Its Colours They Are Fine. Alan Spence

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      ‘Feet an legs!’ she said. He looked down at his grubby knees and didn’t bother to complain.

      Sometimes he didn’t mind being clean. It could give you a warm feeling inside, like being good. It was just so much of an effort.

      His mother laid out his shirt and his suit, his heavy shoes and a pair of clean white ankle socks.

      This was the horrible part, the part that was really disgusting. The clothes made him feel so stiff and uncomfortable.

      Slowly, sadly, he put them on.

      The shoes were solid polished black leather and he consciously clumped round the kitchen. He found it impossible to feel at ease. Clumpetty shoes and cissy white socks. He glowered down at his stupid feet, his shirt collar chafing his neck. He put away his blue socks and white sandshoes. They were what he liked to wear. When he wore them he could run fast, climb dykes, pad and stalk like an Indian. Playing football he could jink and dribble without making one wrong move. Blue and white flashing. A rightness. A sureness of touch. The feel of things.

      Clump!

      ‘Whit’s the matter?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Yer face is trippin ye.’

      ‘Nothin.’

      ‘Yer no gonnae start aboot thae shoes’n socks again ur ye?’

      ‘Naw. Ah’m awright mammy, honest.’

      He knew he couldn’t explain and he knew if he tried she would just go on about how lucky he was to have a decent set of clothes to wear. Then his father would chip in about when he was at school – bare feet or parish boots.

      His father had laid down the paper, so he picked it up and looked for the jokes and cartoons. Oor Wullie. The Broons. Merry Mac’s Fun Parade.

      Oor Wullie, Your Wullie, A’body’s Wullie. That always made him snigger because of the double meaning.

      Wullie and Fat Boab were being chased by PC Murdoch because they’d knocked off his helmet. As usual, everything ended happily. As usual, Murdoch had a kindly knowing twinkle in his eye. As usual, Wullie was on his bucket in the last frame, slapping his thighs and laughing.

      Real policemen didn’t wear helmets any more. They wore caps with black and white checks. They swore at you and moved you on for loitering and booked you for playing football in the street. Joe had been booked about three weeks before and he was waiting for a summons to go to court. There had been about eight of them playing, but only Joe had been caught. He’d been using his jacket as a goalpost and when he’d stopped to pick it up he’d fallen behind. The others had charged through closes and escaped across the Hunty. Aleck had torn his knee on some barbed wire and he’d worn an ostentatious bandage for a week. When anyone had asked what was wrong he’d tried to look sinister like a gangster and spat out his reply.

      ‘Ah goat it runnin fae the polis.’

      And he’d hoped it conjured up a picture of himself, gun-toting masked desperado in a running shoot-out across Govan. Wanted. Hunted.

      Clump!

      ‘An mind an keep thae shoes clean an don’t go gettin them scuffed playin football.’

      ‘Ah kin jist see me playin football in Sunday school!’

      ‘Less a your cheek boy! Yer mother’s right. We canny be forever buyin ye new shoes wi you kickin the toes outy them.’

      In one frame, Wullie was skulking, head hung, shoulders hunched, and above his head was the word GUILTY.

      That was the name of one of Aleck’s comics. It had JUSTICE TRAPS THE in small letters across the top, with GUILTY in big red print above blue-uniformed American policemen machine-gunning their way into a roomful of gangsters. Into a plastic bag his mother put a little of each of the vegetables she was using for the soup. Carrot, turnip, potato, celery, onion, leek. This was to be his offering for the service. She added an apple and laid the bag on the table, together with his Bible and a penny for the collection.

      ‘There. That’s you.’

      He was over at the stove, looking in the pot. The broth was coloured red-gold and the fatty stock made the surface shine, globules bubbling, catching the light.

      ‘Smells good.’

      ‘Well, ye kin get intae that when ye get back. Noo c’mon or ye’ll be late.’

      On his way out of the close he was about to take a running kick at a tin can but he remembered about the shoes and he stopped, restrained. At the next corner were three or four boys he knew, boys his mother was always telling him to stay away from, because every time he got into trouble, it just happened to be with them. They saw him crossing the road and they whistled and shouted at him.

      ‘Waell!’

      ‘Gawn yersel!’

      ‘Heh Aleck, yer luvly!’

      ‘Ah’ll get ye!’

      One of them began singing and clapping his hands in time.

      ‘Will ye come to the mission

      Will ye come will ye come

      Will ye come to the mission

      Will ye come.’

      Aleck laughed back at them but he was blushing and he felt hot and confused. He wanted to go to Sunday school, but at the same time he envied them their freedom and their dirt. His walk was suddenly clumsy and awkward and he was happy to take a short-cut through a close, away from their taunting.

      The mission hall was a converted shop, stuck between a close and a HANDY STORE. The flaking paint on its front was an indeterminate colour – a dirty green or brown. Above the door was the name GLASGOW CITY MISSION and on one of the boarded-up windows was a list of the week’s activities. Sunday School. Bible Class. Christian Endeavour. Band of Hope.

      Mr Neil was at the door to welcome everybody in, grinning, nodding, pushing up his glasses which kept slipping down his nose. He was not much taller than most of the older children.

      ‘Hello Aleck. Hello. Comeaway in.’

      Inside, the place was cool and dark, the only sunlight getting in through the open door. Aleck could smell the different fruits and flowers and vegetables that most of the children had brought, above the usual smell of damp and polished wood and musty old books. The seats were arranged in groups of five or six, the children grouped according to age. At the far end was a small raised platform, with a piano, a lectern and a table draped with a white cloth. On the table stood a wooden cross and a vase of mixed flowers – yellow and red.

      At the piano was Mrs Neil, a big woman with greying hair. She wore a white hat and glasses with frames that turned up at the side, like wings. She was talking to Jim, the teacher for Aleck’s group, who waved to him as he came in.

      Aleck went and sat at his place, making too much noise with his chair. There were СКАЧАТЬ