Its Colours They Are Fine. Alan Spence
did you say they wur fightin communists?’
‘Aye.’
‘An the Yanks ur the goodies?’
‘Aye.’
‘But your da’s a communist.’
‘Aye. Ah know. Ah couldnae understaun that either. But ah didnae bother. It wis a great picture.’
Aleck left David at his own close and carried on down the road. At the corner were the same boys he’d passed earlier. They were kicking a ball about. He wondered if they would be gathered to Heaven too. They didn’t go to Sunday school. He didn’t know.
In his mind the whole day was a confusion; of dandelions and playing and hymns, of soldiers and communists and golden sheaves, harvest and parables and magic time.
The ball bounced across towards him, and instinctively he trapped it and chipped it back. One or two of them gave a sarcastic cheer. The ball went to Shuggie, who was in Aleck’s class at school. He shouted across to him.
‘Come doon efter if ye want a gemm. We’ll be playin roon the Hunty.’
‘Thanks,’ said Aleck. ‘Ah might dae that.’ And he started off towards home. Suddenly he laughed and began to run. His dinner would be ready. He would change into his old clothes, and after he’d eaten he would go to the Hunty and play till it was dark.
In his path was a piece of stone chipped from a brick and without slowing down he booted it hard across the road and went charging on towards his close.
The Ferry
The cane arrow rose in the still warm air. Aleck and Joe shielded their eyes from the sun and watched its flight. It seemed to rise, clear of the tenements that enclosed them and hang for a moment against the sky before turning back to complete its arc and fall to land with a jar that staved and shuddered its whole length on the hardpacked dirt and brick of the back court.
‘It’s a goodyin!’ said Joe, grinning and flexing the bow that Aleck had just made. The bow had fired its first shot, and it was good. Aleck nodded and set about making a bow for himself as Joe ran across to pick up the arrow.
They had bought six bits of bamboo cane. Each was long enough to make a bow or be broken in half to make two arrows.
Aleck was stringing the bows, notching each end for the string to fit, and Joe was making the arrows. If he had simply snapped the canes in half the pieces would have split, leaving each arrow a loose mess of fibres and split ends. So he used an old hacksaw blade to cut carefully through each cane before breaking it and binding each end with black insulating tape.
They played at their craft with seriousness. They were crouched in a clearing. The grey buildings were their jungle and the fragments of stone and broken glass they had gathered and laid out were imagined arrowheads of flint and bone.
The hacksaw blade cutting through the cane sometimes made a harsh rasping noise that set Aleck’s teeth on edge. Like the squeak of polystyrene rubbed on a window. Like the scrape and squeal of the teacher’s chalk on the blackboard.
(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