Agnes Owens (38 page)

And yet there were occasions when I was happy pushing the pram along the canal bank or sitting by the river. It was summer and the place was lovely. This situation continued until late September when the weather became colder and the days shorter.

About this time I decided I could not carry on living in a tent with an infant a few months old and the winter approaching. One Saturday evening I packed and, pushing the pram, headed for Inverness railway station to return home to my mother. I left my husband in the tent drinking whisky.

I had to wait some time for the Glasgow train and, before it came, I turned about and pushed the pram back to the tent and that was that. We both decided to leave. We now had some money from my husband's work so a few days later we assembled our belongings and we left Inverness on a train for Keith, another destination unknown to us. Anywhere, we thought then, was better than returning to Glasgow.

We arrived in Keith in the dark, came to a field and pulled our tent round about us. We marched through the town the next morning, not a big place then as I remember it. We purchased some groceries from a shop in the town square owned by a man called McGillviray who asked us questions – why and where and what were we doing. We answered shamefacedly. ‘There's a man lives here, originally from Glasgow,' he said. ‘I'm sure he'll let you put your tent up in his back garden, it's a good size.'

This man called Alec Simpson did just that and his wife washed our grimy clothes and the baby's nappies. Alec was pleased with us because my husband came from Glasgow and I had worked there. For a fortnight we camped in his back garden, burning fires at night, hanging our clothes to dry over the fence. The townsfolk called us the squatters. Before October ended we moved to a broken-down old building.

We lived there for a year. We were comfortable. We had coal, paraffin light, and my husband got a job with the English Electric Company. My second child, a boy, was born in Keith hospital. We might have lived in Keith for ever but the woman who owned the condemned building told us regretfully that it was being knocked down and we must leave. It was then my husband and I parted for a time. I returned to my home town and he went on working
with English Electric. I've often wished to go back to Keith and see it all again, but no doubt everything would be unrecognisable now.

This adventure was judged by a councillor in my home town as ‘irresponsible' – I was desperately applying to him for one of the available prefabricated houses. We got the prefab after waiting another year and a half and my husband and I, plus another son and daughter making four children in all, lived not particularly happily ever after until he died at the age of forty-three.

I suppose you could say my life was a struggle, as it is with most men and women of the working class even in years of good employment. I always worked when possible at anything I could find, i.e., in shop, office and factory. That was in the good old days when work brought satisfaction even if it was a hassle. Work was money and security and if I was not exactly happy with my lot I could relax with a drink at the weekend while watching the telly. Any disagreement which arose under the influence was forgotten when facing work on Monday. Yet I suppose there was always a hankering to do something better.

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.

H
annah 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.

D
anielle 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 told 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.'