get a bus . . .

  She looked out at the same old street, wet by the same old rain. She saw him turn the corner, unsteadily, and veer across towards the close, and she was relieved and annoyed all at once at the sight of him.

  She stood up from the window. The cup of tea she had poured herself was cold and untouched.

  Tommy woke, stiff and cold, huddled on the living-room couch. That was where he had slumped, a deep drunk sleep ago, his head drooping forward, his jaw sagging open. The shifting room had closed over him and Mary had taken off his shoes, covered him with his coat and left him be. Now he moved from a dream of creatures like cats or owls surrounding him, waking to a dream of ashes in his mouth, sickness dry in his throat. In the first grey light of the day the room resolved itself into vague familiar shapes, shapes from another dream. There was the table, television, display-cabinet, gas-fire. He gave them names and remembered them as real. He remembered who he was and where. He tried to get up but he was too weak to move. A sick dull throb had replaced his head and the room tilted and threatened to swamp him again. He turned over with difficulty, almost falling off the couch, then pulled his coat tighter about him and went back to sleep.

  When he woke again his body was one long ache. He managed to open his eyes long enough to see Mary looming over him, like a mourner at a wake.

  ‘So it’s come back tae the land a the livin his it? C’mon, get up!’ She clumped into the kitchen.

  He screwed up his face and groaned. The light was too bright and harsh. Mary was banging about in the kitchen. He could hear outside the noises of the morning, voices, traffic, children on their way to school. Then he heard Kathleen ask the time and he remembered what day it was and why he was not at work. The wedding. Christ! Still, it wasn’t till the afternoon and another half-hour wouldn’t . . .

  ‘Oh Jesus, ma guts!’ He creaked to his feet and wobbled towards the door. As he fumbled with the doorknob it came away in his hand and the knob on the other side thudded on to the hall floor.

  ‘Oh ya bastard!’ He glowered accusation at the crucifix on the wall.

  When he had replaced the handle and opened the door, Mary stuck her head out of the kitchen and bawled.

  ‘An ye kin fix that door before we go oot!’

  ‘Ach!’

  A little later, purged, he braved the kitchen. Mary was scraping the cinders from bits of charred toast. She shoved them in front of him, banging down the plate, rattled the cups and saucers and poured him some tea.

  He sipped at it, fingering the blackened, brittle toast. He pushed the plate aside and started to retreat.

  ‘Ah canny face the burnt offerin hen.’

  ‘Ye need somethin in yer stomach.’

  ‘Aye, maybe efter. Ah’m no feelin too good.’

  ‘Aye, well Hell mend ye, that’s aw ah kin say.’

  ‘Noo don’t start! Ye gave me enough shirrikin last night. Bloody dog’s abuse.’

  ‘And no bloody wonder!’ she said. ‘God forgive me.’ (Slipped in like punctuation as she put down a plate so she could cross herself.)

  ‘Ach be reasonable Mary. Ah mean it wis the boay’s last night a freedom before e pits is heid in the auld noose.’ He yanked an imaginary rope above his head and jerked his neck to the side. But that brought back the nausea, so he sat down before going on.

  ‘We hid tae gie um a wee bit send aff, ye know whit ah mean.’

  ‘Ah know whit ye mean awright, an ah know wherr ah’d send the perry yiz! Noo get ootma road. An will ye go an . . . DO somethin ABOUT yerself!’

  He went back into the living-room and fumbled in his coat pocket for his cigarettes. His hand met the grisly remains of a fish supper and a copy of the War Cry, absolute proof of how he’d spent the night before. He wondered vaguely if the War Cry was ever sold anywhere else but in pubs. He remembered the girl that had sold him it, black cape and bonnet and bright moon face. Into battle with her War Cry for the Salvation Army. He didn’t know anything about what they believed, just that they were another kind of Protestant, but something in him had always warmed to them for the way they went at it, with their brass bands and their banners. Some of them still had the fire and the joy of it, and that was how it should be. He tried to imagine old Father stoneface Boyle rattling a tambourine or beating a drum. He looked again at the War Cry and suddenly saw the words for what they were. A war cry was what an Indian would make, or a Dervish, or a Zulu. He had a sudden picture of the whole Sally Army birling and yelling and charging through Pollok. He looked at the main article on the front page. It was a report of a conference in London with a photo of delegates looking serious and purposeful.

  ‘Ach!’ he said. He wrapped the paper round the cold soggy chip-bag and threw it in the bin.

  He sat down on the couch again and closed his eyes. He was still feeling crumpled and raw. Kathleen poked her head round the door and asked if he’d like another cup of tea.

  ‘Aw thanks hen,’ he said, ‘Ah’d love wan. Ah’ve git a tongue in me lik a spam fritter.’

  She brought through his tea and a cup for herself and sat down beside him.

  ‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘The day’s the day.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said. They smiled at each other, reassuring.

  ‘Did Brian get hame awright last night?’ she asked.

  ‘Och e wis fine!’ said Tommy. ‘As a matter a fact he wis lookin efter me. We didnae really huv that much.’

  ‘Aye, tell me another wan!’ said Kathleen.

  ‘Naw ah’m no kiddin,’ said Tommy. ‘Some a they pals a his wur merr bevvied than the two ae us pit thegether. Ah mean we knew we hud tae keep wursels right.’

  ‘Away ye go!’ she said.

  ‘You’re as bad as yer mammy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘How wis she when ye wur in the kitchen?’

  ‘Och she’s still playin the martyr.’

  ‘Aboot me?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Jist aboot the whole thing,’ said Kathleen, ‘because it’s no a church weddin an aw that. Ah suppose you jist made ur a wee bit worse, comin in steamin. But ah think it’s maistly that auld priest that’s been gettin oantae ur again, pittin ideas intae ur heid.’

  ‘Interferin auld bugger,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Kathleen, ‘wance she sees the actual weddin she’ll be fine.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Anywey,’ said Kathleen, ‘ah’m away tae huv a bath, so ah’ll see ye efter. Oh, could ye take the cups intae the kitchen?’

  ‘OK hen, ah’ll see ye in a wee while.’

  He took the cups through and rinsed them out. Mary was sweeping the floor.

  ‘Ah think ah’ll go oot fur a wee walk an get the paper,’ he said. ‘Maybe the fresh air’ll clear ma heid a bit.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mary. ‘It’ll get ye oot fae under ma feet as well.’

  ‘Look hen,’ he said, ‘Ah’m sorry aboot last night. But ye know how it is. It’s j
ist wan a these things.’

  ‘Aye, well . . .’ she said. ‘Jist . . . away ye go an gie’s peace!’

  On his way out he called through to her, ‘D’ye want anythin when ah’m oot?’

  ‘Naw,’ she said. ‘Thanks aw the same.’

  And he heard the tone of truce in her voice and was glad. He stepped from the close and felt the wind cold in the shadow of the building. He crossed the road into the sunlight, too bright for his eyes still and it made him feel grubby and sticky, but he welcomed its warmth, enough to ease the chill from his bones.

  Brian could see most of the park spread out below, the green hillside stretching down to the fountain and the pond, beyond that, a glimmer, the Kelvin, and further, across Kelvin Way, the Art Gallery, the university tower. Further still he could see the shipyards of Partick and Govan, the cranes, giraffe-necks, jutting, grey. Govan was on the other side of the river and somewhere behind that was Pollok. There was nothing to distinguish it, no way he could recognise it from here. But that was where Kathleen was. He wondered what she was doing, what she was thinking. Probably the same as him, the same inconsequential stream of nothing in particular. Tangle of branches. Flight of ducks. Hunger. A bit of an old song. Let us haste to Kelvingrove bonnie lassie o, through the . . . something . . . let us rove bonnie lassie o. He’d learned that at primary school but only recently had he remembered it and connected it with the park. Every day now for almost two years he’d passed through the park on his way to the university. The park was his calendar. Here he could read the traces, the changes, the slow shift of the seasons. The daft dance of it. In a few more hours he would be married. A few more months he would be a father. Tick tock. On it went. A few more steps in the dance.

  He looked up at the statue of the horseman, silhouetted at the top of the hill, and remembered the wedding of Ritchie and Mag. The papers had called it a mockery and gone on about long hair and bright clothes. None of the parents had come because it was at Martha Street. But somehow none of it had mattered. They’d all come here to the park afterward for a ceremony of their own, running mad and laughing across the grass. They’d climbed to the top of the hill, about thirty of them, and they’d linked hands and danced in a huge circle, round and round the statue of the horseman. And as they’d danced they’d chanted, and tried to levitate the statue, and with it the park and the rest of Glasgow, and raise it into orbit forever.