Agnes Owens (17 page)

Everyone laughed except the well-dressed woman and the boy, who had not been listening.

‘Look, there's a bus comin' up,' spoke a hopeful voice. ‘Maybe there will be wan doon soon.'

‘Don't believe it,' said another, ‘Ah've seen five buses go up at times and nothin' come doon. In this place they vanish into thin air.'

‘Bring back the Pakkies,' someone shouted.

‘They're all away hame. They couldny staun the pace.'

‘Don't believe it. They're all licensed grocers noo.'

‘You didny get ony cheap fares aff the Pakkies, but at least their buses were regular.'

Conversation faded away as despondency set in. The boy's neck was painful from looking up the street. Suddenly he stiffened and drew himself off the fence when two youths came into view. They walked straight towards him and stood close, one at each side.

‘You're no' feart,' said one with long hair held in place with a bandeau.

‘How?' the boy answered hoarsely.

‘The Rock mob know whit to expect if they come oot here.'

‘Ah wis jist visitin' ma bird.'

‘Wan of oor team is in hospital because of the Rock. Twenty-four stitches he's got in his face – hit wi' a bottle.'

‘Ah had nothin' to dae wi' that.'

‘You were there, weren't ye?'

‘Ah didny know big Jake wis gaun tae put a bottle on him.'

‘Neither did oor mate.'

All this was said in whispers.

‘Hey yous,' said an irate woman, ‘Ah hope you don't think you're gaun tae jump the queue when the bus comes.'

‘That's all right,' said the one with the bandeau. ‘We're jist talkin' tae oor mate. We'll get to the end when the bus comes.'

The crowd regarded them with disapproval. On the other side of the fence where the youths were leaning, a dog which was running about the garden began to bark frantically at the bus queue.

‘Shut yer noise,' someone shouted, which incensed the dog further. One of the youths aimed a stone at its back. The bark changed to a pained howl and the dog retreated to a doorstep to whimper pitifully for some minutes.

‘Nae need for that,' said the man, as murmurs of sympathy were taken up for the dog.

‘This generation has nae consideration for anyone nooadays,' a voice declared boldly.

‘Aye, they wid belt you as soon as look at you.'

Everyone stared hard at the youths as if daring them to start belting, but the youths looked back with blank expressions.

‘They want to join the army like ma son,' the man said in a loud voice. ‘He disny have it easy. Discipline is what he gets and it's done him the world of good.'

‘Ower in Ireland, that's where Wullie's son is,' declared one of the women who had joined the queue early.

‘Poor lad,' said the woman with the raucous voice, ‘havin' to deal wi' the murderin' swine in that place. They should send some o' these young thugs here tae Ireland. They'd soon change their tune.'

‘They wid be too feart to go,' the man replied. ‘They've nae guts for that sort of thing.'

At this point the youth in the middle of the trio on the fence was reflecting on the possibility of asking the people in the queue for help. He considered that he was safe for the moment but when the bus came he would be forced to enter and from then on he would be trapped with his escorts. But he didn't know how to ask for help. He suspected they wouldn't listen to him, judging by their comments. Even if the bizzies were to pass by at this moment, what could he say. Unless he got the boot or the knife they would only laugh.

Then someone shouted, ‘Here's the bus,' and the queue cheered. The blood drained from the youth's face.

‘Mind yous two,' said a warning voice as the bus moved up to the stop, ‘the end of the queue.'

‘That lad in the middle can get to the front. He was wan o' the first here,' a kindly voice spoke. The well-dressed woman was the first to climb aboard, saying, ‘Thank goodness.'

‘That's OK,' said the youth with the bandeau, ‘we're all gettin' on together,' as both he and his mate moved in front of the other youth to prevent any attempt on his part to break into the queue.

‘Help me mister!' he shouted, now desperate. ‘These guys will not let me on.' But even as he said this he knew it sounded feeble.

The man glanced over but only momentarily. He had waited too long for the bus to be interested. ‘Away and fight like ma son,' was his response. In a hopeless attempt the youth began punching and kicking at his guards when everyone was on. The faces of those who were seated peered out at the commotion. The driver started up the engine in an effort to get away quickly. One of the youths shouted to his mate as he tried to ward off the blows. ‘Quick, get on. We're no' hingin aboot here all night.' He had already received a painful kick which took the breath from him. The one with the bandeau had a split second to make up his mind, but he was reluctant to let his victim go without some kind of vengeance for his mate in hospital. Whilst dodging wild punches from the enemy he managed to get his hand into his pocket. It fastened on a knife. In a flash he had it out and open. He stuck it straight into the stomach of the youth. His companion who had not noticed this action pulled him on to the platform of the bus just as it was moving away.

‘Get aff,' shouted the driver, angry but unable to do anything about it. The other youth, bleeding, staggered against the fence, immersed in a sea of pain. The last words he heard when the bus moved away were, ‘Ah wis jist waitin' on wan number –' Then he heard no more. Someone peering out of the back
window said, ‘There's a boy hingin ower the fence. Looks as if he's hurt bad.'

‘Och they canny fight for nuts nooadays. They should be in Belfast wi' ma son.'

‘True enough.' The boy was dismissed from their thoughts. They were glad to be out of the cold and on their way.

M
rs Sharp knocked timidly on the door marked ‘Head-mistress.'

‘Come in,' a cool voice commanded.

She shuffled in, slightly hunched, clutching a black plastic shopping bag and stood waiting for the headmistress to raise her eyes from the notebook she was engrossed in.

‘Do sit down,' said the headmistress when Mrs Sharp coughed apologetically.

Mrs Sharp collapsed into a chair and placed her bag between her feet. The headmistress relinquished the notebook with a sigh and began.

‘I'm sorry to bring you here, but recently George has become quite uncontrollable in class. Something will have to be done.'

Mrs Sharp shifted about in the chair and assumed a placating smile.

‘Oh dear – I thought he was doing fine. I didn't know –'

‘It's been six months since I spoke to you,' interrupted the head-mistress, ‘and I'm sorry to say he has not improved one bit. In fact he's getting steadily worse.'

Mrs Sharp met the impact of the gold-framed spectacles nervously as she said, ‘It's not as if he gets away with anything at home. His Da and me are always on at him; but he pays no attention.'

The headmistress's mouth tightened. ‘He will just have to pay attention.'

‘What's he done this time?' Mrs Sharp asked with a surly edge to her voice.

‘He runs in and out of class when the teacher's back is turned and distracts the other children.'

Mrs Sharp eased out her breath. ‘Is that all?'

The headmistress was incredulous. ‘Is that all? With twenty-five pupils in a class, one disruptive element can ruin everything. It's difficult enough to push things into their heads as it is –' She broke off.

‘Seems to me they're easily distracted,' said Mrs Sharp.

‘Well children are, you know.' The headmistress allowed a frosty smile to crease her lips.

‘Maybe he's not the only one who runs about,' observed Mrs Sharp mildly.

‘Mrs Sharp, I assure you George is the main troublemaker, otherwise I would not have sent for you.'

The light from the headmistress's spectacles was as blinding as a torch.

Mrs Sharp shrank back. ‘I'm not meaning to be cheeky, but George isn't a bad boy. I can hardly credit he's the worst in the class.'

The headmistress conceded. ‘No, I wouldn't say he's the worst. There are some pupils I've washed my hands of. As yet there's still hope for George. That's why I sent for you. If he puts his mind to it he can work quite well, but let's face it, if he's going to continue the way he's doing, he'll end up in a harsher place than this school.'

Mrs Sharp beamed as if she was hearing fulsome praise. ‘You mean he's clever?'

‘I wouldn't say he's clever,' said the headmistress cautiously, ‘but he's got potential. But really,' she snapped, ‘it's more his behaviour than his potential that worries us.'

Mrs Sharp tugged her wispy hair dreamily. ‘I always knew George had it in him. He was such a bright baby. Do you know he opened his eyes and stared straight at me when he was a day old. Sharp by name, and sharp by nature – that's what his Da always said.'

‘That may be,' said the headmistress, taking off her spectacles and rubbing her eyes, ‘but sharp is not what I'm looking for.'

Then, aware of Mrs Sharp's intent inspection of her naked face, she quickly replaced them, adding, ‘Another thing. He never does his homework.'

‘I never knew he got any,' said Mrs Sharp, surprised. ‘Mind you we've often asked him, “Don't you get any homework?” and straight -away he answers, “We don't get any” –'

The headmistress broke in. ‘He's an incorrigible liar.'

‘Liar?' Mrs Sharp clutched the collar of her bottle-green coat.

‘Last week he was late for school. He said it was because you made him stay and tidy his room.'

Mrs Sharp's eyes flickered. ‘What day was that?'

‘Last Tuesday.' The headmistress leaned over her desk. ‘Did you?'

‘I don't know what made him say that,' said Mrs Sharp in wonderment.

‘Because he's an incorrigible liar.'

Mrs Sharp strove to be reasonable. ‘Most kids tell lies now and again to get out of a spot of bother.'

‘George tells more lies than most – mind you,' the headmistress's lips twisted with humour, ‘we were all amused at the idea of George tidying, considering he's the untidiest boy in the class.'

Mrs Sharp reared up. ‘Oh, is he? Well let me tell you he's tidy when he leaves the house. I make him wash his face and comb his hair every day. How the devil should I know what he gets up to when he leaves?'

‘Keep calm, Mrs Sharp. I'm sure you do your best under the circumstances.'

‘What circumstances?'

‘Don't you work?' the headmistress asked pleasantly.

Mrs Sharp sagged. She had a presentiment of doom. Her husband had never liked her working. ‘A woman's place is in the home,' he always said when any crisis arose – despite the fact that her income was a necessity.

‘Yes,' she said.

‘Of course,' said the headmistress, her spectacles directed towards the top of Mrs Sharp's head, ‘I understand that many mothers work nowadays, but unfortunately they are producing a generation of latch-key children running wild. Far be it for me to judge the parents' circumstances, but I think a child's welfare comes first.' She smiled toothily. ‘Perhaps I'm old-fashioned, but –'

‘I suppose you're going to tell me a woman's place is in the home?' asked Mrs Sharp, through tight lips.

‘If she has children, I would say so.'

Mrs Sharp threw caution to the wind. ‘If I didn't work George wouldn't have any uniform to go to school with –'

She broke off at the entrance of an agitated tangle-haired young woman.

‘I'm sorry Miss McHare,' said the young woman, ‘I didn't know you were with someone –'

‘That's all right,' said the headmistress. ‘What is it?'

‘It's George Sharp again.'

‘Dear, dear!' The headmistress braced herself while Mrs Sharp slumped.

‘He was fighting, in the playground. Ken Wilson has a whopper of an eye. Sharp is outside. I was going to send him in, but if you're engaged –'

The headmistress addressed Mrs Sharp. ‘You see what I mean. It just had to be George again.'

She turned to the young teacher. ‘This is George's mother.'

‘Good morning,' said the young teacher, without enthusiasm.

‘How do you know George started it?' asked Mrs Sharp, thrusting her pale face upwards. The headmistress stiffened. She stood up and towered above Mrs Sharp like a female Gulliver. Mrs Sharp pointed her chin at a right angle in an effort to focus properly.

The headmistress ordered, ‘Bring the boy in.'

George Sharp shuffled in, tall and gangling, in contrast to his
hunched mother, who gave him a weak smile when he looked at her blankly.

‘Now,' said the headmistress, ‘I hear you've been fighting.'

George nodded.

‘You know fighting is forbidden within these grounds.'

‘Ken Wilson was fighting as well,' he replied hoarsely, squinting through strands of dank hair.

‘Ken Wilson is a delicate boy who does not fight.'

‘He kicked me,' George mumbled, his eyes swivelling down to his sandshoes.

The headmistress explained to no one in particular, ‘Of course George is not above telling lies.'

Mrs Sharp rose from her chair like a startled bird. ‘Listen son, did that boy kick you?'

‘Yes Ma,' George said eagerly.

‘Where?'

He pointed vaguely to his leg.

‘Pull up your trouser.'

George did so.

‘Look,' said Mrs Sharp triumphantly, ‘that's a black and blue mark.'

‘Looks more like dirt,' tittered the young teacher.