Its Colours They Are Fine

by Alan Spence

  From outside she heard again the din of the tune from the van, moving on to the next block. She was never quite sure of the first words of the song, whether it was Alas my Love or Alas my Lord. Alas my Love you do me wrong, to cast me off so discourteously.

  The film would be starting again. She would go in and watch it till the end.

  She closed the door and turned the key, locking herself in for the night.

  THREE

  Changes

  Epiphany

  The movement was always one of returning, back to the source.

  I could remember it all, back to that one sweet flow, the mothering warmth that gave suck, gave succour, held me, enfolded, safe from all harm.

  And back before that.

  Afloat in the fluid that nourished, sustained me, as curled round my lifeline I grew. All was my mother then, heart that beat through me, pulse of the universe, was one, was whole.

  And back before that.

  I was two become one. The upstream surge and thrust of seed, seeking home.

  And back before that.

  There was one and it was light.

  And always there was pain. Pain at the loss of that bliss. Pain of birth, pushed out, cut off, cast adrift. Pain of withdrawal from the sweetness of the breast. Pain of separation. Pain of the fall.

  And all that was left was a longing and an ache and a deep sleep of forgetting . . .

  I was in a dull bedsitting-room in London; huddled in front of the only source of heat, a two-bar electric fire with one bar broken. And why was I in London? Escaping the desolation of another Glasgow New Year. As if it really mattered where I was.

  At the other side of the room sat Doug, my friend, cross-legged on the floor. We had shared Doug’s supply of his precious sacramental drug, two yellow capsules called Sunshine, a couple of pounds’ worth of eternity, bought in the pub at the corner. We had sat up far into the night, come face to face with our inner heaven and hell, glimpsed at something beyond both. And now there was the faint lingering sadness of comedown. Early morning. London. Back into time and space.

  The clock had stopped just after midnight and we hadn’t bothered to rewind it. Time had seemed like something of a joke. But now once again it was asserting itself, inexorable. Asleep in the corner was Doug’s wife Jenny. She had long since gone to bed, and in a few hours more she would have to be up again for work. Doug crossed to the bed and stood for a long time looking down at her, reaching out once to stroke her hair back from her face.

  I had kept a sheet of paper by me, thinking I might feel like writing. Across the top I had scribbled WHAT WAS YOUR FACE BEFORE YOU WERE BORN? Underneath I had drawn circles and spirals and a shape like a baby in a womb. (Once, on another trip, Doug had gone scrambling around searching for pen and paper to write down an important message he had received. The message had come, he said, from the furthest reaches of the universe, and was a statement of the ultimate truth, of the aim and purpose of all creation. He had managed to write it down then seal it in an envelope and hide it somewhere safe. Much later he had opened it and read what he had written. The message read HELLO THERE.)

  Faraway in another room, further up the house, somebody was playing the Beatles.

  Get back. Get back

  Get back to where you once belonged

  ‘Other folk still up,’ said Doug. ‘Ravin the night away. Hey, is that the name ae a song?’ He sang.

  ‘Everybody’s ravin . . . ravin

  Ravin the night away.’

  ‘Twistin,’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The song. It wis “Twistin the Night Away”. Sam Cooke used tae sing it.’

  ‘That’s it!’ said Doug, delighted. ‘See you an yer old songs. You should get on one a these quiz programmes. Double Yer Money an that. Win yerself a fortune.’

  ‘I have measured out my life with old songs,’ I said, draping myself across a chair, the back of one limp hand to my forehead. ‘Ah the dear dead days beyond recall!’

  I had been raving to Doug about the universe being one vast musical, a cosmic extravaganza, starring Fred Astaire as Shiva and Ginger Rogers as Kali, tap-dancing to the music of the spheres.

  Jenny stirred in her sleep and we both fell quiet, Doug shooshing with a finger to his mouth. When he was quite sure we hadn’t wakened her, he went to the window and looked out into the street.

  ‘Soon be light,’ he said.

  ‘Fancy goin out?’ I asked. ‘See if we can get some milk an rolls or somethin, for breakfast?’

  ‘Aw that wid be beautiful,’ said Doug. ‘Have it ready for Jenny when she wakes up.’

  *

  Outside it was cold and wet as we scuffled along through grey dismal streets, past crumbling terrace buildings, past heaps of rubbish gathered during a dustmen’s strike – stacks of black plastic bags, spilling out cartons and bottles, a discarded Christmas tree, a mattress, a broken guitar – past a slogan daubed on the wall, WE TEACH ALL HEARTS TO BREAK. And in spite of the rain and my heavy boots and the fact that I couldn’t really tap-dance, I went bounding into a forties’ musical routine, singing

  ‘I feel a song comin on

  An ah’m tellin ya

  It’s a victorious

  Happy an glorious

  NOO song.’

  And I raved on to Doug about these songs being celebrations, invocations, hymns to God in his manifest forms. As if there were deeper meanings behind the words; as if this scabby old world went on praising, in spite of itself; as if these love songs were devotional.

  ‘But we can only hear it as an echo,’ I said, ‘because that’s all it is to us.’

  ‘That’s because we’re in the Kali Yuga,’ said Doug. ‘That’s what this time-cycle’s called in Indian mythology. The dark age. Millions a years.’

  ‘An here we are stoatin along in Notting Hill!’

  ‘In the dark.’

  ‘On a freezin wet mornin.’

  ‘Working out karma.’

  And I laughed, for that was Doug’s answer to everything. From toothache to global war, he lumped it all together as part of the endless cosmic cycle of cause and effect, the fitness of things, a profound order underlying the seeming madness of it all.

  ‘We’ll get there in the end,’ he said.

  ‘There we are,’ I said, pointing across to where a milk lorry had come clanking round the corner. ‘The goal is in sight!’

  The driver sold us a pint and directed us to a bakery where we went round to the back door and bought a loaf from the day’s first batch.

  ‘God,’ said Doug, breathing in the warm fragrance of the fresh bread. ‘Sometimes life can be awful good!’

  Jenny was already up when we got back to the flat, and the clock had been set right.

  ‘So there you are,’ she said.

  ‘Are we?’ I asked.

  ‘Where?’ said Doug, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Jenny. ‘Ah’m too tired for all yer nonsense.’

  ‘Ah, you might think it’s nonsense,’ said Doug, ‘but it’s actually very profound.’

  ‘Profound ma bum,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I see we’re in the presence of a master,’ I said.

  ‘Oh Great Mother,’ said Doug, and we bowed low to her wisdom.

  ‘Will ye both give it a chuck!’ she said, laughing. ‘Where have ye been?’

  ‘Aah!’ said Doug. ‘If only words could tell!’

  ‘Ah know ye’ve been out yer heads,’ she said, impatient again, ‘but where were ye just now?’

  ‘Out tae the shops,’ said Doug.

  ‘On a cosmic quest for the Holy Grail,’ I said.

  ‘An here it is,’ said Doug. ‘The bread of life and the milk of human kindness!’

  I placed them on the table. ‘A loaf an a pint a pasteurised!’

  She took them and made food for us, toast and tea, muesli from a big sack. We ate together, grateful for the simple sharing.

  Our talk, as ever, went back, a
lways back. Our time together had been a picking up of threads. Loose ends.

  I had hoped to visit other old friends from Glasgow, a couple, Ritchie and Mag. But Doug told me they had long since split up and Ritchie had gone to Ireland.

  (A few years had gone now since we’d first come down to London together. Doug and Jenny, Ritchie and Mag, Mary and Me. All young and daft, arrogant innocents, lost in a dream of who we thought we were.

  ‘Remember that time?’

  So long ago it seemed. Drift of incense in the summer air. Singing that with our love we could change the world. Stoned-happy laughter in the bright sunlit park. Lazing at our ease through the long summer days. With the first chill of autumn I had come back to Glasgow with Mary. The others had stayed on.)

  Each visit now seemed to find us all further apart, our lives more fragmented.

  ‘You and Mary should come down here for good,’ said Jenny.

  ‘We’d have to get back together first,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Did ye ever see that Groucho Marx thing?’ said Doug. ‘Somebody says “Do you mind if I join you?” and he says “I didn’t realise I was coming apart!”’

  ‘Ye never do,’ I said. ‘Tell me, when did Ritchie an Mag finally split up?’

  ‘Must be about a year ago,’ said Doug.

  ‘That figures,’ I said. ‘Last time ah saw Ritchie was just before that. E was stayin in Earl’s Court an Mag was away down tae Brighton for a coupla days. E was talkin about goin to Ireland even then.’

  (Relating was hard that time. Ritchie’s talk now was of Revolution and the People’s War. I showed him a Zen book I had been reading and he was scornful of it. ‘Here in one volume,’ he read, ‘are gathered the experiences of Zen.’ Measuring the thickness of the book between finger and thumb he said, ‘Pretty thin experiences!’ and tossed the book back at me. Our talking faded out after that. The silences grew and deepened between us. We sat, listening to the rumble of the traffic outside, till at last I said I should go. That was as well, he said, for he had friends coming round, to talk. They arrived as I was leaving, a young Irish couple. Ritchie didn’t introduce them and they gave no more than a nod in my direction. Parting, there was even more of an awkwardness. ‘Have a good time in Ireland,’ I said. ‘If you go.’ He smiled at that, a sad, cynical smile, across a great distance. Whatever his business in Ireland might be, good times were no part of it. It was only out in the street, when the cold air hit me, that I realised how oppressive it had been to be with him. Late afternoon, the traffic growing heavier. Lights coming on, people hurrying home. Another world.)

  Remembering all this now, I told it to Doug.

  ‘God help Ritchie,’ he said, ‘if e’s away wi that pair. They’re really heavy man. Naw really. Ah’m no kiddin. They’re intae the whole bit. Bombs an everythin.’

  ‘Bombs?’ I said. ‘In Ireland? But Ritchie was never intae that rubbish, the auld Catholic Protestant thing.’

  ‘An neither are they,’ said Doug. ‘They’re jist usin it. Stirrin it up. Mixin it. They jist want tae smash the lot. Blow it tae fuck an start again. Ye know the kinda space yer head can get intae!’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it?’ said Jenny. ‘The different roads we wind up takin.’

  ‘Karma!’ said Doug.

  ‘An what about Mag?’ I asked. ‘Where’s her karma takin her?’

  ‘God,’ said Jenny. ‘Ye might ask!’

  ‘Ye were tellin me she got busted,’ I said.

  ‘That’s puttin it mildly!’ said Doug. ‘She’s been dealin for a while, y’know. An these guys she was in wi, they were real heavies man, like the fuckin Mafia or somethin. Anyway, she was round at their place when it got done. An wee smart-arse Mag, she musta been zonked out her skull, she says “Oh ah’ll take the stuff, they’ll no touch me!” Honest tae God man, there was tons ae it. Every fuckin illegal drug known tae man, an prob’ly a few more besides! An Mag stuffs them intae er shoulder bag and tries tae walk out the door!’

  ‘An where is she now?’

  ‘She’s down in Brighton,’ said Doug. ‘Somebody got er out on bail and she’s waitin for the trial tae come up.’

  ‘One of the guys in the flat had a gun,’ said Jenny.

  ‘The guys that got busted with her?’

  ‘Right,’ said Doug. ‘They’re jist gangsters man. Gangsters.’

  He fell quiet again, before going on. ‘Ah went tae see er in jail, at the visitin hours. It wis a bit depressin. Made me kinda sad. I mean it wis a horrible place. An there wis wee Mag behind this barrier that ye had tae talk through. She wis sorta giggly, but there wis somethin kinda manic about it. She wis tellin me er teeth were all rottin because she’d been takin that much speed, an one ae er teeth had broken on a chop or somethin she’d been eatin in the prison canteen. Then she started goin on about this velvet dress she’d seen down the Portobello Road, an she’d been gonnae buy it but it wouldnae be there when she got out an thinkin about it wis makin er miserable. By the time ah left ah wis glad tae get away. Out intae the air.’

  ‘Like me when ah left Ritchie,’ I said.

  ‘An it’s funny,’ said Doug, ‘how yer mind goes back. Ah got this image in ma head of Mag when we first met er bein that sorta prim she wis embarrassed at eatin an apple in the street! She wis all stiff an awkward y’know, lookin about er, an she could hardly eat the thing.’

  ‘That’s her education that did that,’ said Jenny. ‘She had it drummed into her it wasn’t nice.’

  ‘Ah was thinkin back as well,’ I said, ‘rememberin when we were all at the Uni. There was some demonstration goin on, an Ritchie started jumpin about wi a wee plastic machine gun! D’ye remember?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Doug. ‘An there were a coupla young polis gettin really worried till they saw it wis jist a wee toy!’

  ‘They were still thinkin about bustin him though. But everybody was laughin an it just passed over.’

  ‘Like everything,’ said Doug.

  ‘Eh?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Like everything,’ said Doug. ‘It jist passes over.’

  ‘That you bein profound again?’ said Jenny.

  ‘You’ve been warned about that already!’ I said.

  ‘Here, listen,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ll have to be goin soon, to work. Tell me, are you goin back to Glasgow today?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Ah’m not sure. It makes no difference either way. Ah’m supposed to start back at work tomorrow, but ah don’t really care.’

  Almost a year now I’d been working in a hospital, an auxiliary in a psychiatric ward. As always, a few days of freedom had made me feel sick at the thought of going back. Sick of sickness.

  Doug suggested I should cast an oracle.

  ‘Toss a coin?’ I said.

  ‘If ye like,’ said Doug. ‘Or do it wi a wee bit more ceremony. Consult the I-Ching. Ah’ve been workin out how tae use it.’ He searched along a shelf, picked out a heavy paperback book and passed it to me. I-Ching. The Book of Changes.

  ‘There’s actually special wee Chinese coins ye can get for castin the oracles,’ he said. ‘But ah’m sure any coins’ll do.’

  ‘Ah thought ye used yarrow stalks.’

  ‘That’s the right way,’ said Doug. ‘The way they used tae do it.’

  ‘Sounds beautiful,’ I said. ‘Casting the yarrow stalks.’ The very sound of the words had a texture, a grain. The picture they conjured was concrete and vivid. An old man, eyes crinkled with an ancient knowledge, his movements deft and unhurried, fingers nimble as he gathered the stalks and cast them in the dust. Reading there the meaning, the underlying order at the heart of chaos. (Like the meaning he could read into the shifting of clouds, the chance patterns weathered on a stone wall.)

  ‘Have you any change love?’ asked Doug. ‘We need three coins the same.’

  ‘Should be some on the mantelpiece,’ said Jenny.

  ‘We used th
at this mornin,’ said Doug, ‘for the breakfast.’

  ‘All ah’ve got’s a coupla pound notes,’ I said. ‘That’s ma lot.’

  ‘Why don’t ye just open the book at random,’ said Jenny. ‘See where it takes ye.’

  ‘Should be OK,’ said Doug. ‘As long as ye do it wi a wee bit reverence. It’s the attitude that counts.’

  Taking the book, I concentrated, and let it fall open.

  ‘Hexagram 24,’ I read. ‘Returning.’

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Decision,’ I read. ‘Returning. Freedom and progress lie ahead. The superior man can come and go without being opposed, friends come to see him and after seven days return with no error having been made. Movement in any direction will be of advantage.’

  ‘Amazing,’ said Doug.

  ‘So, d’ye think ah’m set for an auspicious return to Glasgow?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Doug. ‘Was that what ye were plannin anyway?’

  ‘Ah think so.’

  ‘This is the thing,’ said Doug. ‘Ye can really read anythin intae it. An ah suppose tae do it properly ye have tae spend a lot more time on it. An if ye use the coins, ye get what’s called moving lines that can give ye a completely different thing. Another hexagram altogether.’

  ‘You just want him to stay in London, don’t ye?’ said Jenny, and we laughed.

  ‘There’s a beautiful bit further down the page,’ I said, reading from the commentary. ‘Do we not see the moving intelligence of Heaven and Earth? Change is the law of nature and society; when decay has reached its climax a recovery must take place. Brightness will increase day by day and month by month.’

  Closing the book, I handed it back to Doug. ‘Ah’d better get ma things together,’ I said. ‘Might as well try to get out on the road early.’

  ‘Don’t forget your book,’ said Jenny.

  The book was a new one I had bought, a volume of translations from Japanese haiku, by R. H. Blyth.

  ‘Should ah consult this as well?’ I asked. ‘Just to be on the safe side?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Doug.