Agnes Owens

by Agnes Owens

  Why read about this man? Is Gentlemen a dod of social reality we should dutifully rub our noses on because so many folk are sunk down in it? Yes, if you like reading for that reason, but I read it first because I found it funny. Indeed, I thought the first two chapters too funny by half, the characters a mere grotesque bunch of comic proles. Many popular tales about the poorer classes exploit that sort of condescension in the reader. Had the other chapters been equally facetious, Gentlemen would have been as enjoyable in small doses, and as disappointing on the whole, as any book by O. Henry or Damon Runyon. But I think Agnes Owens writes better than those good Americans. As her hero’s stories accumulate they become a real novel, a moving picture of a hard, surprising world which is forcing a young man to understand both it and himself. The fun is not in the casual violence of oaths, black eyes and falling down drunk. The narrator takes these for granted but does not dwell on them, for he usually wants to avoid them. The fun is in the comedy of mainly decent people misunderstanding themselves and each other. This is the social essence of all comedy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream to What Ho, Jeeves! The council flat, the Paxton Arms, the building site and the wino squat are not grotesque anarchies but societies maintained, like all societies, by affection and by codes. The affection is usually invisible, because the codes regard it as a dangerous weakness. The codes promote much misunderstanding because nobody knows all of them. The mother sells a box of tools her son has kept under her bed for years. She cannot grasp that, like crown jewels in the Tower of London, they are not for use but for status:

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, scarcely able to credit my ears. ‘You didny gie him ma set o’ tools that took me two years tae pay up when I was an apprentice brickie?’

  ‘Well, ye never had them oot the box far as I can remember.’

  ‘Ye don’t understand,’ I said slowly, my head beginning to ache. ‘Ye never use your own tools if ye can help it. Ye always nick someone else’s. If ye took your own tools they wid just get nicked.’

  She was unperturbed. ‘How should I know that?’

  By the last chapter our man has been unemployed for several months, his only close friend has died of drink and exposure, and he has been arrested as accessory to an unusually futile crime. Heavy drinking has so washed out his chances of a sex-life that he has never considered one, and this is lucky. In his community sex leads to children and marriage, and who would gladly bring children into such a community? It is collapsing. The only choice is, collapse with it or clear out. If he had children his decent instincts would lead him to collapse with it. So his worst habit allows him a hopeful ending.

  I began the last paragraph but two with an extended rhetorical question which I had better answer. Gentlemen of the West could only be written by someone who knew and liked building-workers and, without approving the harsh parts of their lives, found release, not confinement, in imagining them. It had to be written by a mother.

  LEAN TALES

  Bus Queue

  The boy was out of breath. He had been running hard. He reached the bus stop with a sinking heart. There was only a solitary woman waiting – the bus must have gone.

  ‘Is the bus away missus?’ he gasped out.

  The woman regarded him coldly. ‘I really couldn’t say,’ then drew the collar of her well-cut coat up round her face to protect herself against the cold wind blowing through the broken panes of the bus shelter. The boy rested against the wire fence of the adjacent garden taking in long gulps of air to ease the harshness in his lungs. Anxiously he glanced around when two middle-aged females approached and stood within the shelter.

  ‘My it’s awfy cauld the night,’ said one. The well-dressed woman nodded slightly, then turned her head away.

  ‘Ah hope that bus comes soon,’ said the other woman to her companion, who replied, ‘The time you have to wait would sicken ye if you’ve jist missed one.’

  ‘I wonder something is not done about it,’ said the well-dressed woman sharply, turning back to them.

  ‘Folks hiv been complainin’ for years,’ was the cheerful reply, ‘but naebody cares. Sometimes they don’t come this way at all, but go straight through by the main road. It’s always the same for folk like us. If it was wan o’ these high-class districts like Milngavie or Bearsden they wid soon smarten their ideas.’

  At this point a shivering middle-aged man joined them. He stamped about impatiently with hands in pockets. ‘Bus no’ due yet Maggie?’ he asked one of the women.

  ‘Probably overdue.’

  Her friend chipped in, ‘These buses would ruin your life. We very near missed the snowball in the bingo last week through the bloody bus no’ comin’.’ The man nodded with sympathy.

  ‘Gaun to the bingo yersel’ Wullie?’

  ‘Naw. Ah’m away to meet ma son. He’s comin’ hame on leave and is due in at the Central Station. Ah hope this bus comes on time or Ah might miss him.’

  ‘Oh aye – young Spud’s in the army ower in Belfast. It must be terrible there.’

  ‘Better that than bein’ on the dole.’

  ‘Still Ah widny like bein’ in Belfast wi’ all that bombin’ and murder.’

  ‘Oor Spud’s got guts,’ said the man proudly.

  The boy leaning on the fence began to sway back and forth as if he was in some private agony.

  The well-dressed woman said loudly, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if that fence collapses.’

  The other three looked over at the boy. The man said, ‘Here son, you’ll loosen that fence if you don’t stop yer swingin’.’

  The boy looked back in surprise at being addressed. He gradually stopped swaying, but after a short time he began to kick the fence with the backs of his heels as if he was obliged to keep moving in some way.

  ‘You wid think the young wans nooadays all had St Vitus dance,’ remarked the man.

  The well-dressed woman muttered, ‘Hooligans.’

  It was now becoming dark and two or three more people emerged from the shadows to join the queue. The general question was asked if the bus was away, and answered with various pessimistic speculations.

  ‘Hi son,’ someone called, ‘you’d better join the queue.’ The boy shook his head in the negative, and a moody silence enveloped the gathering. Finally it was broken by a raucous female voice saying, ‘Did you hear aboot Bella’s man? Wan night he nivver came hame. When he got in at eight in the morning she asked him where hud he been. Waitin’ for a bus, said he.’

  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.

  Getting Sent For

  Mrs 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.�
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  ‘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.’