Читать книгу Its Colours They Are Fine - Alan Spence - Страница 9

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 his mother. ‘Yirra mucky pup, so yar.’

She laid a sheet of newspaper on the floor in front of the fire and lifted the basin on to it.

‘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 four other boys in the group – David, Robert, Martin and John. They all looked up and said hello.

‘Learned yer text Aleck?’ asked David. David was the only one of the group that Aleck really thought of as a friend. The others had returned their attention to their Bibles and were soundlessly mouthing the text over and over.

‘Jist aboot,’ said Aleck. He opened his Bible at the place, which he’d marked by inserting his attendance card and his membership card for the Life Boys.

He went over the words into himself.

‘Mark 4:28 and 29 – For the earth bringeth forth fruit of herself; first the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear. But when the fruit is brought forth, immediately he putteth in the sickle, because the harvest is come.’

‘Quite a long wan this week, intit,’ said David.

‘Aye, so it is,’ said Aleck. ‘An ah canny get ma tongue roon that “putteth in the sickle”.’

‘Aye it’s hard right enough. Whit is a sickle anywey?’

‘It’s wan a they things fur cuttin grass. Lik a big knife wi a blade lik that . . .’ and Aleck drew an arc in the air with his forefinger.

He went on, ‘D’ye remember they kerds ye goat wi FLAGS bubble-gum?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, d’ye remember the Russian wan ah hid, the wan ah widnae swap?’

‘Aye, aye it wis a red flag.’

‘Well, thoan wee things in the coarner wis a hammer an sickle, croassed lik that.’ He crossed his forefingers in front of him.

‘Aw aye, ah remember. Huv ye ever seen a real wan?’

‘A red flag?’

‘Naw, a sickle.’

‘Naw. Huv you?’

‘Naw. Bet it wid be some chib, eh?’

They hadn’t heard Jim coming up behind them. He tapped David on the head with his Bible.

‘What would be some “chib”?’ he asked, sitting down at the head of the group.

‘A sickle,’ said David, slicing the air to demonstrate. ‘Schuk!’

‘Bloodthirsty shower!’ said Jim.

Aleck asked him if he’d seen a real sickle.

‘Och yes,’ he replied. ‘We’ve got one at home. In the toolshed.’

Aleck had forgotten that Jim lived in a house with a garden. He only came to Govan to teach at the mission. He was about twenty-five and he always had a redfaced, clean and scrubbed look. He smelled of soap and haircream, and he always wore a sports jacket with a Christian Endeavour badge in the lapel.

‘Ah’m glad you all managed to bring something for the service,’ he said. ‘Have you all learned the text?’

He got five different replies, from Yes through Silence to No.

‘Ach well, we’ll see anyway. Would you like to pass me your cards?’

While he was taking in the attendance cards, David turned again to Aleck.

‘Didye go tae the pictures last night Aleck?’

‘Naw. Ah jist steyed in. Did you?’

‘Aye. Ma big brurra took us tae the Lyceum. It was a war picture. Aboot Korea. Terrific! Ah’ll tell ye aboot it efter.’

Jim took each of them in turn, and with varying degrees of assurance and hesitancy they intoned the text for the day in the same monotone of incantation that characterised the way they would recite the alphabet or the multiplication tables or any other memorised litany. Then he marked their cards, once for attendance, once for reciting the text. He also marked Aleck’s Life Boy card.

The Junior Division of the Boys’ Brigade. Sure and Steadfast.

‘That’s fine,’ said Jim. ‘Now if you’d all like to open your Bibles at the place, we’ll have a wee look at it. Mr Neil’s going to talk about it after, so I won’t spend too much time on it. Right, well what’s the text about then?’

‘Harvest,’ said Robert.

‘Right, and what’s that?’

‘Time a year when aw the crops ur ready,’ said David. ‘Corn an wheat an stuff.’

‘Fine,’ said Jim. ‘In fact all the crops we need to make food. To live. And that’s why we celebrate harvest specially. To give thanks for our food. Now. Do you remember what a parable is?’

‘A story,’ said Aleck.

‘That’s right, but it’s a special kind of story that Jesus told. If you look at the top of the page it says The Parable of the Sower. Now Jesus told stories like this when he wanted to explain something in a way people could understand. This one starts at verse 3.

‘. . . Behold there went out a sower to sow . . .’ And Jim read them the whole story, about some seed falling by the wayside and some on stony ground and some among thorns and some on good soil, and when nobody understood, Jim explained about the sower being Jesus.

‘If you could look at verse 14,’ he went on, ‘it says “the sower soweth the word”. So Jesus is trying to make something grow from his words. Now, what do you think it is?’

Everybody shrugged or looked at the floor.

‘Look at verses 30 and 32.’

Five heads scanning the books.

Silence, except for rustling pages and shuffling feet and creaking chairs.

‘No? Oh well. It is quite difficult I suppose. It’s talking about the Kingdom of God, growing up like a tree.

‘So if Jesus is the sower, trying to make it grow by spreading his words, what d’you think it means about the different kinds of soil?’

Another silence. Then Aleck said, ‘Different kindsa people?’

‘Yes!’ said Jim. ‘Good. Good. We’re getting there!’

When he finished explaining he said, ‘I suppose these things’ll be easier when you’re older,’ and smiled and added, ‘like me.’

The singing of hymns left Aleck feeling strange, though he didn’t know why. Sometimes he felt like crying. Sometimes he felt his face flush. Everything seemed very real but far away, as if he was watching it on a film.

Above the platform hung a single light bulb with a pink plastic shade. Aleck was looking at it as if he’d never seen it before. There was a dark crack on the shade, running from the rim about half way up. Aleck hated pink. The colour was like the sound of the word, like the taste of the pink pudding they sometimes had in the school dinnerhall.

Mr Neil with his wife at the piano had led them in singing the hymns. Heavenly sunshine. This little light of mine. This is my story. Give me oil in my lamp.

Cracked pink plastic shade. Sickly insipid pink.

Now Mr Neil was talking, about harvest and parables, about the day’s text. The miracle of the growing corn. Man’s labour in tending and growing. He putteth in the sickle, because the harvest is come.

‘And I know,’ he was saying, ‘that it’s difficult for us in a place like Glasgow, and especially in a place like Govan, to appreciate what harvest really means. I mean it’s only in the country that people can really be aware of the changing seasons and what they mean, because there it matters, and so much of your life is bound up with these changes and the actual growing of the food we eat depends on them. Now as you know, the food you eat is just bought by your mothers from the shops. More than likely it comes in packets and tins. The whole process of getting the food from where it’s produced to your table is so . . . so vast and complicated that it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that it all still depends on those same basic changes. On the sun and the rain. On the goodness of the soil. On human effort, and patience, and skill. And you know, I’ve been thinking about all this and about these parables that Jesus told. Like the one you’ve been talking about today – the Parable of the Sower. And I’ve been thinking especially about the way Jesus used parables – with one meaning on the surface that is obvious and easy to see, but with another far deeper, far greater meaning which is there for us to find.

‘And in this parable of the Sower – at one level it’s just a wee story about a man planting his seeds, and what happens to them. But when we see that the Sower is Christ, then we see that other meaning, and we think of the harvest that He will reap. And there are so many passages from the Bible, so many hymns that tell us the same story, that “All the world is God’s own field”. And you are that harvest, boys and girls. You are His children. And if you grow in His light, you will

“stand at the last accepted,

Christ’s golden sheaves for evermore

to garners bright elected.”

‘And you will be gathered to Him, to dwell with Him in Heaven.

‘And no matter what happens to you, even if the dirt of the world seems to have settled on you and made you forget what you really are, deep inside you are still his golden sheaves. And no matter how drab and grey and horrible our lives and this place may sometimes seem, remember that this is only the surface. And even the muck of hundreds of years cannot hide that other meaning which is behind all things. The meaning that we are here to celebrate. That God is Love and Christ is Life.

‘And now boys and girls, if you will pray with me in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, The Light of the World, The Sower of the Word, who taught us when we pray to say . . .

‘Our Father . . .’

And everyone stood and joined in –

‘whichartinheaven

hallowedbethyname

thykingdomcome

thywillbedone

inearth

asitisinheaven

giveusthisday

ourdailybread

andforgiveusourdebts

asweforgiveourdebtors

leadusnot

intotemptation

butdeliverus

fromevil

forthineisthekingdom

andthepower

andtheglory

forever

amen.

‘Now then,’ said Mr Neil, ‘whose turn is it to take the collection?’

A small girl from one of the younger groups raised her hand.

‘Ah yes Cathy. Here you are then.’ And he handed her the collection bag.

Another two girls from the same group were appointed to gather in the harvest offerings. These they collected in a large laundry basket made of bright yellow plastic, which Mr Neil brought out from behind the table. And as the girls performed the little ceremony with as much slow solemnity as they could, Mrs Neil played ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’.

With Mr Neil’s help, they raised the basket on to the table, between the flowers and the cross. Then he gave thanks once more and everyone stood as he led them in the closing hymn – ‘We plough the fields and scatter’.

This was one of Aleck’s favourite hymns. It had the same kind of thumping triumphant feel as the tunes they sang at the match or played in the Orange Walk.

‘We plough the fields and scatter

The good seed on the land

But it is fed and watered

By God’s almighty hand;

He sends the snow in winter

The warmth to swell the grain

The breezes and the sunshine

And soft refreshing rain.’

And Mr Neil conducted some vast imagined angelic choir, clenching his fists and jabbing the air, raising high his cupped hands, stretching wide his arms. And the voices rose with each wobbling note on the piano, up and out across the back courts and the tenements, the puddles and the rubbish, and the broken walls and railings and the sad sparse tufts of grass and nettle that encroached regardless.

‘All good gifts around us

Are sent from Heaven above;

Then thank the Lord, O thank the Lord,

For all His love.’

As David and Aleck crossed the back court, David was describing and acting out scenes from the Korean war film he’d seen at the Lyceum.

‘Anywey ther’s this Yankee pilot gets shot doon bi the communists, an ye see um fightin is wey oot the cockpit wi aw these flames roon aboot um. ’Nen e manages tae bale oot. An ye jist see is face lookin up, really shitin is sel. Then ye jist see um gawn lik that . . . Nyaaa!’ And with his finger he indicated the spiralling fall.

‘But 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.