Agnes Owens (2 page)

At the time, I think I read these stories, the early ones at least, as a kind of downbeat and depressed West of Scotland Damon Runyon, without the dollars or the dolls. (If you read Alasdair Gray's postscript, which is reprinted here on page 111, you'll see I was underestimating
them.) I just found them very, very funny. Bleakly, blackly funny, my favourite kind. What I greatly admired was Agnes's nerve in ignoring the feminist imperative of the day to redress balances and dutifully record from the inside-out the female experience. Utterly convincingly, to my ears at least, she wrote with a throwaway bravura in the persona and from the point of view of a young male and it was thrilling you could do that. (Well, it wasn't as if Mac's voice had had much of a shot in fiction so far either.)

By the time of the publication of her first book I knew Agnes was a great and quirky original. Her sisters, if she had any at all, were . . . oh, Beryl Bainbridge, Molly Keane and Shena Mackay. But by the time I was reading ‘Bus Queue', ‘People Like That', ‘When Shankland Comes', I was thinking Chekhov and Isaac Babel.

Every time I see Agnes – not often, not often enough – she seems utterly unchanged from my memory of the first time I saw her. She has had a hard life – see her rare autobiographical story (it'll take your breath away) ‘Marching to the Highlands and into the Unknown' – and, like the not particularly sympathetically drawn Isobel Anderson in ‘Meet the Author' (who ‘can only write about failures'), publication for Agnes never led to her being transmuted to the ease of Artist Class. But she still looks middle-aged, not old, and her mouth still turns down humorously at the corners. Any of the quiet wee deadpan things she says are more than well worth listening to. One-to-one she is especially good company. She'd crack you up.

It is a great thing to have, at last,
The Complete Short Stories
. Opening with ‘Arabella', including, hurrah, fourteen new ones in print for the first time and ending with the delicious ‘The Dysfunctional Family'. Another one. But it strikes me that if Agnes Owens has a theme it's the
functioning
of families. It's never easy . . .

Liz Lochhead
February 2008

A
rabella pushed the pram up the steep path to her cottage. It was hard going since the four dogs inside were a considerable weight. She admonished one of them which was about to jump out. The dog thought better of it and sat down again. The others were sleeping, covered with her best coat, which was a mass of dog hairs; the children, as she preferred to call them, always came first with her. Most of her Social Security and the little extra she earned was spent on them. She was quite satisfied with her diet of black sweet tea and cold sliced porridge kept handy while her children dined on mince, liver and chops.

The recent call on her parents had been depressing. Loyal though she was, she had to admit they were poor company nowadays. Her bedridden father had pulled the sheet over his face when she had entered. Her mother had sat bent and tight-lipped over the fire, occasionally throwing on a lump of coal, while she tried to interest them in the latest gossip; but they never uttered a word except for the terse question ‘When are you leaving?' – and the bunch of dandelions she had gathered was straightaway flung into the fire. Arabella had tried to make the best of things, giving her father a kiss on his lips before she left, but he was so cold he could have been dead. She had patted her mother on the head, but the response was a spittle which slid down her coat like a fast-moving snail.

Back inside her cottage she hung her hat on a peg and looked around with a certain amount of distaste. She had to admit the place was a mess compared to her mother's bare boards, but then her mother had no children to deal with. Attempting to tidy it up she swept a pile of bones and bits of porridge lying
on the floor into a pail. Then she flung the contents on to a jungle of weeds outside her door. Good manure, she thought, and didn't she have the loveliest dandelions for miles.

‘Children,' she called. ‘Come and get your supper.'

The dogs jumped out of the pram, stretching and yawning nervously. One dragged itself around. It was the youngest and never felt well. Arabella's training methods were rigorous. This had been a difficult one at first, but the disobedience was soon curbed – though now it was always weak and had no appetite. The other three ate smartly with stealthy looks at Arabella. Her moods were unpredictable and often violent. However, she was tired out now from her chores and decided to rest. She lay down on top of a pile of coats on the bed, arranging her long black dress carefully – the dogs had a habit of sniffing up her clothes if given half a chance. Three dogs jumped up beside her and began to lick her face and whine. The one with no appetite abandoned its mince and crawled under the bed.

Arabella awoke with a start. Her freshened mind realised there was some matter hanging over it, to which she must give some thought. It was the letter she had received two days previously, which she could not read. Her parents had never seen the necessity for schooling and so far Arabella had managed quite well without it. Her reputation as a healer was undisputed and undiminished by the lack of education. In fact, she had a regular clientele of respectable gentlemen who called upon her from time to time to have their bodies relaxed by a special potion of cow dung, mashed snails or frogs, or whatever dead creature was handy. Strangely enough, she never had female callers. (Though once Nellie Watkins, desperate to get rid of the warts on her neck, had called on her to ask for a cure. Whatever transpired was hearsay, but the immediate outcome of it was that Nellie had poured the potion over Arabella, threatening to have her jailed. But she never did. Arabella's power was too strong.)

The councillor's son, who had been the caller on the evening after she received the letter, explained that it was from the Sanitary
Inspector and more or less stated that if she didn't get rid of her animals and clean her place up she would be put out of her home. Then he changed the subject since he knew it would be out of the question for Arabella to clean anything, that was one thing beyond her powers, saying, ‘Now we have had our fun get me some water – that is if you use such a commodity. I know soap is not possible.' And while Arabella fetched the water lying handy in an empty soup tin on the sink, he took a swallow from a small bottle in his jacket pocket to pull himself together. Arabella did not like the tone of the letter. Plaintively she asked, ‘What will I do, Murgatroyd?'

‘That's your worry,' he replied, as he put on his trousers. ‘Anyway the smell in this place makes me sick. I don't know what's worse – you or the smell.'

‘Now, now, Murgatroyd,' said Arabella reprovingly, pulling a black petticoat over her flabby shoulders, ‘you know you always feel better after your treatment. Don't forget the children's money box on your way out.'

Murgatroyd's final advice, before he left, was, ‘Try your treatment on the Sanitary Inspector when he calls. It might work wonders.'

After giving this matter a lot of thought and getting nowhere, she decided to call on her parents again. They were rather short on advice nowadays, but she still had faith in their wisdom.

Her mother was still huddled over the fire and she noticed with vague surprise that her father did not draw the sheet over his face. Optimistically, she considered that he could be in a good mood.

‘Mummy, I'm sorry I had no time to bring flowers, but be a dear and tell me the best way to get rid of Sanitary Inspectors.'

Her mother did not move a muscle, or say a word.

‘Tell me what to do,' wheedled Arabella. ‘Is it chopped worms with sheep's dropping or rat's liver with bog myrtles?'

Her mother merely threw a lump of coal on to the fire. Then she softened. ‘See your father,' she replied.

Arabella leapt over to the bed and almost upset the stained pail lying beside it. She took hold of her father's hand, which was dangling down loosely. She clasped it to her sagging breast and was chilled by its icy touch, so she hurriedly flung the hand back on the bed saying, ‘Daddy darling, what advice can you give your little girl on how to get rid of Sanitary Inspectors?'

He regarded her with a hard immovable stare then his hand slid down to dangle again. She looked at him thoughtfully and pulled the sheet over his face. ‘Mummy, I think Daddy is dead.'

Her mother took out a pipe from her pocket and lit it from the fire with a long taper. After puffing for a few seconds, she said, ‘Very likely.'

Arabella realised that the discussion was over. ‘Tomorrow I will bring a wreath for Daddy,' she promised as she quickly headed for the door. ‘I have some lovely dandelions in my garden.'

Back home again, Arabella studied her face in a cracked piece of mirror and decided to give it a wash. She moved a damp smelly cloth over it, which only made the seams of dirt show up more clearly. Then she attempted to run a comb through her tangled mass of hair, but the comb snapped. Thoroughly annoyed, she picked out a fat louse from a loose strand of hair and crushed it with her fingernails. Then she sat down on the bed and brooded. So engrossed was she in her worry she forgot to feed her children, who by this time were whining and squatting in corners to relieve themselves. She couldn't concentrate on making their food, so she took three of them outside and tied them to posts. The fourth one, under the bed, remained very still. Eventually she decided the best thing to do was to have some of her magical potion ready, though such was her state of mind that she doubted its efficiency in the case of Sanitary Inspectors. Besides, there was no guarantee he suffered from afflictions. Sighing, she went outside. Next to her door stood a large barrel where she kept the potion. She scooped a portion of the thick evil-smelling substance into a delve jar, stirred it up a bit to get
the magic going, then returned indoors and laid it in readiness on the table. She was drinking a cup of black sweet tea when the knock came on the door. Smoothing down her greasy dress and taking a deep breath to calm herself, she opened it.

The small man confronting her had a white wizened face under a large bowler hat.

‘Please enter,' requested Arabella regally. With head held high she turned into the room. The Sanitary Inspector tottered on the doorstep. He had not been feeling well all day. Twenty years of examining fetid drains and infested dwellings had weakened his system. He had another five years to go before he retired, but he doubted he would last that long.

‘Please sit down,' said Arabella, motioning to an orange box and wondering how she could broach the subject of cures before he could speak about his business. She could see at a glance that this was a sick man, though not necessarily one who would take his clothes off. The Sanitary Inspector opened his mouth to say something but found that he was choking and everything was swimming before him. He had witnessed many an odious spectacle in his time but this fat sagging filthy woman with wild tangled hair and great staring eyes was worse than the nightmares he often had of dismembered bodies in choked drains. Equally terrible was the smell, and he was a connoisseur in smells. He managed to seat his lean trembling shanks on the orange box and found himself at eye level with a delve jar in the centre of a wooden table. Again he tried to speak, but his mouth appeared to be full of poisonous gas.

‘My good man,' said Arabella, genuinely concerned when she saw his head swaying, ‘I can see you are not well and it so happens I am a woman of great powers.'

She knew she had no time for niceties. Quickly she undressed and stood before him as guileless as a June bride. The small man reeled. This grotesque pallid flesh drooping sickly wherever possible was worse than anything he had ever witnessed.

‘Now just take your clothes off, and you'll soon feel better,'
said Arabella in her most winsome tone. ‘I have a magical potion here that cures all ailments and eases troubled minds.' So saying, she turned and gave him a close-up view of her monumental buttocks. She dipped her fingers in the jar and tantalisingly held out a large dollop in front of his nose. It was too much for him. His heart gave a dreadful lurch. He hiccuped loudly, then his head sagged on to his chest.

Arabella was very much taken aback. Nothing like this had ever happened before, though it had been obvious to her when she first saw him that he was an inferior type. She rubbed the ointment on her fingers off on the jar, then dressed. The manner in which he lay, limp and dangling, reminded her of her father. This man must be dead, but, even dead he was a nuisance. She would have to get rid of him quickly if she didn't want it to get around that her powers were waning. Then she remembered the place where she had buried some of her former children and considered that he would fit into the pram – he was small enough. Yet it was all so much bother and very unpleasant and unpleasantness always wore her out.

She went outside to take a look at the pram. The dogs were whining and pulling on the fence. Feeling ashamed of her neglect, she returned to fetch their supper, when the barrel caught her eye. Inspiration came to her in a flash. The barrel was large – it was handy – and there would be an extra fillip added to the ointment. She felt humbled by the greatness of her power.

Cheerfully she approached the figure slumped like a rag doll against the table. It was easy to drag him outside, he was so fragile. Though he wasn't quite dead because she heard him whisper, ‘Sweet Jesus, help me.' This only irritated her. She could have helped him if he had let her. She dragged his unresisting body towards the barrel and with no difficulty toppled him inside to join the healing ointment. With a sigh of satisfaction she replaced the lid. As usual everything had worked out well for her.

M
cDonald's dog was not the type of animal that people took kindly to, or patted on the head with affection. It was more likely to receive the odd kick, along with the words ‘gerr oot', which it accepted for the most part with indifference. If the kick was too well aimed it bared its teeth in a chilling manner which prevented further kicks. Large, grey and gaunt it roamed the streets, foraged the dustbins and hung around the local co-operative to the disgust of customers coming and going. The manager, who received continual complaints about it, as if it was his responsibility, would throw pails of water over it to pacify plaintive statements such as, ‘Ye'd better dae somethin' aboot that dug. It's a bloody disgrace the way it hings aboot this shop.' Though he had no heart for this action, as more often than not he missed the dog, which had the sensory perception of a medium and could move like a streak of lightning, causing innocent housewives to be soaked instead. Even so, McDonald's dog was a valuable asset to its owner. With its height and leanness, plus a sharp, evil face, it might have been a greyhound on the loose, but in fact its character was determined from a lurcher ancestor, an animal talented in the art of poaching. I had an interest in McDonald's dog due to the following incident.