Its Colours They Are Fine. Alan Spence

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      Sheaves

      The patch of wasteground had always been called the Hunty. Nobody knew why. Nobody even knew what the name meant. It was roughly rectangular, the same length as the tenement block that backed on to it. There had once been a line of walls, railings and middens separating the Hunty from the actual back courts, but progressive decay, wind and rain, and several generations of children had eroded this barrier almost completely.

      Aleck and Joe had crossed into the Hunty and were crouching down playing at farms. Aleck had a toy tractor and a few plastic animals, and Joe had a Land-Rover and trailer, and some soldiers to use as farmworkers.

      Using bits of slate, they scraped up a patch of dirt and divided it into fields which they furrowed with lollipop sticks. Joe crammed some scrubby grass into his trailer and Aleck made a primitive farmhouse out of a cornflakes packet.

      They were both wearing T-shirts and khaki shorts, and for the first time since the start of the endless summer, Aleck suddenly shivered. The wind was cold. His clothes were too thin. That morning his mother had said it was the first day of autumn.

      ‘Gawn tae Sunday school this efternin?’ asked Joe.

      ‘Ach aye,’ said Aleck. ‘Mightaswell. Anywey, it’s harvest the day.’

      There had been a harvest service on the wireless that morning. Aleck had been half listening to it during breakfast. That was probably what had made him think about farms and bring out the toys they were playing with.

      ‘We aw slept in fur chapel,’ said Joe. ‘Huv tae go the night.’

      Apart from the rough grass, all that grew on the wasteground were nettles and dandelions. Aleck plucked a dandelion clock. Fluffy ball that had once been a bright yellow flower. Peethebed. He began blowing on it, sending the seeds drifting through the air, counting to tell the time.

      One . . . Two

      Each seed would hang, parachute down, land somewhere else and grow again.

      Three . . . Four

      Joe had grown tired of farming and he was using his soldiers as soldiers. They took over the cornflakes packet and killed some of the animals for food.

      Five . . . Six

      Joe made aeroplane noises and dive-bombed the farm with stones and clods of earth. The soldiers and animals were scattered, the fields churned up, laid waste.

      Seven . . . Eight

      Aleck wondered why dandelions were called peethebeds. Maybe you wet the bed if you ate them.

      Nine.

      Aleck’s mother opened the window and shouted him up. That meant it must be time to get ready for Sunday school. About half past one.

      He gathered up his things.

      ‘Mibbe see ye efter,’ said Joe.

      ‘Prob’ly,’ said Aleck.

      As he crossed the back court towards his close, he decided that the time told by a dandelion clock was magic. That was why it was different from ordinary time. If you caught one of the seeds you could make a secret wish. That proved they were magic. Only special people knew how it worked. Like Jesus and witches and medicine men. Magic time.

      He could see his mother working at the sink, the window slightly open. He stopped and cradled his toys against him with one arm, almost dropping them as he waved up at her.

      The theme music for the end of Family Favourites was crackling out above the rush of the tap. Behind the sports page, his father absently was singing along, adding the words here and there.

      ‘With a song in my heart

      Da da dee, da da dee, da da dee . . .’

      His mother, at the sink, was washing and cutting vegetables for soup, a pot with a bone for stock simmering away on one gas ring. On the other, a kettle of water for Aleck to wash himself was just coming to the boil.

      ‘Ah’ll let ye in here tae get washed in a minnit son.’

      ‘Och ah’m quite clean mammy. Ah’ll jist gie ma hands ’n face a wee wipe.’

      ‘A cat’s lick an a promise ye mean! Naw son, ye’ve goat tae wash yerself right. Ah mean yer manky. Ye canny go tae Sunday school lik that.’

      ‘Da da dee da doo

      I will live life through

      With a song in my heart

      FOOOOR YEW!’

      On the last line of the song his father stood up, arms outstretched, still holding the newspaper, hanging on to the long nasal concluding note, crescendo drowning out the radio, hearing himself as a miraculous combination of Al Jolson and Richard Tauber and Bing Crosby.

      ‘Whit a singer!’ he said, patting his chest.

      ‘Whit a heid ye mean!’ said his mother.

      ‘Ah’m tellin ye, ah shoulda been on the stage.’

      ‘Aye, scrubbin it!’ they replied, in unison, and they all laughed.

      She shifted the vegetables on to the running board, emptied the basin and unclogged the sink of peelings. Then she cleaned out the basin and poured in hot water from the kettle.

      ‘Right!’ she said, handing him a towel.

      Stirring the water with his hands, he made ripples and waves, whirlpools and storms. He squeezed the soap so that it slipped up and out of his grasp and blooped into the basin. He slapped the water with his palm, ruffled it up till its surface was a froth of bubbles. Then he washed his hands and arms, face and neck.

      ‘Aboot time tae!’ said СКАЧАТЬ