Its Colours They Are Fine. Alan Spence

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СКАЧАТЬ father switched on the wireless to listen to the football results and check his pools.

      The picture of the Afghan Hound had been taken in a garden on a sunny day. The dog was running and its coat shone in the sun.

      ‘Four draws,’ said his father. ‘Ach well, maybe next week . . .’

      ‘There’s that dog mammy.’ He held up the book.

      ‘So it is.’

      ‘Funny tae find a dog lik that in Govan,’ said his father.

      ‘Right enough,’ said his mother. ‘Expect some’dy knocked it.’

      Nothing in the book looked like anything he had ever seen. There were pictures of cats but none of them looked like Dusty. They were either black and white or striped and they all looked clean and sleek. Dusty was a grubby grey colour and he spat and scratched if anyone tried to pet him. His mother said he’d been kept too long in the house. There was a section of the book about the weather with pictures of snow crystals that looked like flowers and stars. He thought he’d like to go out and play in the snow and he asked his mother if he could.

      ‘Oh well, jist for a wee while then. Ah’ll tell ye what. If ye come up early enough we kin put up the decorations before ye go tae bed.’

      He’d forgotten about the decorations. It was good to have something special like that to come home for. It was the kind of thing he’d forget about while he was actually playing, then there would be moments when he’d remember, and feel warm and comforted by the thought.

      He decided he’d get Joe and Jim and Annie and they’d build a snowman as big as a midden.

      Joe was having his tea and Jim felt like staying in and Annie’s mother wouldn’t let her out.

      He stood on the pavement outside the paper-shop, peering in through the lighted window at the Christmas annuals and selection boxes. The queue for the evening papers reached right to the door of the shop. The snow on the pavement was packed hard and greybrown, yellow in places under the streetlamps. He scraped at the snow with the inside of his boot, trying to rake up enough to make a snowball, but it was too powdery and it clung to the fingers of his woollen gloves, making his hands feel clogged and uncomfortable. He took off his gloves and scooped up some slush from the side of the road but the cold made his bare fingers sting, red. It felt as if he’d just been belted by Miss Heather.

      Annie’s big brother Tommy was clattering his way across the road, trailing behind him a sack full of empty bottles. He’d gathered them on the terracing at Ibrox and he was heading for the Family Department of the pub to cash in as many as he could. Every time the pub door opened the noise and light seeped out. It was a bit like pressing your hands over your ears then easing off then pressing again. If you did that again and again people’s voices sounded like mwah . . . mwah . . . mwah . . . mwah . . .

      He looked closely at the snow still clogging his gloves. It didn’t look at all like the crystals in his book. Disgusted, he slouched towards his close.

      Going up the stairs at night he always scurried or charged past each closet for fear of what might be lurking there ready to leap out at him. Keeping up his boldness, he whistled loudly. ‘Little Star of Bethlehem’. He was almost at the top when he remembered the decorations.

      The kitchen was very bright after the dimness of the landing with its sputtering gas light.

      ‘Nob’dy wis comin out tae play,’ he explained.

      His mother wiped her hands. ‘Right! What about these decorations!’

      The decorations left over from last year were in a cardboard box under the bed. He didn’t like it under there. It was dark and dirty, piled with old rubbish – books, clothes, boxes, tins. Once he’d crawled under looking for a comic, dust choking him, and he’d scuttled back in horror from bugs and darting silverfish. Since then he’d had bad dreams about the bed swarming with insects that got into his mouth when he tried to breathe.

      His father rummaged in the sideboard drawer for a packet of tin tacks and his mother brought out the box.

      Streamers and a few balloons and miracles of coloured paper that opened out into balls or long concertina snakes. On the table his mother spread out some empty cake boxes she’d brought home from work and cut them into shapes like Christmas trees and bells, and he got out his painting box and a saucerful of water and he coloured each one and left it to dry – green for the trees and yellow for the bells, the nearest he could get to gold.

      His father had bought something special.

      ‘Jist a wee surprise. It wis only a coupla coppers in Woollies.’

      From a cellophane bag he brought out a length of shimmering rustling silver.

      ‘What dis that say, daddy?’ He pointed at the label.

      ‘It says UNTARNISHABLE TINSEL GARLAND.’

      ‘What dis that mean?’

      ‘Well that’s what it is. It’s a tinsel garland. Tinsel’s the silvery stuff it’s made a. An a garland’s jist a big long sorta decoration, for hangin up. An untarnishable means . . . well . . . how wid ye explain it hen?’

      ‘Well,’ said his mother, ‘it jist means it canny get wasted. It always steys nice an shiny.’

      ‘Aw Jesus!’ said his father. ‘Ther’s only three tacks left!’

      ‘Maybe the paper-shop’ll be open.’

      ‘It wis open a wee minnit ago!’

      ‘Ah’ll go an see,’ said his father, putting on his coat and scarf. ‘Shouldnae be very long.’

      The painted cut-out trees and bells had long since dried and still his father hadn’t come back. His mother had blown up the balloons and she’d used the three tacks to put up some streamers. Then she remembered they had a roll of sticky tape. It was more awkward to use than the tacks so the job took a little longer. But gradually the room was transformed, brightened; magical colours strung across the ceiling. A game he liked to play was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling and trying to imagine it was actually the floor and the whole room was upside down. When he did it now it looked like a toy garden full of swaying paper plants.

      Round the lampshade in the centre of the room his mother was hanging the tinsel coil, standing on a chair to reach up. When she’d fixed it in place she climbed down and stood back and they watched the swinging lamp come slowly to rest. Then they looked at each other and laughed.

      When they heard his father’s key in the door his mother shooshed and put out the light. They were going to surprise him. He came in and fumbled for the switch. They were laughing and when he saw the decorations he smiled but he looked bewildered and a bit sad.

      He put the box of tacks on the table.

      ‘So ye managed, eh,’ he said. He smiled again, his eyes still sad. ‘Ah’m sorry ah wis so long. The paper-shop wis shut an ah had tae go down nearly tae Govan Road.’

      Then they understood. He was sad because they’d done it all without him. Because they hadn’t waited. They said nothing. His mother filled the kettle. His father СКАЧАТЬ