Its Colours They Are Fine

by Alan Spence

  Ritchie and Mag were in London now. He’d heard they were living apart.

  The grass was still wet from last night’s rain. Everything felt fresh and new. It was almost spring now. Nothing definite yet, no riot of leaves on the trees, no blaze of daffodils and tulips, just a feeling of everything hesitant, about to be, of opening, unfolding, a slow stirring to life.

  A dog went panting and scampering up the hill, stopped and chased its tail, lay down and rolled and wriggled in the grass. Brian laughed.

  ‘Daftie!’ he said, out loud. He made his way towards the gate. On his way home he stopped in at the Indian grocer’s, to buy some milk and rolls. He liked the shop, and Mr Rhama who owned it. It had a warmth and a brightness about it, open till all hours, an improbable clutter of boxes and bags, of bundles and packets and tins, piled, haphazard, to the ceiling, and always the smell of spices or cooking from the back shop.

  Before him in the queue, two tiny Indian boys with broad Glasgow accents dithered over the penny tray – candy balls or bubble-gum, jelly beans or caramels. Brian reached down and helped himself to a pint of milk from the blue plastic crate perched by a wall of tins – hamburgers and mangoes, creamed rice and Scotch broth, corned beef and pineapple and curried beans. Above the crate hung a sacred heart calendar, Jesus gazing up at the legend PL Trading Co. – Cash And Carry – Maryhill Road. Next to it was a poster for a showing of Indian films.

  ‘Anything else please?’ Mr Rhama grinned aross the counter at him, between a basket of tomatoes and a tray of meat pies.

  ‘Jist four rolls,’ said Brian. ‘That’s all.’

  The rolls were in a breadboard balanced across an orangebox. Mr Rhama eased his way between bags of coal and a pile of newspapers, put four in a paper bag and passed them over the counter.

  ‘Today’s the big day, yes?’ he said. Brian had told him about the wedding.

  ‘It is that,’ said Brian.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Mr Rhama, ‘now you have to stop messing about. You have to settle down and bring up family.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Brian.

  ‘No suppose,’ said Mr Rhama, laughing. ‘It’s really true. No more messing about. But never you mind. I tell you, married is best.’

  At the far end of the counter, his wife moved among packing-cases and sacks, the swish of a blue sari, the glint of a gold-embroidered hem, a jewel in her nostril, a glitter of rings.

  Brian wondered about their wedding, how long ago it had been, in Glasgow or in India, what the ceremony had been like. He remembered the West Indians he’d seen in London, just a glimpse as he’d passed, a splatter of bright colours, bopping and jigging out of the church into the street. He was about to ask Mr Rhama about Indian weddings, about his own, but a fresh delivery of milk arrived, the vanboy lugging crates in the door, and Mr Rhama had to see to it. No matter. If he remembered he would ask him the next time he was in the shop.

  ‘Good luck!’ said Mr Rhama.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brian.

  On his way out the door he turned as Mr Rhama called out to him.

  ‘Hey! Next time you come here you be a married man!’

  Kathleen lay, soaking in the warmth and comfort of the bath, nothing in her head but just drifting, lazy, not wanting to stir from it, ever. Steam rose and hung in the air, misted over the windows and the mirror, condensed and trickled down the tiles.

  Through the wall she could hear her mother in the kitchen, familiar noises, far away, her mother, she supposed, still troubled and thinking about old Father Boyle, filling her head with purgatory and hellfire. She remembered how he’d seemed to her as a child, arms raised, intoning the Mass, glorious in his vestments, exalted and terrible like God himself, the voice of judgement in the deep musty dark of the confessional. Father forgive me for I have sinned. I have committed a sin of impurity. Yes my child. I have kissed a boy on the lips. And is that all? Yes Father. Yes Father. She leaned against the sides of the bath, buoyed up so slightly by the water, stretching, bobbing in the warm stream, and she thought of the life that moved deep inside her, the tiny life that was growing, becoming, the child that would be hers and Brian’s. And at twelve she’d wanted to be a nun. It had seemed so beautiful. The bride of Christ. Jesus the lover, the bridegroom, gentle Jesus. Father forgive me for I have conceived out of wedlock. How many acts of contrition and Hailmarys for that? Impurity and dirt. Wash it all away. She laughed and lathered herself with the soap. Sandalwood. Brian had bought it for her in the Indian shop. Fragrance. Like the incense he burned in his room. Hail Mary full of grace. Mother Mary working in the kitchen, on the other side of the thin wall. And once Kathleen had been no more than a stirring inside her, had been one with her, curled and safe in the warmth of her womb. She slid back down into the water again, lapped in the warmth surrounding. She brought her knees up to her chest then stretched again, looking down at her body, pale through the soapy water, the curve of breast and belly breaking the surface, the black seaweed tangle of hair, flattened out by the water, felt below it the soft depth of hole, open, the dark emptiness her being centred around. Blessed art thou among women. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

  The taxis were waiting, purring at the close.

  ‘Huv ye seen ma black tie?’ said Tommy.

  ‘It’s a weddin wur goin tae,’ said Mary, ‘no a bloomin funeral!’

  ‘Ye coulda fooled me,’ said Tommy, turning, stiffnecked because his collar was up in readiness for the missing tie.

  ‘Whit’s that supposed tae mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Your face, that’s whit,’ he said. ‘Kin ye no gie’s a wee smile hen. Ah mean it is YOUR daughter’s weddin tae!’

  ‘Aye, well,’ she said. She brought out a blue tie from the wardrobe. ‘Here,’ she said, throwing it to him. ‘This’ll dae ye.’

  In the next room Agnes and Jean, who had led Kathleen the night before with such devoted rattling of cans, were again fussing over her, making sure that no talisman was forgotten.

  ‘Right,’ said Agnes. ‘That’s the flowers an the horseshoe. Noo make sure ye’ve got the lot. Somethin old, somethin new, somethin borrowed, somethin blue.’

  ‘This cameo’s old,’ said Kathleen. ‘Used tae be ma granny’s.’

  ‘An yer shoes are new,’ said Jean.

  ‘Ah huvnae anythin borrowed,’ said Kathleen. ‘Ye’ll huv tae len me somethin.’

  ‘Take this hanky,’ said Agnes.

  ‘Where’ll ah put it?’ said Kathleen. ‘Ah’m no takin a bag.’

  ‘Therr’s a rude answer tae that wan!’ said Jean.

  ‘Jist shove it up yer jook,’ said Agnes.

  Kathleen wrapped the hanky round the stems of her flowers.

  ‘An mind an gie me it back sometime,’ said Agnes, ‘otherwise it’s no borrowed!’

  ‘Yer dress is blue,’ said Jean, ‘so that’s everythin.’

  ‘Expect yer nosy wee neighbours’ll huv somethin tae say aboot that,’ said Agnes. She looked down her nose, disapproving. ‘And not even a white wedding.’

  ‘Ach they’d huv somethin tae say anywey,’ said Kathleen.

  ‘C’mon!’ shouted Tommy from the hall. ‘The taxis ur waitin!’

  At the closemouth, a few peering faces, a handful of confetti, a huddle of children waiting, eager, for the scramble of loose change. Bundling into the taxis, Kathleen and Tommy in the first, Mary, Agnes and Jean in the second.

  ‘Huv you got change fur the scramble?’

  ‘Godalmighty, did ah pit oot that gas?’

  ‘Mind yer flowers in the door!’

  A cheer. A flurry of waving hands. Tommy bestowing a shower of coins from the window, jolted back into his seat as the taxis moved off. Agnes turned in her seat for a last look at the scramble before they rounded the corner.

  ‘God, wid ye look at them!’ she said, laughing. ‘Lik flies roon a toly!’

  ‘Ah remember readin,’ said Jean, ‘that scrambles go right back tae the aulden days, when the didnae keep records an that. An
it wis so’s the weans an everyb’dy wid remember the weddin. Then if they ever needed witnesses, they’d aw mind a the money gettin scrambled.’

  Jimmy and Ann, like most of the other children, had just been passing, on their way back to school. They were triumphant as they fought their way out of the tangled, scrambling pack, jostling and grappling in the roadway.

  ‘Much d’ye get?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘Tanner!’ said Ann. ‘An you?’

  ‘Eightpence!’ said Jimmy, counting it out into his palm.

  ‘Race ye doontae the café!’ said Ann, and they both pelted off down the road. By the time they reached the café near their school, and elbowed their way into the semblance of a queue, the taxis were moving along Paisley Road, towards the town.

  Tommy smiled across at Kathleen.

  ‘Ur ye still feelin rough?’ she asked.

  ‘Ach, no too bad,’ he said.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘No doubt a coupla wee halfs’ll set ye right.’

  ‘Hair a the dog,’ he said.

  ‘Ah thought that would set yer wee eyes twinklin!’ she said. ‘But we’ve got the small matter ae a weddin tae get over wi first!’

  It was over so quickly, embarrassed introductions, Brian’s mother Helen to Tommy and Mary, grins and hello to the friends that had come, crowding, awkward, on the pavement, trying to keep out of the wedding-group photos of the couple that had just come out; confusion over which door to go in, then somebody showing them the way; hustle along a corridor, a few minutes’ wait, hushed, in the hall; a door opening, another wedding-group bustling past; another door opening and the registrar ushering them in.

  In a low, bored drone he intoned the preliminaries, about how the ceremony was no less serious and sanctified though it wasn’t in a church, and about general impediments to marriage.

  Tommy thought he was going to laugh, then suddenly for no reason, when he saw them standing there, he wanted to cry. He looked at Mary and he saw the confusion in her eyes.

  Kathleen too had to stifle a laugh, changing it to a cough and turning her face from the registrar. Brian was staring at the pattern on the carpet, as if he could read there the meaning of it all, the meaning they all knew at that moment. Not the lifeless ceremony, the cardboard stage-set, the dead script, the empty sham. Not that, but something at the heart of it, something real. In spite of it all, they knew, and that was what moved them, to laugh or to cry.

  The exchange of vows. Signatures on the line. Out along the corridor, past the next group waiting to go in, out into the street and it was done.

  ‘We’ve done it now!’ said Brian.

  ‘So we huv!’ said Kathleen, and he kissed her and they laughed.

  Outside, waiting, were the friends that hadn’t gone in. Somebody showered more confetti as they gave themselves up to the backslaps and handshakes and hugs. Ian and Kenny had cars. They were two of Brian’s friends from university and Ian was the best man. They took as many as they could crowd in. The rest followed in taxis as they headed back to Pollok, to what had been Kathleen’s house, for the reception.

  In the boys’ playground, Jimmy was finishing the sweets he’d bought with the money from the scramble. He screwed up the bright coloured wrapper and kicked it high over the railings.

  In the girls’ playground, Ann was pushed, giggling, to the centre of the circle. Her friends linked hands and moved round her in step and as they moved they sang.

  ‘And she sang and she sang

  And she sang so sweet

  His name is Jimmy

  Ah hope ye will agree.’

  And when she at last agreed, somebody else was pushed into the centre and the dance began again.

  Instead of buying a cake, they’d got Mary to bake an enormous dumpling. Tommy carried it carefully into the living-room and solemnly laid it on the table. With exaggerated ceremony, Brian took the knife and flourished it in the air.

  ‘Feels lik a Burns Supper!’ he said. ‘Great chieftain o the puddin race! Or is it Wee sleekit courin tim’rous beastie?’

  ‘C’mon you an stop yer nonsense!’ said Kathleen, laughing.

  ‘See that!’ said Tommy. ‘She’s got ye under the thumb already!’

  Brian guided Kathleen’s hand and everybody cheered as they carved the first slice. Kathleen went on slicing it and Agnes helped her to dish it out. Mary and Jean carried plates from the kitchen, piled with bread and bun, biscuits and cake, while Brian and Tommy brought through the carry-out, bag after bulging bag. When all the glasses were filled, Ian got up to make his speech and read the telegrams.

  ‘Three telegrams,’ he said. ‘The first one’s from Peter in Canada. It says ALL THE BEST TO MY WEE SISTER AND HER LAD.’

  ‘Aw the nice!’ said Mrs Robertson from downstairs. ‘Luvly boay Peter,’ she said to Mary. ‘Luvly boay!’ She smiled into the distance.

  ‘The next one,’ said Ian, ‘is from Uncle Danny and Auntie May.’

  ‘Ma brother in Ireland,’ explained Mary to Brian’s mother.

  ‘Sure it’s from the ould country,’ said Tommy.

  ‘It says,’ said Ian, raising his voice, ‘GOOD LUCK GOD BLESS AND MAY ALL YOUR TROUBLES BE LITTLE ONES.’

  That one brought a laugh.

  ‘Nudge nudge!’ said Jean.

  ‘The last one,’ said Ian, ‘is from Gerry in London. It says NORMAL IS REALLY NICE.’

  Again everybody laughed.

  ‘Whit wis that aboot?’ said Tommy to Kathleen.

  ‘Och it’s jist Brian’s pals up tae thur nonsense again.’

  ‘An whit’s the matter wi a wee bit nonsense?’ said Brian, tickling her.

  ‘Aye bit whit dis it mean?’ said Tommy.

  ‘The whole universe is a wee bit nonsense!’ said Brian.

  ‘A wee bit order therr!’ said Ian, who wanted to propose a toast.

  ‘Aye, wheesht the perry ye!’ said Kathleen.

  ‘Ah’ve got no intention of wastin time makin a speech,’ said Ian.

  ‘Hear hear!’ said Brian.

  ‘So ah’ll just say good luck and happiness and long life to you both.’

  He picked up his glass. ‘The bride and groom!’

  All the glasses were drained and set down empty on the table.

  ‘C’mon now people,’ said Tommy. ‘Get wired in therr!’

  ‘Eat up,’ said Mary. ‘Yer at yer auntie’s!’

  Several refills later, Brian turned to Kathleen.

  ‘Tommy’s peed already,’ he said.

  ‘Yer no doin too bad yerself!’ she said.

  ‘Ach well,’ he said, squeezing her, ‘it’s no every week ye get married.’

  ‘See Kenny an Ian are gettin quite pally wi Agnes an Jean,’ he said, nodding to where the four of them sat squashed on the couch.

  ‘Ah’m watchin ye!’ he shouted over. He crossed to where his mother was talking to Mary.

  ‘Gettin on OK mammy?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah’m jist fine,’ she said. ‘Me and Mary are havin a right old natter.’

  ‘Don’t believe a word she tells ye about me,’ he said to Mary. ‘Honest, ah’m innocent!’

  ‘Who’s gonnae give us a song then?’ asked Tommy, raising his arms and calling for order.

  Mrs Robertson let herself be coaxed on to the floor and began the singsong with ‘You’re the Only Good Thing’, then she dragged her husband, protesting, to his feet and he sang ‘Green Grow the Rashes O’, and ‘Of A’ the Airts’.

  ‘It’s nice tae hear an auld Scotch song,’ said Mary.

  ‘She better be quiet,’ whispered Ian, ‘or e’ll be givin us “Scots Wha Hae”.’

  Mary was next with ‘Honky Tonk Angels’, then Tommy with ‘Take Me Back to the Black Hills’, and the afternoon grew late and the bottles and cans were emptied, and everybody sang the songs they always sang. ‘Nobody’s Child’, ‘There Goes My Heart’, ‘Please Release Me’, ‘The Blue of the Night’, ‘You’re Free to Go’, ‘Among My Souvenirs’. They forgot themselves,
they wallowed, grew happily maudlin as they sang. And through it all Tommy kept calling for order, ‘C’mon now there, one singer one song,’ and joining in all the choruses himself.

  ‘How is it,’ said Kenny, ‘the whole a Glasgow likes Country an Western?’

  ‘Everyb’dy likes tae get a wee bit sentimental when they get bevvied,’ said Ian. ‘It’s a wee escape.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Kenny, ‘but whit ah mean is, whit is it aboot Glasgow? Ah mean, how come Country an Western?’

  Tommy swayed over to where they sat.

  ‘How aboot youse young yins?’ he said. ‘How aboot givin us some ae yer modern stuff? The auld rock an twist an aw that jazz!’ He gyrated his hips and snapped his fingers in attempted imitation of the dance style of ten years ago.

  ‘Naw,’ said Ian, ‘we’d need a backin group.’

  ‘Ach!’ said Tommy, dismissing them, ‘yer aw the same. Canny dae anythin withoot electricity!’ He supported himself, leaning heavily on the back of a chair, and announced that he was going to sing one more song.

  ‘For ma wee lassie,’ he said, and began singing.

  ‘I’ll take you home again Kathleen

  To where your heart will feel no pain . . .’

  When he’d finished she went to him and gave him a hug.

  ‘Wherr’s Brian?’ he asked. ‘Ah wanty talk tae um.’

  ‘E’s away doon tae Mrs Robertson’s tae phone a taxi,’ she said. ‘E’ll be back in a minute.’

  When Brian reappeared, Tommy took him by the arm and looked at him earnestly.

  ‘Brian . . .’ he said. ‘Ah jist wanty tell ye yer a great kid!’

  ‘You too Tommy,’ said Brian. They shook hands on it.

  ‘See you an Kathleen . . .’ said Tommy, ‘Canada . . .’

  He took out his wallet and once again showed Brian the photo of Peter and his family.

  ‘Ah told ye aboot wur hoalidays therr in the summer, din’t ah? Peter peyed wur ferrs. Daein well so e is. Terrific it wis, nae kiddin . . .’ He stopped and raised his hand to cover his mouth. The room was going up and up and up, like a television when the vertical hold goes. He belched out an explanation and lurched towards the bathroom, leaving Brian holding the snapshot. A young couple with a baby between them, sitting in front of a Christmas tree. Bright colours, like a photo in a magazine.