Its Colours They Are Fine. Alan Spence

well,’ said Joe, ‘it wis nice knowin ye.’

      Aleck dropped down on to the other side of the wall.

      The men gave no sign that they had even noticed him but he hesitated to move for the arrow, which had landed almost at their feet.

      It was funny to think of them as bird watchers. Most of them were in their twenties or thirties, one or two were older. Men without jobs who seemed to spend their whole time loafing or shambling around, always in a cluster, scuffling and shabby, always finding ways to fill the time till the glorious weekend when there was money for wine and they were loud and alive and glowing, singing and fighting and sick.

      Watching the pigeons was a mystery with its secrets, its initiates, a language of its own. They would cup their hands to their mouths and echo the bird’s own call. They used strange words like fantail and others that Aleck could never quite make out or understand. Some of them even built wooden doocots, box-hutches where the birds could feed. Doocot meant dovecot because doo was short for dove. Dovecot. Cot for a dove. But the pigeons were mostly grey, although if you could look closely you might see colours. Like an oilstain on the road under the light. Gurgling and strutting and grey. Doves should be soft and graceful and white. Like the dove sent from the ark, to find land where it could rest. Miss Riddie had told them the story and taught them the song.

      (The words chalked on the blackboard – teacher with her pointer – repeat after me –

      O that I had wings like a dove

      Then I would fly away and be at rest

      Lo then would I wander far off

      And remain in the wilderness

      di dum diddy dum diddy dum/diddy dum diddy dum didum.)

      One of the men picked up the arrow. He looked straight at Aleck and snapped the arrow in two. He was grinning.

      ‘Aw . . . izzat no a shame . . . ah’ve went an broke it!’

      The others laughed and he threw the pieces aside.

      ‘Get tae buggery wi yer bows ’n arras or ah’ll snap yer fuckin neck!’

      Aleck ran and scrambled back across the wall.

      The pigeon rose and soared over the rooftops and out of sight.

      The afternoon sticky and hot and the pavement tar soft and melting. Aleck and Joe were scraping their initials with their arrows.

      (The way the tar opened under the pressure – glistening black scar on the pavement’s dusty grey – initials – names.)

      ‘Tar’s brilliant stuff, intit,’ said Joe.

      ‘So it is,’ said Aleck. ‘See the smell aff it when it’s jist been laid! Makes ye wanty sink yer teeth inty it!’

      ‘So it dis. Ah love smells lik that.’

      ‘The smell a the subway!’

      ‘New shoe boaxes!’

      ‘Rubber tyres!’

      ‘Terrific!’

      Joe dug into the tar, wound the arrow till its end was coiled and clogged.

      ‘Looks lik a big toly disn’t it!’

      They dug out lumps with their hands, kneaded and stretched and smeared it.

      ‘Really dis make ye wanty eat it.’

      ‘D’you remember eatin sand when ye wur wee?’ asked Aleck.

      ‘Naw, ah don’t think so,’ said Joe. ‘How, d’you?’

      ‘Aye. Sandpies it wis. Looked great. Tasted horrible but.’

      (Mouthful of dirt – becoming mud – grit between the teeth.)

      ‘Jesus!’ said Joe. ‘How ur we gonnae get this stuff aff?’

      Aleck looked at his blackened hands. ‘Margarine’s supposed tae take it aff,’ he said.

      ‘We could always leave them,’ said Joe. ‘Cover wursels in it so’s we look lik darkies.’

      ‘Fur gawn tae the jungle,’ said Aleck. He picked up his bow and arrows.

      ‘Ach look at that!’ said Joe. His arrow had split digging into the tar. He threw it away, disgusted.

      ‘Never mind,’ said Aleck. ‘’Mon wu’ll go up tae mah hoose ’n clean it aff.’

      Margarine smeared on their tarry hands, a greasy mess, the fat and the tar merging to make a mucky green as they rubbed and scraped and tried to clean it off.

      ‘Horrible, intit,’ said Joe, looking at his hands.

      ‘Imagine seein thaym comin ower yer shooder ’n a dark night,’ said Aleck. He wailed and thrust gnarled slimy claws towards Joe. They stalked each other round the kitchen, menacing the furniture with green and trembling werewolf paws.

      ‘Smelly,’ said Aleck, stopping in mid-growl to sniff his hands. He went to the sink and tried washing them clean under the tap but the cold water couldn’t dissolve the grease which still clung in globules and streaks.

      ‘Ah canny really be bothered bilin up a kettle a watter,’ he said.

      ‘Gie’s up that auld towel aff the flerr, wull ye.’

      With the towel they managed to rub off most of the dirt.

      ‘At’s no bad,’ said Joe. ‘Prob’ly werr aff in a day ur two.’

      They looked at the dirt still ingrained in the skin and under their nails.

      ‘Dead quiet,’ said Joe, unaccustomed to the emptiness of the house. Joe had brothers and sisters and his house was always loud with their noise.

      ‘Suppose so,’ said Aleck.

      The tick of the clock. Stillness. Noises from the back court.

      ‘Think ah’ll jist stey in,’ said Aleck. ‘That’s hauf four the noo, an ma mammy’ll be hame fae ur work at five.’

      ‘When dis yer da get in?’ asked Joe.

      ‘Aboot hauf five ur somethin.’

      Joe lifted his bow and moved towards the door.

      ‘Fancy gin doon tae the ferry efter tea?’ he said.

      ‘The ferry?’

      ‘Aye, we could nik acroass tae Partick an play aboot therr ’nen come back. Disnae cost anythin.’

      ‘At’s a great idea,’ said Aleck. ‘See ye efter tea then.’

      He handed Joe one of his arrows.

      ‘Here,’ he said. ‘That’s us git wan each.’

      Past a pub with a cluster of neon grapes above the door, past a mission hall called Bethel, left off Govan Road and along a narrow lane, through the docks to the ferry steps.

      Ferry steps. They were often invoked as part of a prophecy, against the drunk and incapable. Spat out like a curse – ‘That yin’ll finish up at the fit a the ferry steps.’

      Aleck and Joe sat at the top of the steep slippery wooden steps, waiting for the ferry to cross from the Partick side.

      ‘Imagin slippin fae here,’ said Joe. ‘Ye’d jist tummel right in.’

      They looked in silence, down to where the steps disappeared into black invisible depth, the oily river lapping softly.

      ‘Here it comes!’ said Aleck.

      They stood up and watched as the squat brown ferry chugged across towards them.

      The water swirled up the steps as it bumped and thudded to rest.

      The ferry had the same kind