by Agnes Owens
Twelve years ago I began writing fiction, prompted by the fact that I had joined a writing class in Alexandria. Glasgow University sent tutors, who were enthusiastic about what I wrote. When they stopped attending the class I simply carried on writing and periodically some of them got in touch as if to prod me on with that lonely business. Sometimes it was the last thing I wanted to do, especially after cleaning somebody’s house, which was now the only job I could get. The years of unemployment had set in.
Then my novel Gentlemen of the West was published and some short stories in a book, shared with two other authors, called Lean Tales. This was great but didn’t pay the rent, so I continued to clean houses and, with the assistance of a grant from the Scottish Arts Council, wrote another short novel called Like Birds in the Wilderness. It wasn’t a success though some people liked it.
Eight years later, Bloomsbury published A Working Mother and now I have completed this collection of stories. Since the depression of the past decade took the security of steady work away from my present husband Patrick, from myself and from countless others, I am thankful to be still in the business of writing. At least I can tell my grandchildren (if they are interested) that not only did I publish a few books in my time but I once was ‘irresponsible’ enough to set off with my first husband and child into the unknown wilds of the Scottish Highlands where we wandered about with scarcely a penny in our pockets.
THE DARK SIDE
Hannah Sweeny
Hannah Sweeny was three years old with red hair and freckles. She seldom spoke except to say in a menacing tone, ‘Ah’ll throw you in a bing o’ watter.’ Despite this we allowed her to play skipping ropes with us. ‘Ca’ the rope’ it was called, which meant she took one end of the rope with the other tied to a railing, then she twirled it in the air and we all skipped through. If we touched it we were out. Hannah would have ‘ca’d it’ all day if we hadn’t been called in for our tea, though sometimes she had to watch her two-year-old brother, hurling him up and down the pavement in a push-chair to stop him screaming.
‘Why don’t you give her a shot of the skipping?’ said my mother, though it was none of her business.
‘She can’t skip. She’s too small.’
‘Then don’t make the rope so high. It’s not fair she doesn’t get a shot.’
‘She doesn’t want a shot,’ I said sulkily. We kids were seven years old. She was only three and lucky we allowed her to play with us. Then a rumour went around that she was a Catholic: her mother had been seen entering the chapel. We asked Hannah if this was true but as usual she remained tight-lipped.
‘She must be if she goes to the chapel,’ said one of my playmates who had already told me the Sweenys had no furniture in their house except a table.
‘That proves nothing,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to take turns on Sunday to see if the rest of the family go to chapel, then we’ll know for a fact if Hannah is one.’
To us being a Catholic was as bad as being a vampire so we considered it our duty to find this out by taking turns to rise early on Sunday mornings. I volunteered to be the first and my mother was astounded to see me coming out of the toilet at seven o’clock.
‘What in the name of God are you doing up at this time?’
‘I was needing to go to the toilet, that’s why.’
‘That’s because you drink cocoa last thing at night.’
‘It’s not cocoa, I’m drinking too much water.’
‘Then you’ll have to see a doctor,’ she said.
Happily in our house things kept distracting my mother and she forgot about the doctor. And I saw none of the Sweenys going to chapel that morning. By the time it was somebody else’s turn to watch the Sweeny’s Hannah had died.
I couldn’t believe it. I suppose we were too shocked to cry. Her death was less upsetting than the suddenness of it. One day she was ‘ca’ing’ the rope, next day she was dead. ‘We shouldn’t have spied on them to see if they were Catholics,’ someone said, ‘Especially when there was no proof.’
‘What did she die of ?’ I asked my mother.
‘Could have been she swallowed an orange pip.’
I didn’t believe her. We had all swallowed orange pips at one time or another.
I went to the funeral because I didn’t want left out of things. A priest was there so she had been a Catholic after all. Hannah’s death had a profound effect for we never got over her absence, which hung above us like a black cloud whenever we played skipping ropes. The rope kept winding round our ankles. We stopped that game, changed to peever or catch-the-ball, but it wasn’t the same. Ca’ing the rope had been more exciting for you had to be quick on your feet to play it. On dark nights I stared out of the window, hoping to see Hannah’s ghost ca’ing the rope, yet I thought I was going crazy when I spied a small figure ca’ing a rope in the moonlight.
‘Come quick,’ I shouted, ‘See Hannah’s ghost come back to haunt us!’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ shouted my mother, ‘It’s her young brother. He’s only got taller.’
She was right – taller and thin as a matchstick in a red jumper. By the time the clear nights arrived we were all out again skipping like mad.
Then Hannah’s mother asked us if we’d like to take a bunch of flowers up to her grave. We had a guilty feeling about not letting her skip when she was alive so I said we would, and grudgingly we all traipsed up to the cemetery with a bunch of dandelions which I thought looked out of place on the tiny flat stone. For some reason I began to laugh at the sight of it and could not stop. Hannah’s young brother ran over and kicked me on the leg.
‘Don’t laugh at Hannah,’ he said and ran out of the cemetery before I could kick him back. After that my mother kept me indoors. She said there had been complaints about me from the Sweenys. ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘They’re not a nice lot and I do believe they are Catholics.’
Eventually we moved away from the district and I made a new set of friends who never played at skipping ropes or anything else. We were too busy talking about boys or a male teacher who we fancied, or else swatting for exams. If I saw anyone from the old days I’d run across the road or pretend to be engrossed in a shop window. Time passed and I left school without great qualifications. The truth was I wanted to be a film star and had no interest in ordinary jobs. Then an inexplicable fear came over me that stopped me leaving the house. The doctor said it wasn’t unusual for girls of my age and would pass. It did and I managed to get a job as a filing clerk in an office. My mother was very proud of me, telling everyone how clever I was. The first day I was heading to this office, swinging my bag carelessly as if I hadn’t a worry in the world, when I bumped into Hannah’s young brother. I recognised the red hair and freckles. He’d turned out rather good-looking.
‘Hallo,’ I said, ‘remember me?’
He looked at me blankly then his eyes narrowed.
‘You’re the one who laughed at my sister,’ he said, then spat in my face. I turned round and headed for home. I told my mother I couldn’t face work, not yet anyway, maybe another day.
The Writing Group
Danielle joined a writing group and was dismayed to find only five other members, very well dressed and seated at old school desks – four women and one stout gent she at once privately nicknamed Mr Portly. She knew her duffle coat, bought last winter for her fourteenth birthday, was definitely shabby. She thought of taking it off but decided her terrylene jumper and scuffed denims were in a worse condition, and wished she’d taken more trouble with her clothes before coming.
‘Take off your coat dear,’ said a thin, dark-haired woman who had introduced herself as Madge. ‘It gets very hot in here.’
She looked at the others for confirmation and all nodded except an elderly woman called Daisy who said, in a refined accent and aggrieved tone, ‘I always find it cold in here. May I be introduced to the new member?’
Danielle was glad someone else was interested in her, but wished the social worker had not to
ld her to come, saying a writing group would build up her confidence. She began to cough, a sure sign of nerves.
‘Danielle is joining us because she has been recommended by the St John’s Ambulance Club,’ said Madge, ‘I hope the class will benefit her as I am sure it has benefited so many.’
She stifled what seemed a chuckle, making Danielle wonder what she really meant.
‘What’s more to the point,’ said Mr Portly, ‘did anyone remember to bring the wine?’
‘Don’t panic,’ said another woman, ‘I’ve brought it and plastic cups.’
‘Oh, Lordy, I’m glad you remembered the cups,’ said Mr Portly. With a screw attachment on his penknife he wrestled with the bottle until the cork came out with a pop. Filling the cups he said, ‘But there’s no cup for Danielle.’
The others looked at her with something like disapproval until she said it was alright, she didn’t drink.
‘That’s beside the point,’ said Mr Portly irritably. ‘We didn’t used to drink either.’
This raised a general laugh. They all lifted their glasses to Danielle who began to think them friendly enough, if a bit mad. Someone asked her if she had brought a sample of her work to read. She said, ‘No, I didn’t know I should. Nobody told me.’
‘That’s alright,’ said Madge. ‘Bring it next time. We want to see what you’re capable of, be it prose or poetry.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll be here next time,’ said Danielle. ‘I don’t think I’m capable of writing anything.’
‘Nonsense,’ said one of the women, ‘none of us is very capable. We learn as we go. Being capable is something you work at.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Mr Portly. He turned to Danielle and said, ‘We don’t expect miracles. Just keep quiet and listen to the rest of us.’
‘Oh, do shut up,’ said Madge. ‘If nobody objects I’ll read my poem, someone has to get us started. It’s in Gaelic. Does anybody mind? Will that be alright?’
‘I just love your Gaelic poems,’ said one of the other women, clapping her hands in delight. ‘They’re so atmospheric, don’t you think?’
‘Definitely,’ said Mr Portly. Madge’s voice rose and fell like a storm at sea. Danielle felt a headache coming on, wanted to leave and go to bed, but didn’t want to disappoint the social worker who had apparently taken some trouble to place her in this group.
‘What did you think of that?’ Mr Portly asked Danielle when Madge stopped reciting.
‘I really enjoyed it,’ she answered in a sincere voice, ‘But I didn’t know what the words meant.’
‘You’re not supposed to,’ said Madge. ‘My intonation should give the clue.’
‘I see,’ said Danielle. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘You have a lot to learn,’ said Madge, turning her head away, and Danielle felt like crying.
‘Right, young Miss,’ said one of the women, ‘Are you sure you brought nothing to read? It would be so much better for us if you had.’
‘I’ve just remembered I’ve got this,’ said Danielle. She took a crumpled paper from her pocket and proceeded to read a story about a baby abandoned on a doorstep, one she had copied from a women’s magazine found in her doctor’s waiting room. She read in a low, monotonous voice, very fast, to get the story over and done with. When she stopped there was a long silence until Madge asked if this sort of thing happened nowadays, when women had the right to have abortions on demand.
‘I believe you get the odd case,’ said Daisy, ‘But I don’t think . . .’
She broke off when Madge told her to be quiet, then Mr Portly said it didn’t matter if a story was true to life, what counted was ability to write.
‘Surely not,’ said one of the other women.
‘I obviously have no talent for writing,’ said Danielle and burst into tears. Mr Portly gave her a clean handkerchief to dry her face and blow her nose, while most of the others said they thought her story very good and she should definitely come back next week. Then Madge butted in, asking if she could read another of her poems to them before the lesson ended.
‘Oh, yes, do! We’re all simply dying to hear it!’ said Daisy on a note of bitter sarcasm, obviously still smarting from being told to be quiet.
‘I only wish I understood Gaelic,’ said Danielle.
‘This new poem of mine is in ordinary English,’ said Madge.
‘Even in English we probably won’t understand it,’ said Daisy, ‘We’ll just have to sit and listen.’
At that Madge stormed out of the room. Gradually others followed. At last only Mr Portly and Danielle remained.
‘Aren’t you leaving?’ she asked him.
‘It’s early yet,’ he said, moving over and sitting close by her side. ‘Did you really leave your baby on a doorstep?’
‘No, but I know somebody who did.’
He seemed to ponder this, then said, ‘Were you sent here from an institution? We get these people sometimes. They swell the numbers, and our class is supposed to have at least eight.’
‘My teacher sent me,’ she told him. ‘She said I had talent.’
‘I’m sure you do.’ He put his hand on her knee. She struck it off, stood up and said, ‘I’m going home.’
He too stood up, fumbling with the zip of his trousers, and saying, ‘Do you want to see what you’ve done to me?’
But before he could show her that Danielle was running out of the room and down the corridor outside with Mr Portly close behind. Before they reached the door at the end Madge entered through it saying crossly, ‘I left my umbrella,’ then she looked at them both intently and asked, ‘Is anything wrong?’
Danielle was silent. The truth sounded improbable and from experience she knew she was unlikely to be believed. Mr Portly’s lips were quivering. He told Madge, ‘She tried to proposition me. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come back! It would have been her word against mine.’
‘I knew it,’ said Madge. ‘We should never take on any of that lot. They do anything to get attention.’ Looking scornfully at Danielle she added, ‘I hesitate to think what kind of attention you wanted.’
‘But the group needs more members,’ said Mr Portly. ‘If we apply again the next one might be better. I still have faith in human nature.’
He spoke as if Danielle was not there.
‘Maybe so, but I’m not chancing it,’ said Madge. She turned to Danielle. ‘You’d better get going before I call the police. I’m sick and tired of decent folk like us being taken advantage of.’
Danielle sighed. She had liked the idea of becoming a writer but had to admit she had no talent, and obviously the people who ran the class were not worth bothering about. She was only sorry she would not see Mr Portly’s face when he missed the wallet that was now safe inside her duffle coat. She didn’t think he would complain to the police because several girls where she lived knew what he was like, but she was not going to point the finger. In a way she was sorry for him. They say these kind of men can’t help themselves. Maybe it’s not their fault.
Roses
As a child of five Carol loved to read magazines, progressing to novels when she was ten, first the foreign legion tales by P. C. Wren, then Thackery and Dickens. She even attempted Tolstoy’s War and Peace, but could not grasp the Russian names. Her favourite book was Oliver Twist. Soon she had read every book in the local library and accumulated a pile of reminder notices to return them that she tried to forget. In the end her infuriated mother was forced to pay dozens of fines.
‘Carrie!’ she shouted one day, ‘Come and help hang out the washing.’
Her daughter, lounging book in hand on a sofa, said, ‘Just let me read to the end of this. I’ll only be an hour or two.’
Her mother marched into the living room, seized the book from Carol’s hand, returned to the kitchen and threw it into the washing tub where it disintegrated into a soggy mass. Carol did not complain, said nothing, but never forgave that, deciding to wait until revenge was pos
sible.
Soon after that a legacy made them rich and Carol was sent to an expensive private school from which she was expelled for completely ignoring her teachers and reading Frankenstein when she should have been writing an essay about the countryside in spring.
‘That child has perverse tendencies,’ the headmistress told her mother who agreed wholeheartedly. When seventeen she pushed her mother off a cliff top as they walked by the seaside. This was not premeditated but done on impulse because the opportunity had arisen. Luckily this was regarded as an accident. Carol regretted it when forced to make her own meals but shed no tears. It was her mother’s fault for destroying a good book. From now on Carol vowed she would only wash and clean up when it suited her, but she never put cleaning before reading so the house became a terrible mess. It was only put in order when a maiden aunt visited and forced Carol to pay cleaners who came every day for a fortnight. Even then the result was far from perfect.
‘Now promise me you will never let the place get into that state again,’ said the aunt.
Carol promised then let the house become much, much worse. When her aunt next came visiting Carol, rather than face her terrible wrath, waited for her behind the front door, hatchet in hand, later disposing of the body in the earth beneath the kitchen windows where in summertime one or two roses flourished. The police made no headway with the mysterious disappearance, finally deciding the aunt had fled the country because she had been charged with shoplifting.
Everything went well with Carol after that. She read Émile Zola from end to end and was going to start on Jane Austen when a young gardener appeared on her back doorstep, asking for work. He was handsome but not too handsome, lean and brown with the right size of bare muscular arms. She decided she would marry him if he asked her.