The First Day of Marching Season

We’re in Agnes Stevenson’s bit, Danny’s gran. We’ve always mucked aboot roon here. When we wur wee boys she used tae gee us a fiver each fur dain hur garden. No that we wur landscapers, but she wisnae expectin a Ground Force style transformation. Aw we hud tae dae wis turn the soil in the flower beds, cut the wee square ae grass, pull oot the weeds n put weed killer between the eld broken slabs. As a younger woman, Agnes hud took great pride in hur wee garden. She hus a rockery roon the front n flowerbeds round the back wae the biggest bits ae rhubarb yi ever seen. The red n green stalks wur as big as yir arm. Yi hud tae wash them before yi ate them but, cos cats wee oot the back. She hud wee yoghurt tubs full ae beer buried intae the soil around it tae kill the slugs. She used tae gee us a can ae McEwan’s lager tae go n fill them. Me n Danny always took a wee swig n pretended tae like it. The real task wis emptyin the eld tubs, full ae stale beer n dead slugs. No exactly a fuckin Pina Colada. We spent long summer afternoons dain the garden n gittin a cheeky fiver fur our troubles.

Danny’s granda’s eld tools ir still in a wee shed at the back ae the garden next tae a green hoose. He hud died before Danny wis born n the shed wis left as a shrine tae his memory. There wis an array ae tools fur us tae look at. When his gran wis fitter she wid come n show us things he made wae wood n his accoutrements, aw the files, chisels, planes, drills, saws n whittling knives. She used tae love watchin us figure oot wit things wur fur n there wis always an odd bit ae timber she let us play on tae test oot our new skills. Yi hud tae sweep up afterwards, cos that’s wit good workmen do.

Time moved on. Agnes hud grown eld n hur garden hus begun tae take the look ae a jungle. We still promised tae go n dae it but it never happened. When we wur wee guys, me n Danny wid both fit on the top step while she watched oot the back door wae a wee Canada Dry ginger ale n whisky. We wid stay roon tae the light sky turned royal blue then navy. Yi wid see the twinklin lights in the distance, further than yir wee mind could comprehend. The few streets n woods we wur allowed tae run aboot in wis the end ae our world then. ‘Where is that?’ we used tae ask.

Agnes wid sip hur drink n smoke hur Superking menthol cigarette n say, ‘That, boys, is our wee paradise, far away fae the big bad city where A grew up.’ Our eyes wid widen in wonder at the sight before us. The infinite sea ae orange n red wis like another sunset. In actuality it wisnae paradise, but the streetlights ae Condorrat n Cumbernauld.