Almond - The Color of the Sun

Its an ordinary summer day, the day that Jimmy Killen dies and comes to life again. Its the middle of the summer, when it sometimes seems like time stands still, when it seems theres nothing at all to do. Davies in his bed, in the shadows behind his bedroom curtains when it all begins. The whole day lies before him, but he wants to stay there. He wants to be older so he could be with a lass or go drinking with the lads. He wants to be younger so he could run about yelling like a daft thing.

His mam calls up from down below.

Davie! Get yourself out into the sun, lad!

He peeps through the curtains. Hes dazzled by the light. He can see nothing when he turns back to his room. He rubs his eyes till his sight returns and he sees it all anew.

Davie!

Yes, Mam!

He starts digging through some ancient toys. Animal masks have been hanging inside his wardrobe door for so long hes nearly forgotten that theyre there at all. Theyve been gathering dust since he was four or five. A gorilla, a tiger, a horse, a fox. The fox was best. Hed pull it on and leap and screech to make his parents terrified. He does it again now, alone in his shady bedroom. He looks out through the fox eyes and raises his claws, and he snarls and imagines hes slaughtering a coop full of chickens.

Davie! What the heck you doing up there?

He laughs and rips the mask off. He laughs again to see the plastic antlers dangling on the door as well. How could he have forgotten them? He sticks them on his head. He steps quietly through the room, looking out for predators. He rocks his head and shakes the antlers. He leaps and dances silently, and soon the antlers start to feel like proper antlers. The room feels like a forest. He starts to lose himself in the old game of being a boy whos also a beast.

He pauses. Why am I doing all this? he wonders.

Maybe its time to get rid of things, time to chuck this childish stuff out.

Mam calls from down below again.

Davie!

Aye! he calls. Coming, Mam!

But he keeps on digging. He finds some ancient coloring pencils, from when he was maybe five or six. Theres an old sketchbook as well, with a faded green cover and brittle pages. He opens it and comes upon things he hasnt seen for years: scrawled pictures of dark monsters and slithery snakes. Stick figures of his mam and dad, pictures of the house, a scribbly sketch of a lovely black-and-brown dog they used to have called Stew. A page full of pictures of himself. A picture of a baby with messy writing beside it: Davie as a bayby. A picture of an ancient man with a beard: Davie wen he is old. And heres the beginning of an ancient tale that starts and then gets nowhere past the first two sentences: Wons ther was a boy calld Davie and he wonted an advencha. So he got sum sanwichs and he got his nife and set owt into the darknes. The ends of the pencils are chewed and he chews them again, and he thinks how weird it is that hes probably tasting himself as he was all those years ago.

Davie!

Theres an old gray haversack. His dad gave it to him a few years ago. Davie used to stride around the house with it on his back, marching and saluting and carrying an imaginary rifle on his shoulder. He puts the fox mask, the antlers, the pencils and the book into it. He slings it across his shoulders and goes down.

Mams in the red-hot kitchen. Shes been baking, making bara brith and lemon meringue pie, such lovely things. Theres a smell of lemon, raisins, warm yeasty dough. Davie salivates as he imagines the delicious food on his tongue.

She stands there with her arms folded. Theres drifts of white flour on her red-and-white apron. Dads favorite painting, of sunflowers, is shining bright on the wall behind her. Sunlight pours into the room.

About time! she says. Now eat that breakfast and shift those bones.

She guides him to a chair at the table. Theres a bowl of cornflakes and some toast and some orange juice. She hums a tune and spreads her arms and shifts her feet in a gentle dance. She smiles and sighs as he eats and drinks.

Now get yourself out into the world, she says.

What world?

The lovely world outside that door.

He grins.

Ive been there before, Mam. Ive seen it all before.

She grins back at him.

Aye, she says. But you havent been in it on this day, and you havent seen it in this light.

And what if theres a mad axman on the loose out there?

She taps her cheek and ponders for a moment.

Thats a good point, she says. Then she shrugs. Its just a risk youll have to take!

She laughs at the haversack. She asks whats inside and he tells her.

Those old things! she says. Didnt you use to love them!

She smiles as she gazes back into the past for a moment.

Then she puts a little package into his hand. Its a piece of warm bara brith, wrapped in waxed paper.

Theres butter on it, she says. And theres a slice of Cheshire cheese with it. Wont it be delicious? Put it in the bottom of your sack so you wont be tempted to eat it too soon.

He does that.

She puts her hands around his head and plants a kiss at the top of his skull. She blows away the floury dust that she leaves there. She spreads her hand across his back and gently guides him to the door.

Go on, she says. Therell be time enough for sitting about when you get to be as old as me.

Ill never get as old as that!

Im glad to hear it, she whispers.

She kisses him again.

Now, my Davie, out you go. Dont hurry back. The day is long, the world is wide, youre young and free.

And out he goes, to start his wandering.

Should I go up, he wonders, or should I go down? He tosses a coin. Down. He doesnt walk far, just to the heart of this little town, the place hes lived since he was born, the place where everything is so familiar.

He sits on the gray pavement opposite the houses on Ethel Terrace, with his back against the wall of the Columba Club. Its clean enough. No dog muck, no cigarette butts, just some dust and slivers of slate that mustve come down from cracks in the roof. Nothing seems to move. His mood declines. He gets that feeling that he sometimes gets these days, that he hates this dead-end place, where nothing seems to happen, nothing seems to change. Sometimes he just wants to walk out of it and keep on walking and leave it all behind. But he knows hes too young to do that yet, and anyway today its like hes got no energy. Like theres nothing in the world he wants to do.

So he just sits there, in the dust.

For a moment he thinks about Elizabeth McErlane. He met her in the square yesterday evening. She wanted him to go down to Holly Hill Park with her, but he held back. She asked if he was daft. She said most lads would be with her like a shot if she asked them to Holly Hill Park.

Youre like a wet weekend, she said. Its like youre on the point of tears even when a lass is making eyes at you.

He knows shes got a point, but youd think shed try to sympathize. Shes not the one who lost her dad just a few weeks back. How would she feel about that?

He moves his thoughts away from her. If hes honest, hes not too bothered. Hes still more interested in playing football than in being with lasses. He does try, like lots of the lads do, and sometimes he loves it, like lots of the lads do, but kissings never as sweet as making a perfect diving header or curving the ball into an imaginary net. He has to admit that Elizabeths very bonny, though, and she does bring about some pretty amazing dreams.