Agnes Owens

by Agnes Owens

  Suddenly Babs said, ‘Are you still no’ goin’ tae the dance?’

  ‘I’ve already told you I’m no’,’ said Ivy sharply.

  ‘Then I don’t think I’ll go either,’ said Babs. ‘I hate goin’ in the door masel’.’

  ‘Don’t then,’ said Ivy. She felt like screaming.

  Later, when she was coming out of the toilet, Betty told her in a casual way that she’d heard Shankland was coming in the afternoon. Ivy brightened up at that. She decided that there was no need to see Sproul. Shankland would allay her fears. So what if Sproul’s wife was managing the lounge? She could come to terms with that as long as they didn’t cut her hours.

  When she got home at lunch-time she looked in at Dennett’s room to see if he was all right. Heaven knows what time he’d come home last night, and in what condition. When she’d left this morning she had been so preoccupied by the affairs of the hotel that she’d forgotten all about him. She found him lying on his back, snoring his head off, his long legs sticking out from under the blankets. ‘Dennett,’ she called, but he continued to snore. When she called again, ‘Do ye want something to eat?’ he grunted, ‘Naw,’ and turned on his side. She studied him for a while, almost envying his complete disregard for anyone but himself. He had no talent, no ambition and no pride, yet he looked so happy lying there with that slight smile on his lips.

  The afternoon wore on and still there was no sign of Shankland. Sproul passed her once or twice as she was polishing the woodwork in the corridor, and ducked his head in an embarrassed way which made her wonder. But when Jim handed over her pay-packet at half-past four, she found out why. Inside was two weeks’ money and a letter saying that due to increased overheads and poor trade, the management regretted that they no longer required her services. However, as soon as trade picked up they would send for her again.

  Ivy scanned the letter twice to make sure she had read correctly. Then chalk-faced, she went off in search of Sproul. She found him behind the lounge bar, standing close to his wife. They were studying a ledger and they looked conspiratorial. Ivy thrust the letter under Sproul’s nose and said, ‘You cannae do this to me.’

  Sproul and his wife looked up at her with pained expressions. Sproul said, ‘I’m very sorry about this, but . . .’

  ‘Never mind bein’ sorry,’ Ivy interrupted. ‘I’m goin’ to see Shank-land. When will he be in?’

  Sproul’s wife shoved her face forward. ‘He won’t be in,’ she said spitefully. ‘He’s already spoken to us about everything. Isn’t that right, Walter?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sproul said heavily.

  Ivy’s head swam. She said faintly, ‘He cannae know about this. Shankland would never sack me.’

  ‘It was his instructions,’ said Sproul.

  ‘You’re lyin’,’ said Ivy. ‘Give me his address and I’ll get in touch wi’ him masel’.’

  Sproul and his wife exchanged weary glances.

  ‘Look Ivy,’ said Sproul, ‘if you want to see him, try the church hall round about ten o’clock. He and his wife have been invited to the dance as special guests, but I can assure you that letter was written on his instructions.’

  ‘I still don’t believe you,’ said Ivy, turning away to hide the tears in her eyes. A minute later she put on her coat and walked out of the hotel without saying a word to anyone.

  Prompt at ten, Ivy was inside the church hall, still wearing her blue woollen dress and fortified by two glasses of port from the bottle which had been in her sideboard since the New Year. She was dismayed to see hardly anyone but the minister and some church elders waiting by the door. On a platform in a corner near the entrance sat the band wearing maroon shirts and dark suits, the same band that played every year, its members middle-aged and bespectacled. The minister’s wife and her cronies stood at the far end of the hall beside a table spread with food. Hesitantly, Ivy went over to the table and, for want of anything better to do, helped herself to a sandwich and a glass of punch from the big fruit bowl in the centre.

  ‘How nice to see you, Ivy,’ said the minister’s wife, smiling horsily.

  ‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ said Ivy. She took a gulp of the punch and shuddered.

  ‘Strong, isn’t it?’ said the minister’s wife. ‘There’s a bottle of brandy in it. I made it myself.’

  ‘It’s very good,’ said Ivy, forcing a smile. She added brightly, ‘There’s no’ many turned up though.’

  ‘They’ll be fortifyin’ themselves in the hotel,’ said Mrs Braithwaite, who wore pink gingham and for once had no hairnet on.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ said Ivy. She was beginning to feel dizzy from drinking the strong punch on top of the port. She went over to the bench against the wall and sat there sipping from her glass until she calmed down a bit. A crowd of men and women thrust through the door like cattle from a stockade and the band began to play a slow foxtrot. The minister and his wife were the first on the floor, dancing awkwardly, their faces strained. Ivy decided to have just one more glass of punch. It would while away the time until Shankland arrived, although by now her head was so foggy that quite honestly she didn’t really care whether he came or not. When she turned round from the table she saw Babs sailing towards her like a gigantic balloon in her wide orange dress.

  ‘I thought you werenae comin’,’ said Babs indignantly, helping herself to a sausage roll. With crumbs falling from her mouth, she added, ‘Is it true ye’ve got the sack?’

  ‘Is that what you heard?’ said Ivy, taking a gulp of punch.

  ‘Well, is it true?’ Babs persisted.

  ‘Nothing that’s ever said in this place is true.’ Ivy pointed to the bowl of punch. ‘Try some of that. It’s strong stuff. There’s a whole bottle of brandy in it.’ She heard herself laugh foolishly.

  ‘It seems tae be,’ said Babs, staring hard at Ivy. Then she walked off to talk to the minister’s wife, leaving Ivy on her own.

  Geordie Forsyth came up from behind and asked her for a dance. She was vaguely surprised to see him so smart in a grey pin-striped suit. ‘Right,’ she said, grateful for the rescue. As they waltzed round the hall she tripped over his feet, feeling quite giddy.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Geordie. He pulled her close, his hand pressing her waist. If it hadn’t been for the half-bottle in Geordie’s pocket jamming hard into her hip, she would happily have floated around the hall for the rest of the night. When the dance ended Geordie asked her if she’d like to come outside for a wee nip of whisky.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ she began. And then she saw Shankland standing in the doorway. With him was a small, plump, matronly woman in a black lace dress. Shankland was shaking hands with the minister, his heavy-jowled face lit by a smile. He was a big man with a thick waist. He had never been handsome, exactly, but he attracted attention wherever he went.

  Without thinking, Ivy rushed forward. ‘Mr Shankland,’ she said, tugging at his sleeve, ‘can I have a word with you? It’s very important.’

  Shankland turned round, frowning. ‘Later, Ivy. Can’t you see my wife and I are talking to the minister?’ His wife, who as far as Ivy could see hadn’t been talking at all, looked her up and down with suspicion.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ivy, ‘but Sproul’s sacked me from the hotel and I’ve been waitin’ for you to come in.’ The words came out slurred. She broke off, sick at heart at Shankland’s expression.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry it had to happen,’ he said guardedly. ‘But you see, it was either that or closing down the hotel altogether. However, if the place does better in the summer we’ll send for you again, don’t worry on that score.’ And with that he turned back to the minister, who had been listening anxiously.

  Suddenly Ivy’s rage erupted. ‘You mean to say,’ she said, her voice rising, ‘that you were the one who sacked me, after all these years? All these years I’ve been loyal and kept my mouth shut?’

  Shankland scarcely looked at her. ‘Go away, Ivy,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re drunk.’

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nbsp; ‘Yes, do go and sit down, Ivy,’ the minister pleaded. ‘You’re not your usual self. Perhaps it’s the punch. I told my wife not to put in so much brandy.’

  ‘What do you mean – “kept your mouth shut”?’ asked Shankland’s wife, her face puckering.

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Shankland said. ‘She’s just upset and a bit drunk. That’s all there is to it.’ He led his wife towards the table, bending over her slightly, while the minister followed close behind.

  Ivy stood for a moment, dazed, her mind fuddled by the slow, monotonous rhythm of the band. She noticed Geordie Forsyth dancing with Babs and looking genteel. A taste of bile was in her mouth and her head was in a turmoil. She saw Shankland turn his back on her and offer his wife a sandwich from a plate. Then all at once her mind was made up. She rushed across to the table.

  ‘That’s no’ all there is to it!’ she said in a voice loud and clear. ‘What about Dennett, my son and yours, whom I’ve kept for seventeen years without a penny off ye? I took the blame on myself, aye, they say it’s always the woman to blame, don’t they? But since you think so little of me I might as well admit in front of everybody here that you’re Dennett’s father. I think ye owe me something for that.’

  ‘You’re crazy!’ said Shankland, with a furtive look at his wife. Her face had turned white as a sheet. All around the table a hush had fallen, and people were staring. He grabbed his wife’s elbow. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered.

  The small woman stood her ground, trembling. ‘Leave me alone,’ she said.

  Shankland tugged at her urgently. ‘Come on.’

  And then his wife’s arm jerked up and her eyes went blank and she threw the glass of punch straight into Shankland’s face.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the minister, his hands fluttering in the air, and someone laughed. There were a few more titters. Then Shankland turned and marched towards the door, his wife following a yard or two behind.

  Ivy clutched at the table for support.

  ‘Go ower and sit down,’ Mrs Braithwaite said in a surprisingly kind voice. ‘I’ll see if I can get a cup of tea from somewhere.’ She glared at the minister’s wife. ‘That punch bowl’s been a bloody curse!’

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Ivy, smiling wanly.

  ‘I’m awful sorry,’ said the minister’s wife with an apologetic look at Ivy. ‘I shouldn’t have put so much brandy in.’

  ‘Don’t worry yoursel’, I quite enjoyed it.’

  Ivy walked over to the bench by the wall and sat down. Geordie Forsyth and Babs came off the dance floor, red-faced and dripping with sweat.

  ‘Have you been sittin’ here a’ night?’ Babs sounded concerned.

  ‘No’ really,’ said Ivy.

  ‘I thought I saw Shankland come in.’

  ‘So he did,’ said Ivy. ‘He’s away now.’

  ‘Did he say anythin’? I mean, about you gettin’ the sack?’

  ‘No’ as much as I said to him.’

  Geordie took the half-bottle from his pocket. ‘Do any of yous ladies want a wee nip?’

  ‘No’ straight frae the bottle,’ said Babs, aghast.

  ‘I’ll take one,’ said Ivy, putting the bottle to her mouth.

  ‘Will ye look at her!’ Babs said. ‘To think she’s aye sae proud and ladylike.’

  ‘No’ any more,’ said Ivy. The rough whisky trickled down her throat. She was about to tilt the bottle again when a sudden thought stopped her. Dennett. It wasn’t as if she only had herself to consider, after all. Likely he’d be in on his own, watching the television, since he never had any money left on a Saturday to go anywhere. Aye, Dennett. Somebody had to set him an example, didn’t they, and she’d been doing it for years so she wasn’t about to stop now. She handed the bottle back to Geordie and struggled to her feet. ‘I think I’ll go home now.’

  ‘Away, it’s still early,’ said Geordie, looking at his watch.

  ‘I must get home,’ Ivy said firmly. ‘I’ve left Dennett in himsel’ and he’s no’ to be trusted.’

  ‘There goes an awfy determined woman,’ said Geordie, as he and Babs watched her leave.

  ‘The trouble wi’ Ivy,’ said Babs, ‘is that she’s aye been too big for her boots, and now she’s been sacked she cannae take it.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘If you ask me, it serves her right.’

  A Bad Influence

  ‘I don’t like you going up to Donald’s room,’ my mother would say if we were visiting Granny’s. ‘He’s a bad influence and I want you to stay away from him.’

  The minute I got there I was upstairs like a shot. Uncle Donald, although only four years older than myself, was the leader of a bunch of guys who came along to play cards and smoke hash. Once they gave me a joint to try and I nearly passed out. The next time I took one I was fine. I had the feeling I was being tested for future membership.

  Then there was this dame called Marian who sometimes accompanied them. I noticed she always sat right next to Donald. I’m sure he couldn’t have fancied her for she wasn’t the least bit attractive. Once she kissed me in front of everybody. I think this was to make Donald jealous but all he said was, ‘Leave the kid alone. He’s too young for you,’ and I hated her for that.

  Donald was extra good on the guitar. Apart from playing the stuff everybody played he made up tunes of his own. They were a bit weird, right enough, like something you hear on Radio 2, but we always acted as though we enjoyed it, except Marian who said she preferred country and western. I expect she thought she was being clever but Donald just shrugged as if he didn’t care.

  ‘I hope you’re not smoking dope up in that room,’ said my mother when I was going back along the road one day.

  ‘Of course not. Only the odd fag or two.’

  ‘For if I ever catch you –’

  I walked on ahead so that I couldn’t hear her. I wasn’t worried though. It would be the usual empty threat.

  One evening I went up to the room and no one was there. I dashed down into the living room.

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  Granny looked up at me pitifully and shook her head. My mother said she didn’t know about everybody but she’d just been told that Donald had run off because he owed the drug-dealer. My heart sank. The dealer was a guy called Fat Harry, who did his business on the street corner without caring who saw. He knew nobody would have the guts to report him and even if they did the cops would turn a blind eye.

  ‘He’s in a lot of trouble,’ I said.

  ‘That’s obvious,’ said my mother.

  ‘His pals owe money as well,’ spoke Granny. ‘I don’t know why he’s to take the blame.’

  ‘Because he’s the leader.’

  ‘Then leader must be another name for mug,’ declared my mother.

  After that, life was so lonely and boring I wanted to cry but I didn’t dare in case my mother noticed and sent me to the dentist. She had this theory that toothache was the only thing that made me cry and I’d never given her much cause to think otherwise. I became so desperate for company I took up with a guy in my class called Morton McEwan, another lonely type. Not that I’d always been a loner. It was just a stage I was going through. Anyway, Morton had good reason for being lonely. He wore thick spectacles which gave him an owlish appearance. He also had a bad case of acne. I didn’t like being seen with him though I didn’t mind going round to his house. He always had plenty of fags and dirty magazines.

  I’d been going with Morton for a few days when my mother informed me that Donald was back.

  ‘Back?’ I said, wondering whether to be glad or not. I’d actually given up thinking about him.

  ‘Seems he was hiding out in an old shed and his arm’s broken. I reckon it was that Fat Harry done it.’

  I immediately felt a strong surge of sympathy for Donald. I thought I’d go round and see him. Then my mother, who must have read my thoughts, said, ‘In case you’re thinking of going round, Granny says he doesn’t want to see anybody.’

  My sympathy vanis
hed. ‘I wasn’t even considering it,’ I said.

  ‘Ever think of joining a gang?’ I asked Morton as we were leafing through some magazines.

  ‘Not really,’ he said.

  ‘I think we should. We can’t go on like this for ever.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like drifting along without any purpose. Before you know it we’ll be drawing our old-age pension.’

  He took off his specs and wiped them on his sleeve.

  ‘My mother wouldn’t like it,’ he said.

  ‘Your mother wouldn’t need to know.’

  He put his specs on again, stared into the distance and finally said, ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

  On an impulse I jumped up and said, ‘Well, you think about it, but I’m not going to hang around here all day while you do.’

  I banged the door behind me feeling an unjustifiable anger for him. Surely I could do better than that.

  Outside, the street was empty, apart from an old guy hobbling along with the aid of a stick, and a woman nagging at a kid to hurry up. All the shops were closed except a pub on the corner which I was too young for, even if I had the money to drink. How are folk like me supposed to make anything of ourselves in a place like this, I thought balefully. Of course, the plain fact was that folk like me were supposed to stay in and watch the telly, if they’re lucky enough to have one.

  ‘Back already?’ said my mother, who was getting dressed for the bingo.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be back? There’s nothing for young folk to do here. No wonder they take dope.’

  She gave me a sharp look. ‘Are you referring to yourself, by any chance?’

  ‘No. Just to young folk in general,’ I said.

  ‘If it’s something to do you’re looking for, there’s a pile of dishes in the sink,’ she said.

  ‘Forget it,’ I said, stamping off to my room. Talking to my mother was like banging my head off a brick wall, painful and without purpose. As soon as she’d gone I washed my face and went round to Granny’s.