Agnes Owens (14 page)

I didn't even try to find the short-cut. Blindly I waded through tall weeds and bumped into trees. Then I plunged into a bog camouflaged with thistledown. Keep going, I told myself. I must come out somewhere, and I did. One second I was squelching through bog and the next I was hurtling downwards. I rolled over bits of wire, broken bottles and bundles of smelly stuff, and just managed to grab on to a thick bush to stop myself landing at the bottom of this pit, which I recalled was an illegal rubbish dump. With difficulty but determination I scrambled upwards, bruised, bleeding and stinking horribly. When I finally crawled into the house my mother went mad at the sight of me. She only refrained from battering me because of the blood dripping over the linoleum. I
was ordered to divest myself of all clothing while she bathed my cuts, nagging at me all the time, but I was comforted if humiliated, for God knows what had happened to the other two. Next day I was sent to school as usual. Even if my face and legs were a mass of criss-cross cuts I could still walk and that was good enough for my mother. There were no sensational developments because the other two were in the playground as large as life.

‘Whit happened tae ye last night?' I asked Smith's companion. ‘I waited at the lodge for ages.'

‘We didny come doon the estate road. Smith knew a short-cut ower the wall on tae the main road.'

He stared into my face. ‘Whit happened tae you?'

‘Mind yer ain business, ya cheatin' wee coward.'

The bell cut short any further discussions. I made a beeline for Smith at playtime. He let forth loud guffaws of laughter at the sight of me, but he didn't laugh long. I knocked him to the ground and pummelled into him.

‘Where's ma knife?' I said as I kicked him.

Blubbering like a first-class infant he gabbled, ‘Leave me alane an ye'll get it.'

So for a day I was a hero and kept Smith's knife in a drawer for a long time as a souvenir. It was no use for anything else for it could hardly cut paper. Eventually my mother threw it in the bin.

Yes, these were the days of real adventure, real heroes and real villains. Now it was all grind, booze or trying to get by on the dole.

The damp, cold air cut through my reveries and I decided it was time to get going. As a gesture I patted the clammy wet wood of the remains of the hut a farewell. It had been once a refuge to the ghost seekers and at heart I was still one. Any old ghost would have pleased me. Even the faintest suggestion of one. Anything, just anything to give me a hint of something beyond.

*  *  *

Quickly I walked back through the estate where the trees were still hopeful and came over the hill. I passed a heap of charred ash and blackened stone which had been Paddy McDonald's home. Scattered around this debacle was an ancient cooker, a bit of table and a half-burned sofa, the same one that I had sat on along with Paddy's cat. It would be something to see that cat sitting there right now. It would give a bit of justification to everything. You could think then, if you were that way inclined, that Paddy's spirit was inside the cat. But the fact was that there was no cat, no spirit, and not even a bit of singed fur. To hell with it all; I would make my own ghost. I picked up a piece of blackened char and marked on a bit of wall that remained ‘
PADDY WILL RETURN
' then left quickly before anyone saw me.

T
he queue at the unemployment exchange had slowed down to a standstill.

‘Whit's the hold-up?' asked the wee fellow in front of me.

‘Sounds as if somebody's no' pleased.'

‘Who wid be in this place an' nae work.'

‘Ye'd be surprised,' said another. ‘Work wid kill some folk.'

I suspected he was referring to Big Mick sprawled comfortably along the bench behind us, swigging a bottle of wine.

‘Are ye lookin' for a job?' I asked him.

‘Naw – jist waitin' on Baldy.'

‘Great innit,' said the wee fella. ‘All the home comforts. Drink while you wait.'

‘An' why no'?' said Mick. ‘There's nae law against it. Here, d'ye want a gargle?' He offered me the bottle. To be sociable I took a mouthful.

‘Ye're no' frightened,' said the wee fella, ‘ye could get typhoid drinkin' efter him.'

‘Who's worryin'. Ye could get it it anyway. The niggers tramp doon the grapes for the wine wi' their feet,' I said.

I suspected the wee fella was peeved because he hadn't been offered any.

Somebody said, ‘I mind ma faither tellin' me that in his day ye wereny allowed tae smoke in the broo, never mind drink.'

‘That wis in the dark ages afore Keir Hardie.'

‘Never heard o' him. Here, whit's the racket aboot?'

‘Ye might guess. It's Baldy Patterson.'

We stopped talking to hear all the better.

‘You've already had your money sent out,' the clerk was saying.

‘Indeed and I have not!' replied Baldy with heat. ‘Big Mick back there will tell you.' He shouted, ‘That right Mick?'

‘Aye, that's the God's truth,' Mick shouted back waving his bottle about.

‘Are you here on business?' asked the clerk.

‘Naw, I'm jist waitin' on Baldy.'

‘Then wait outside.'

Big Mick leaned back all the more complacently and took another swig from the bottle.

‘Where did ye say ye sent it?' Baldy was asking. ‘Ye know I've got nae fixed address.' He made this sound like a reference.

‘I'm aware of that,' the clerk replied with an exasperated sigh. ‘I sent it where I always send it, care of William Brown, twelve Mid Street. I suggest you make your enquiries there.'

I remembered the situation. Billy now had a legitimate address. He had moved from the derelict Drive to the slightly less derelict Mid Street through a lucky break. His uncle had died and Billy fell heir to his room and kitchen.

‘So,' the clerk continued, ‘the matter is out of our hands, and if you are looking for work I'm afraid there is nothing.'

‘Work ma arse!' said Baldy, ‘I'm lookin' for money.'

‘Next please,' said the clerk.

The wee fella pushed Baldy aside and took the position over.

‘Anythin' in the scaffoldin' line?'

‘Nothing,' said the clerk, picking up a pad and pencil.

The wee fella persisted. ‘Can ye no' gie me a card for Cumlock-town then? There might be work there.'

‘There is nothing there. We have enquired,' said the clerk writing on the pad to show he had better things to do.

‘Too bad,' I said to the wee fella as he turned away. I knew it would be the same for me.

‘Bloody hopeless,' he said. ‘I'm thinkin' o' gaun up tae the oil rigs.'

‘Don't fancy it.'

‘Well it's the money –'

‘Next please!' said the clerk loudly.

‘Be seein' ye,' I mumbled.

‘Anything for brickies?' I enquired. This request was a matter of formality. There had been nothing for the past six weeks.

‘Nothing,' was the reply.

‘Whit aboot labourin' then? Any kind o' labourin' on the sites?'

‘Nothing.'

On an impulse I asked, though I had no notion of it, ‘Whit aboot up north near the oil rigs? Is there nae buildin' gaun on up there?'

He looked at me irritated. It was clear he did not wish any deviation from the word ‘nothing'. ‘I'm afraid you will have to enquire about that yourself.' He began to write on his pad again.

I walked away in time to see an empty wine bottle hurtle through the door. It was in keeping with my sentiments exactly.

I caught up with the wee fella.

‘Nothin' doin'?' he asked.

‘Nothin'.'

‘Ye're daft. Go up north. That's where the work an' money is.'

‘I don't fancy it.'

I didn't know why. There wasn't much to stay for. I couldn't think of anybody who would give a damn whether I left or not. I often felt my mother was relieved when I went out. Anyway I knew I irritated her more than usual hanging around the house. I had even lost the guts to complain about the meals or kid her on about anything.

‘I'll gie ye the name o' a firm up north that's desperate for brickies,' said the wee fella. ‘Try it.'

‘I might at that.'

Back home I thought I had better mention the subject to my mother – although we had been silent for so long it was difficult to begin.

‘Have ye got a cuppa tea ready?' I began, more for the sake of testing out my voice.

‘Tea?' she said, as though she had never heard of it.

‘Aye, ye know. These wee leaves ye pit in a teapot.'

‘Put it on yersel,' she said.

‘Dae ye want one?' I asked, ignoring her coolness.

‘Whit's the snag? Ye might as well know I canny lend ye anythin'.'

I clenched my teeth. I could get nowhere with this woman.

‘I'm no' wantin' the lend o' anythin'.' I made the tea and poured her cup out with a grudge.

‘Whit I was wonderin',' I said as I handed it to her, ‘was if I should go up north tae look for work. It's hopeless here.'

She was startled. ‘An' leave me here masel!'

That surprised me. I never considered myself great company for her.

‘I wid send ye money.'

‘I wisny thinkin' aboot the money.'

She stared at her cup and blinked her eyes. I could hardly credit there were tears in them. I hoped not. Now that I was talking myself into leaving I was going to be resentful of any opposition.

‘Whit aboot yer pals?' she asked. ‘An' Mrs Smith doonstairs thinks ye're an awfy nice big fella.'

‘Whit's that got tae dae wi' it?'

‘Nothin',' she said, ‘but ye might no' like it away from hame.'

I didn't like to point out that ‘hame' for me was only a place to sleep and eat. ‘Besides I can always get other pals,' I said.

‘Whit aboot Paddy McDonald? He'll miss ye.'

Patiently I explained, ‘Paddy is deid. Dae ye no' remember?'

‘Oh aye,' she said absently. ‘Well it's up tae you.'

She disappeared into the kitchenette. Apparently she didn't want to discuss it. Next thing she was back. ‘Here's a lend o' a pound until ye get yer broo money.'

I didn't particularly want it, but I just said ‘Thanks' and walked out.

*  *  *

I didn't go to the pub. I walked along by the river. Under the bridge in the usual place sat Baldy and Big Mick. There it was, all set out, my future. The wine bottle bulged in Mick's pocket.

‘Where are ye gaun?' he asked.

‘Naewhere.'

He pulled the bottle out and handed it to me. I took a mouthful.

‘Did ye get yer money then?' I asked Baldy, handing the bottle over to him.

‘Aye, Billy found it on a shelf. He wis that drunk this mornin' he forgot it had came – stupid wee sod!'

‘Still no' workin'?' asked Mick.

‘Naw. Have ye no' heard? There's a depression on.'

He laughed. ‘It's no' affectin' us.' Then he became serious. ‘I know times are bad. Dae ye want a len' o' a fiver?'

I could have laughed myself. I was better off than they would ever be. I was on the point of refusing, then it struck me a fiver would come in handy. Come to think of it, it was necessary.

‘Thanks Baldy. I'll pay ye back when I get ma broo money.'

He brought out crumpled notes rolled into a ball. It was two fivers. He separated one and handed it to me in the manner of a true philanthropist.

‘Tae think,' said Mick, ‘that the bastard has been drinkin' ma money a' mornin'.'

‘Keep yer hair on. I've got a fiver for us tae spend the night an' still one left for the morra when the boy here gets his broo money.'

Mick looked sheepish. ‘I wis only jokin'. Sit doon on that plastic mac an' I'll gie ye a dram.'

They thought I had nothing and they were bending backwards to give me what they could.

‘Whisky?' I asked hopefully.

‘Naw, wine. A wee dram o' the wine.'

I sat down beside them on the stone. I might as well join them. It was the least I could do. They handed me the bottle while Mick rolled a fag. He studied it to make sure it was a good one then
handed it to me with a flourish. I had the feeling I was being initiated. Maybe I could do worse than join them, because at least they had the communal outlook. The booze was usually shared. You might lack comfort but not company. You might be an outcast but you were free. It was tempting.

‘Too bad Paddy's no' here,' I said.

‘Aye.' They were suitably silent for a minute but I sensed they were not too concerned. Folk come, folk go. It could be their turn any time. After another swallow I felt talkative. ‘I wis thinkin' o' gaun up north,' I told them. I knew they wouldn't take the statement seriously.

‘Whit for?'

‘Work.'

‘Work never done onyone ony good,' said Baldy spitting in contempt. ‘That's for mugs. Look at us, we can drink withoot workin' for it, an' plenty tae eat. A fish supper noo an' again, breid, cheese or a tin o' soup. Eatin' is a fallacy onyway. We're perfectly healthy.'

They could have fooled me, but I nodded in agreement.

‘So long as ye've enough tae drink, that's the main thing,' said Mick wisely. ‘Onyway, folk up north are no' like us. Especially in the north-east where the work is. You could be dyin' in the street and they wid walk ower ye.'

‘They don't care,' confirmed Baldy. ‘They widny gie ye a match tae light yer fag.'

‘Ye've been up north then?' I asked.

‘Naw,' said Mick, ‘but I've got a brither that has. He couldny get back here quick enough. They're as mean as fuck.'

‘I think it's the weather that does it,' said Baldy.