Children of the future
age
John Paul could feel the water seeping into his
busted old trainers as he headed for the main entrance of the Forge shopping
centre. The chilly December wind cut through his thin track suit and the lazy
Glasgow drizzle seemed to seep into every pore of his body. In all his 13 years
he hadn’t felt so cold. He scanned the foyer of the centre hoping the security
man locals called ‘Robocop’ wasn’t around. He was a mean-spirited bastard who
loved nothing better than blocking those he considered ‘scum’ from the centre.
John Paul entered with a crowd of women shoppers hoping to blend in. He wasn’t
here to spend, rather just to heat his shivering body. He had got as far as the
indoor Market when Robocop appeared, ‘Right wee man, turn around, out
you go!’ A woman looked at John Paul, ‘Whit’s the lad done? Why are
you throwing him oot?’ Robocop looked at her disdainfully, ‘These
people aren’t here to spend, they’ve no money. They steal and hang around
driving decent customers away.’ The woman looked sympathetically at
John Paul, ‘But he’s just a wee lad, he’s shivering.’ Robocop was having
none of it and ushered John Paul out the doors and into cold, damp Duke
Street, ‘and don’t come back ya fuckin wee tramp’ He muttered
under his breath once he was sure no other customers could hear him. John Paul
looked blankly at him bemused at his mean attitude. What was wrong with some
people?
John Paul, wet hair plastered to his head, headed
up past Parkhead Cross and then turned right along the Gallowgate as the
relentless Glasgow rain became heavier. Going home wasn’t an option as his
Step-Da was drunk again and seemed to pick on him incessantly when the alcohol
fuelled rage was on him. He had become more violent in recent years and John
Paul’s body bore the bruises from his father’s last episode. What angered him
more was though his inability to defend his mother. He had lain awake one night
listening to him ranting at her, calling her foul names and then the violence
and crying had started. John Paul had covered his ears and begged God to make
it all stop. Later, when all was quiet apart from the gentle sobbing of his
mother he slipped out of bed and headed for the living room. His step-Da was
asleep on the couch as John Paul approached his mother and simply hugged her,
saying nothing. In his mind he promised himself that when he grew to manhood
that bastard would pay for it all.
He crossed the road rather aimlessly and looked
through the large gateway into Janefield Street cemetery. Despite being a
Parkhead boy all his life, it occurred to him that he had never been in the old
cemetery before. He wandered among the forgotten graves of people from a
bye-gone age. A huge stone Celtic cross loomed over him, a curious black crow
perched on top, watching him. He reached the cemetery wall and clambered up
onto the top of it and sat down, his legs dangling above Janefield Street. Below
him he could see hard hatted workmen were busy tearing down the last of the old
Celtic Park enclosure known as the Jungle. The last of the steelwork was gone
and they were using jack-hammers to break up the concrete terraces. The old
stadium looked like a war zone. Rubble was strewn everywhere and the noise of
power tools and cement trucks filled the air. John Paul had gone to many games
at the old stadium, initially to escape his home but he had come to love the
rough comradeship of the terraces. It was his escape, his sanctuary, the place
where he dreamed of better things. He seldom paid in as he was still
small enough to get a lift or agile enough to scale the walls on occasion. On
one occasion he had cut his hand badly as the club, clearly annoyed at lost
gate receipts, embedded broken glass on top of the outer walls in cement. That
annoyed him, the club founded for the poor was keeping the poor out with broken
glass.
John Paul watched as the noise of demolition
abated and the workmen downed tools and headed for the porta-cabins which
served as their bothies. At least they could eat their lunch out of the
rain. He dropped down from the cemetery wall and crossed Janefield
Street. Glancing through the temporary metal mesh fence which stood, slotted
into black rubber feet, he looked at the remains of Celtic Park. He could see
the old main stand, alone and forlorn in the rain looking out of place on its
own. It was hard to believe that the pile of twisted metal and broken concrete
before him was all that remained of the Jungle. He prised two sections of the
fencing apart and squeezed through into the building site that was one day to
be the new Celtic Park.
The place was quiet and the only workmen around
were far away eating their sandwiches. He wandered over the twisted rubble of
the old Jungle thinking of the times he had stood there cheering on his heroes.
He had been shoe horned in here when Celtic won the title in their Centenary
year. What a crowd there was that day. Now, all that was left was rubble and
the ghosts of the past to lament the destruction of the old stadium. As John
Paul picked his way over the broken concrete a small section of it gave way and
he fell forward. His leg had slipped into a hole beneath the rubble and he only
just managed to stop himself having a heavy fall. Something jagged and
scratched his shin and he let out a small cry. As he extricated his leg
carefully from the hole, he was disappointed to see his track suit bottoms torn
and dirty but worse than that his trainer was no longer on his foot. He looked
for a moment at his damp, dirty sock through which poked his big toe. He then
glanced into the void where his leg had slipped and saw his trainer about 3
feet down the hole. He lay on the uneven concrete and reached into the hole,
his cold fingers feeling for his trainer. The tips of his fingers touched
something metallic and he withdrew his hand worrying it was a gas pipe or
something electrical. He rolled onto his side and peered into the hole. His
trainer was jammed between damp clay and what appeared to be a rectangular
metal box. John Paul looked around him and saw what he required; a piece of
metal reinforcing rod from the concrete lay on the damp ground. He poked it
into the hole and dislodged his trainer. Straining, he reached into the hole
and retrieved it and pulled it onto his foot. He then turned his attention to
the metal box. He forced the rod down the side of it and levered it left and
right until it was loose. He reached into the hole with both hands and prised
the box free from the cloying mud. He placed the box in front of him and
regarded it. It was about the size of a shoe box and beneath the clay and rust,
he could make out rusty hinges. What was this doing buried under the old Jungle
at Celtic Park? He glanced around him, a little startled, as two workmen
laughed at across at the main stand. John Paul lifted the box and slipped
quietly out of the Stadium. He made his way along Janefield Street, scanning
the ground until he found a plastic carrier bag blowing along the damp,
deserted street. He placed the metal box into the bag and headed for home.
The house was quiet when he arrived home. His
step-da had probably gone to the bookies or pub and his mother was working as a
cleaner in the nearby Templeton centre. He had the house to himself and after
locking the front door, he headed for his bedroom. He placed some old
newspapers on his bed and then removed the box from the carrier bag and placed
it on them. He used a scrubbing brush to clean most of the clay from the box,
his mind racing at the thought of what it might contain. He then tried the lid
which didn’t seem to be held closed by a padlock or other such mechanism but it
was closed fast and wouldn’t budge. John Paul fetched his Step-Da’s hammer and
a sturdy cold chisel from under the kitchen sink. He placed the point of the
chisel at the spot he thought was the edge of the lid. He tapped gently at
first but soon lost patience and hit the chisel hard. The lid loosened a little
and he squeezed the edge of the chisel into the thin gap and levered the lid
until finally it gave and he was able to open the box fully. He looked inside,
eyes wide in expectation.
Inside the box, John Paul found a sort of parcel
wrapped in what he thought was linen and tied with brown, aged
string. He snapped the string and carefully unfolded the water-stained
linen. In it he found two envelopes, browned with age and water marked. There
was also a faded photograph of a Celtic team dressed in a strip of vertical
stripes. There was also a set of what appeared to be dusty old rosary beads. He
glanced in the box to make sure it was empty and found several old coins, each
showing Queen Victoria’s distinctive head. He laid the items carefully on the
bed and looked at them. He carefully opened each of the two envelopes and
separated the sheets of paper. The first one he attempted to read seemed to be
a poem and with some difficulty he eventually deciphered the hand writing and
read…
Children of the future age
Reading this indignant page
Know that once there was a time
When being poor was thought a crime
But seeing no help close at hand
We turn to God in a heartless land
Beseech his manna from the skies
To still our hungry children’s cries
And in that year of eighty-seven
When so many young took leave for heaven
We took our faith and fate in hand
And formed our bold and gallant band
Celtic was the name we chose
The shamrock mighty as thistle or rose
From far and wide they came to see
The men who stilled the hungry plea
J Glass Esq. May 1892
John Paul placed the letter on the bed and ran to
fetch his history of Celtic book. It didn’t take him long to find out that ‘J
Glass’ was in fact John Glass and said to be Brother Walfrid’s right-hand man, and
one of the chief motivating forces in Celtic’s foundation. 1892 was the date
the club moved from the original Celtic Park to the current site. John Paul
looked at the photograph of the bearded man staring out of the page at him,
speaking to him from a century or more ago. Was the box some sort of time
capsule placed under the old terracing as the stadium was being laid out? He
took out the second letter and read the short paragraph it contained. The
writing was neat and rather dated but he read it with widening eyes as he
realised who had written it…
‘May the Lord bless this ground we consecrated
this day and may he always watch over the Celtic football club and all who are
involved with this fine venture. For as long these relics lie in this hallowed
soil the Celtic will prosper. May the Lord smile on you and bless you all this
day.’
Brother Walfrid…FMS
John Paul’s head was spinning. He held in his
hand a letter, a blessing written by Brother Walfrid himself! What
would this be worth to a collector? He looked at the two letters and then at
the dusty rosary beads. He could sure use some money and so could his family
but something was troubling him. ‘As long as these relics remain in this
hallowed soil the Celtic would prosper.’ That’s what the letter said
and he had removed them.
That evening John Paul headed for his friend
Paddy’s house and explained all that had occurred that day. Paddy, of course
thought it was a wind up until John Paul showed him the proof. ‘Jesus,
these will be worth plenty JP, you selling them?’ John Paul was
undecided, ‘I’m not sure mate, something is telling me it’s no
right?’ Paddy looked at him, ‘Mate, Celtic wiz set up tae help the
poor, you’ll get a wad for these tae help you and trust me, you’re poor JP!’ John
Paul returned home later that evening and spent a restless night in his bed.
When the first pale fingers of light were creeping in his window, he knew what
he had to do.
For three months John Paul visited Janefield
Street, gazing in at the building work going on in the Stadium area. It was a
bright March day when his moment arrived. A huge concrete mixing
truck arrived to pour more concrete onto the foundations of the new North
stand. As the driver reversed the truck towards the spot the pour was to take
place John Paul slipped quietly into the building site. From his jacket he
produced the metal box. Everything was back inside as it was before he had
found it. He clambered over pieces of steel stacked neatly on the ground and
threw the box quickly into the great hole in the ground the concrete was to be
poured into. A voice called to him, ‘Here you, wee man- get yersel tae
fuck, it’s deadly playing in building sites!’ John Paul raised a
conciliatory hand to him and squeezed back through the fence back into
Janefield Street. He smiled as the trough on the concrete truck was guided over
the hole and tons of wet concrete splashed over the box, sealing it into the
very fabric of Celtic Park forever. ‘There ye go Walfrid,’ he smiled, ‘back
where it should be.’
He headed for home satisfied that he’d done the
right thing.
