Agnes Owens (31 page)

‘One of these days you're going to come to real harm, you know,' said the woman, now putting her own arm through Mary's like a close friend would.

As they passed the ticket-office the chap behind the window called out, ‘I see you've found her.'

‘Yes,' said the man. ‘I hope we haven't put you to any bother. She's a sad case really.'

‘No bother at all,' said the railway clerk. ‘We have them in here all the time – people like that.'

A
fter telling me she was going to take a holiday in the Bahamas, my sister Celia thrust a black and white snapshot under my nose.

‘Do you remember this?' she said.

I glanced at it. ‘Not really.' Then I asked her if she could afford it.

‘You mean the holiday? Of course I can.' She stared back at the photo. ‘You must remember. It's the one Father took of us in the marigold field.'

I glanced at it again. ‘So it is. Don't we look awful?'

Celia considered it, frowning. ‘I think we look OK. That was the style, in those days. You can't compare them with now.'

‘It wasn't the style. We wore cast-offs even at school. I was always ashamed.'

‘I don't remember. I'm sure Mother did her best.'

‘I'm not blaming Mother,' I said. ‘Father never gave her enough for clothes.'

I took back the photo and studied it. Celia and I had dresses with frills round the hems that hung well below our knees while Hughie, our four-year-old brother, wore a jumper with a poloneck covering his chin.

I pointed this out to Celia. ‘A jumper in the summer? It's ridiculous.'

‘That's because he always caught colds summer and winter.' She added grudgingly, ‘How is he by the way?'

‘Fine.' I wasn't going to elaborate on Hughie's lifestyle. Celia was bound to blame Mother for it. She always had.

‘I can't imagine him being fine.'

‘Well, he manages like everybody else.'

‘Surely not like everybody else?' she said laughingly and then became serious. ‘Why did we call it the marigold field? There wasn't a single marigold in it. I looked often enough.'

‘It was Mother who called it that. She got the name out of a book.'

To change the subject I asked if she was going on holiday alone.

‘God, no. I'm going with Dickie.'

She explained that Dickie was old enough to be her father but had plenty of money and that was the main thing. I said I was glad to hear at least one of the family was doing well. She looked hard at me, perhaps for a sign of irony, then said I could come with them if I liked. Dickie had always wanted to meet me. I thanked her and said I'd rather not. I wouldn't like to spoil their holiday.

‘Whatever you think,' she said with a tight smile which I suspected was one of relief. Looking at the photo over my shoulder, she added, ‘I wonder if the dam Father made is still there?'

‘Dam?' I said, then after a pause, ‘You mean the one where he tried to drown Hughie?'

She gave me a sharp look. ‘Surely you still don't believe that after all this time?'

‘Oh, yes, I believe it. I saw him, didn't I?'

It had been exceptionally warm that day in the marigold field. Celia had said she wished the stream was deep enough to swim in. Father, who always liked being busy, began to dam it up with stones and mud until a wide pool appeared. Celia flung off her clothes and jumped in with her knickers on. ‘Come on,' she called out. ‘This is terrific.' With one eye on Father, who stood on the bank close to Hughie, I undid my sandals. Suddenly my brother was floundering in the water like a drowning pup. I screamed when I saw his head go under. I didn't know what to do and apparently neither did Father. He simply stood there looking down. It was
Celia who pulled Hughie up, spluttering and choking and purple in the face. I'm sure if it hadn't been for her he would have drowned. Undoubtedly I was relieved that Hughie was safe. What nagged my brain was that a second before he fell I had seen Father's hand on his shoulder. I told Celia this when nobody else was listening. She said, ‘What is that supposed to mean?' I said it meant Father had pushed him.

Mother, who had been sitting under a tree, came running up to ask what had happened. ‘The sun was so hot I must have fallen asleep,' she explained. When it dawned on her Hughie had nearly drowned she shrieked and clasped him to her, stifling his sobs so that he appeared to be smothering. Later, I plucked up courage to tell her I'd seen Father push Hughie into the pool but she said I had imagined it and I had read too many trashy books.

And now Celia was saying, ‘I don't know how many times I've asked this before but why on earth would Father want to drown his only son, for God's sake?'

I felt my temper rising. ‘You don't seem to understand. A father can be as jealous of his son as he can be of a lover. Gorillas are known to kill their sons from jealousy and they are as near human as you'll get.'

‘You can't compare Father to a gorilla,' said Celia. ‘And what was there to be jealous of ? Hughie was always a weakling. How could anybody be jealous of him?'

‘Weakling or not,' I shouted, ‘Mother loved Hughie best. That's why Father was jealous! I don't think you ever knew what Father was like.'

‘And you did,' she sneered. I could see she was upset.

‘Let's forget it,' I said. ‘I shouldn't have brought it up.'

At the same time I blamed Celia. If she hadn't shown me the photo I would never have opened my mouth. To hide my rancour I asked her if she was considering getting married.

‘I might,' she said. ‘I wouldn't like to end up an old maid.'

When I said that perhaps marriage wasn't everything, she replied that maybe it wasn't but it was better to find that out for oneself. As we parted on the doorstep I had the feeling we might not see each other again.

‘I hope everything goes well for you,' I called out as she was going down the path. She turned round.

‘You too, and give my regards to Hughie.'

‘I will,' I shouted back with all the sincerity I could muster, though I hadn't seen Hughie for weeks and didn't want to. It was a pity, I thought, that Celia and I had never met without quarrelling after Mother died. As children we had been very close.

But Mother had left the house and furniture to me. I would rather have had the sum of money which Celia and Hughie had received but it was no use telling Celia that. She said I'd always been Mother's favourite so what could she expect? I pointed out that Hughie was Mother's favourite and she'd left me the house to ensure he'd always have a roof above his head. She'd made me promise that I'd never sell it while he was alive. Celia then said, if Hughie had been Mother's favourite why did she let him smoke the stub ends of her roll-ups from the time he was ten years old?

‘Maybe she never knew,' I said.

‘She knew all right. She just didn't care.'

I couldn't argue. Mother had smoked dope from the day she married, or so I gathered from an aunt who came to her funeral and said that was why Father had left us. He couldn't stand having a dope addict for a wife. This didn't stop me loving her, not even when she began taking stronger stuff than hash. I could never condemn her. She was like a child with her small delicate bones and pale skin. Sometimes, if she was in a good mood, she let me brush her long flaxen hair and tilted her head backwards and closed her eyes. In a few years her face grew as lined as an old woman's, her hair fell out and she was obliged to wear a wig.

‘Her arms are all holes,' said Celia. ‘I don't know how she can do that to herself.'

The word ‘Hughie' sprang to mind but I didn't say it.

‘Perhaps she's a diabetic,' I said. ‘I'm sure she attends a clinic.'

Celia gave me a look as if to say, ‘How can you be so stupid?'

When Father left us (I was never sure why in those days) we stopped going to the marigold field. Mother said she couldn't bear to go back to that place where she had once been so happy. I was surprised at this. I didn't think any of us had been all that happy with Father continually nagging at us.

‘Say cheese,' he'd ordered when taking the photo. We said cheese but it didn't seem to cheer us up. ‘You're the most miserable kids I've ever seen,' he told us. ‘I don't know what's the matter with you. Can't any of you smile for a change?'

For years Mother maintained it was because of me Father had left.

‘He couldn't stand being accused of trying to drown Hughie in the marigold field.'

‘I never actually accused him,' I said. ‘I only mentioned it to you and Celia.'

‘Well, that's as good as being accused,' she'd said, picking up a shoe and throwing it at me. It missed. This was the beginning of her violent period. Celia and I started keeping out of her way and it was Hughie who kept her company. Of course he had his reasons. Mother always gave him money and because of that we had to live on very little. Sometimes there was only bread and margarine to eat but Mother didn't seem to mind, nor did Hughie. I sometimes listened outside her bedroom door to find out if they were talking about me, saying that I had driven Father away, things like that, but all I ever heard was an occasional shriek of laughter.

One day when he was leaving her room I said to him, ‘Don't you know you're killing her with that stuff you both take?'

He shook his head and said, ‘I'm keeping her alive more than any doctor would.'

‘If the state she's in is being alive then perhaps she'd be better off dead.'

‘Is that what you want?' he asked, staring at me blankly. At that moment I thought his resemblance to Mother was striking, perhaps because of their expressions.

‘I want my mother back,' I said, ‘not that stranger in there.'

‘Then you shouldn't have forced Father out. That was her problem.'

‘I never forced Father out. He left because he couldn't stand any of us. He tried to drown you in the burn when you were a child.'

‘So you keep telling me,' he said, walking off with a jaunty swing to his hips, which meant Mother had given him money.

All that seems a long time ago, though to be honest I've lost track of time. Was it last year or the year before that Celia paid me a visit before she went on holiday? I can't remember clearly and not having heard anything, I picture her living in the Bahamas for ever with an old man at her side who resembles Father. Funnily enough I dream about Father quite a lot. I don't know why for he's not on my conscience any more. I'm beginning to believe he left because of Mother's addiction, and it was nothing to do with me or Hughie.

With everyone gone the house is so silent you could hear a pin drop, though within that silence I sometimes imagine I hear voices whispering in Mother's room. It's probably the wind. But when I go outside it's usually quite calm and this disturbs me. I can't sleep very well and jump at the least thing. Tomorrow I will put the house in the hands of an estate agent. Since Hughie died there's no need to keep a roof for him. He went quite suddenly. The certificate mentioned pneumonia but I suspect Mother's death was the cause. Without her he had no reason to live.

When cleaning out the drawers in readiness for departure I came across the photo Father took of us in the marigold field. My first thought was to have it enlarged and framed, as I had intended when Celia left it with me. But now I see the edges are curled and the surface is cracked. It's a pity because it would have looked nice on the mantelpiece of my new home. On second thoughts this may not be advisable. It would be a reminder of the past and I don't think I need that or even want it.

I was about to tear it up before putting it in the bin with the other rubbish when I suddenly remembered Mother saying that it was bad luck to destroy a photograph. Though not superstitious I dislike taking chances. There's been enough bad luck in the family. I'll keep it in the drawer until I can face it without a qualm. Otherwise I'll leave it there until it crumbles into dust.

N
obody lived in the terrace any more apart from an old man who'd refused to leave when it had been condemned. Then one night tinkers crept in for shelter and stayed for ages. There was also a boy who hung around the crumbling doorways sniffing glue. Nobody worried about these folk. The authorities knew they'd shift when the bulldozer moved in.

Entering a room whose only furniture was a table and two chairs left by the previous owner, George the tinker asked his wife, ‘Where is she then?'

‘If it's Greta yer talkin' aboot,' said Flora, ‘Ah dinnae ken. She was away when Ah got up.'

‘Whit time was that?'

‘Ah'm no' sure. Whit difference dis it make?'

‘Nane.'

George lifted his tobacco-tin with an air of exhaustion. He'd drunk too much the night before and doubted if he'd feel better before he drank some more but the bottle on the table was empty. After watching him make a very thin roll-up Flora gestured to a heap of ash in the grate.

‘Mibby you could see yer way to bringin' in wood for a fire afore we freeze to death.' She pointed to the child under a heap of blankets in a big pram. ‘If ye don't, how wull Ah heat his milk?'

‘Give it to him cauld,' said George, who had forgotten to chop up logs the night before but didn't want to admit it. He offered his wife the roll-up. She refused.

‘If he takes it cauld he'll get a chill.'

‘He usually takes it cauld,' said George, closing his eyes to blot out his wife's accusing face.

He opened them when she poked his arm saying, ‘Mibby she's gone tae Maggie's.'

‘Who's gone tae Maggie's?'

‘Greta, you fool.'

He thought for a minute then said, ‘Maggie's is miles away.'