Agnes Owens

by Agnes Owens

  ‘Too bloody true,’ agreed Splash Healey, spraying Paddy with beer as he spoke.

  Paddy wiped his face and considered, ‘Still, it might serve a purpose. Some folks are better keepin’ their face shut.’

  Now though Splash was one of the most affable and generous of fellas nobody could stick his company too long. He was usually left alone at the end of an evening swaying about the bar talking to himself or his dog. Even the dog didn’t pay too much attention to him. It was always sprawled sound asleep in front of the bar, causing folk to trip over it every time they went up for a glass of something. Not that he was excluded completely from our company, because as I said he was generous when he had the cash. Many a time he kept me going in drink through the week when I was stuck for the ready, though my discussions with him were limited and usually confined to pats on the back to both he and his dog. Speaking of his dog, I knew it well. It had been Paddy McDonald’s before it became Willie Morrison’s, and it had taken a lot of effort on Willie’s part to convince it that it was not wanted – like trying to brain it with boulders. Splash had came across it one night in a dazed condition. Being a kind-hearted fella he had adopted it on the spot. It turned out to be a suitable arrangement since the two of them had a lot in common.

  However, to get back to the subject of the group, when Friday came we were all in the Paxton as usual. Despite our prejudice about entertainers we were curious about them. It must have been about half-past eight before they appeared, and by then we had forgotten about them and were getting involved in deep discussions. Twice Paddy had tripped over Splash’s dog and what was worse he had spilled his drink the second time.

  ‘That bloody dug wants drooned,’ he said, giving it a kick. The dog opened one eye. If it remembered Paddy from away back it gave no sign. It just growled and shut its eye again.

  ‘Sorry aboot that Paddy,’ spluttered Splash. ‘I’ll get ye anither drink.’

  ‘Aye, well watch it then,’ said Paddy. He added, ‘I never thought tae see the day when an animal wid put a man aff his drink – here, whit the hell is that?’

  A noise like a balloon letting out air exploded in our ears.

  ‘It’s only the group testing,’ explained Flossie nervously.

  We turned to see what was going on and there was the group testing their gear and tossing their hair about.

  ‘Whit a racket,’ groaned Paddy, ‘if that’s whit it’s gaun tae be like I’ll be givin’ this place the go-bye.’

  ‘That we should be so lucky,’ gushed Flossie.

  ‘Gie the fellas a chance. They’re only testin’,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, they’re only testin’,’ repeated Splash.

  ‘Sounds mair like they’re testin’ their arses,’ said Paddy tersely. However, sensing that opinion was against him he kept quiet.

  After coughing and repeating the word ‘testing’ for ten minutes the group finally got going. They gave us ‘A Boy Named Sue’ and ‘A Girl Called Lou’ which went down great and got loud cheers from everybody except Paddy who was staring moodily at his empty glass. He had been trying to attract Flossie’s eye for a while, without success, since Flossie was giving all his rapturous attention to the group. He was recalled to reality when Paddy threw a box of matches, hitting him on the nose. But Paddy’s views had lost their impact. By now we were all livened by the beat and thought the group were great. Eventually they stopped to refresh themselves and we were plunged into comparative silence.

  ‘That wis rerr,’ said Splash with enthusiasm and straightaway ordered three points for the group to show his appreciation.

  ‘Ma heid is fair nippin’ me,’ said Paddy, ‘I think ma eardrums are burst.’

  ‘Gie us a break an’ stop yer moanin’,’ I said, and moved away to have a word with Joe Duffy, a workmate on the site. If Paddy did not appreciate good music that was his hard luck. Big Joe and I spoke for a time about the work in general and the ganger in particular. Suddenly Joe broke off his discussion to say, ‘Will ye look at that eejit?’

  I turned to see Splash gripping the mike and prancing up and down in a silent mime of Al Jolson.

  ‘Put that mike down!’ yelled Flossie. ‘Ye’ll break it.’

  ‘He’s doin’ a lot better than the other bampots anyway,’ Paddy declared. ‘At least he disny make as much noise.’

  This triggered off fellow feeling for Splash. ‘C’mon Splash – sing up! Gie us A Four-Legged Friend,’ someone shouted. This was the song Splash usually sang outside the pub at closing time as his four-legged friend walked away in disgust. Splash did not need much encouragement. He never had it so good. He began in a screechy tone, ‘A four-legged friend, a four-legged friend –’ He broke off. ‘Naw, wait a minute, that’s too high,’ and began again, ‘A four-legged friend, a four-legged friend,’ in a deep bass. ‘Naw, wait a minute, that’s too low.’

  The audience was enchanted and falling all over the place with laughter. Then someone shouted, ‘Get aff!’ Another one shouted, ‘Gie the fella a chance!’

  Splash tried again, ‘He’ll never let you dow-en,’ in the right pitch for shouting ‘coal’. Being satisfied he carried on. The microphone must have been saturated. Apart from the cracking of Splash’s voice it was making cracking sounds of its own.

  All this did not pass unnoticed by the group. They tried to laugh it off at first. Then they quickly finished their beer.

  ‘OK, that’s enough. You’ve had your fun,’ said one of them. He tried to disentangle Splash from the mike, but Splash was glued, and he carried on like the true trouper, ‘He’s honest and faithful right up to the end –’. The group member relinquished his hold. Likely he thought it was the last verse. When Splash started on another he lost his head.

  ‘Gie’s a haund wi’ this nut,’ he called to his mates, and they all began struggling with Splash. Bravely he held out, encouraged by the audience shouting, ‘Let the fella alone!’, ‘Ya big cowards!’, ‘Pit the heid in Splash!’ Even the dog, awakened by his master’s voice, gave threatening snarls. I was surprised when Big Joe, normally a level-headed fella, rushed up with great fire to pull two of them away and grab the third by his psychedelic tie, almost throttling him. After a temporary surprise the group pulled itself together and made a combined onslaught on Joe, knocking him to the ground and putting the boot in with a lot of determination. Pandemonium broke out. Glasses were hurtled indiscriminately in the direction of the group and anyone near at hand. Beer was poured over Splash to quieten him down as he still continued to belt out the four-legged friend, and Flossie beat a hasty retreat into the back premises. I noticed one or two old scores which were nothing to do with the present matter being settled. My loyalties were divided. I thought Splash had it coming, but at the same time I felt bound to give Joe a hand. Just as I reached out to grab a chunk of hair there was a restraining grip on my arm. It was Paddy’s. ‘I telt ye groups wir nae use in a bar. Leave it. The polis will sort oot this lot. They’ll sort ye oot as well if ye interfere.’

  Paddy was usually right in a lot of things so we retreated into a corner to await the final crunch. It didn’t happen because three regular bouncers with three volunteer bouncers took care of the situation. The group, defeated by sheer numbers, were pushed out into the world beyond with their equipment crashing behind them. Everyone simmered down except Splash, who burst into tears.

  The night wore on. Drinks were set up. I seemed to be losing the power of speech and movement. This happens to me once in a while. I fell asleep over the table. When I woke up my back felt as curved as a hoola-hoop. Where is everybody I wondered. I lifted my head and tried to get everything into focus. I swivelled my eyes and managed to contact Splash slumped over a table to the left and Paddy drinking beer sitting at a table to the right. Ahead of me Flossie was listlessly moving a cloth over pools of liquid on the counter. The Indians must have attacked again for the mirror behind the bar was smashed for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Whit happened?’ I croaked. ‘Where is everybod
y?’

  ‘Away hame,’ answered Paddy, ‘an’ it’s time we wir as well.’

  ‘Get us a drink.’ I knew if I could even get a short one I would feel better.

  ‘Bar’s closed!’ Flossie informed me with relish.

  ‘Listen bum-boy,’ said Paddy, ‘get the lad a drink afore I beat ye to a pulp.’

  I sensed Paddy had undergone a lot of pressure while I was sleeping it off. Flossie shrugged his shoulders. Insults hardly touched him. He put two whiskies on the counter and I noticed no money was passed. I gulped my whisky and felt a fraction better. Splash’s dog sat up alert and ready for anything now that everyone was gone. It padded around, sniffing here and there then finally peed up against a chair. Flossie ventured the message, ‘Do ye no’ think it’s time ye were away.’

  ‘I’ll go when I’m good an’ ready,’ said Paddy.

  Splash was beginning to surface. He lifted his face to the ceiling and began on the four-legged friend again.

  ‘Gie Splash a drink as well,’ demanded Paddy.

  Flossie banged another whisky on the counter. ‘I canny take much more o’ this,’ he said.

  ‘Look Paddy,’ I said, ‘Flossie is right. Ye’ll only get the polis in.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Flossie, ‘the polis will no’ touch him.’ He put a lot of emphasis on the word ‘him’.

  ‘Whit dae ye mean by that?’ I asked.

  Flossie’s face twitched. Paddy said nothing.

  When Splash began to sing again after swallowing his drink Flossie’s control ran out. ‘The polis don’t touch Paddy these days. He’s an informer.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I asked Paddy.

  ‘Maybe.’ He changed the subject as if it was of no consequence.

  ‘Dae ye want anither drink?’

  ‘There’s no chance of that,’ said Flossie, and continued with abandon, ‘he thinks because he’s in wi’ the polis he can dae whit he likes. See when you wir sleepin’ the group came back, but they wir hardly in the door when they were lifted. I saw Paddy gie one o’ the polis a wee nod. He thought I never noticed.’

  ‘Let’s hope naebody notices this,’ said Paddy. He drew the back of his hand off Flossie’s cheek, causing a trickle of blood to ooze from the barman’s nose. Flossie began to whimper.

  ‘Is that true,’ I asked, ‘that ye’re an informer?’

  Paddy shrugged. ‘Think whit ye like. That’s a good word “informer”? but I’ll gie ye better ones. How aboot “psychiatry treatment”? How wid ye like these words thrown at ye every time ye come up in dock? They say, “Just once mair Paddy – or else”.’

  ‘Or else whit?’

  ‘Christ’s sake, dae I have tae draw ye a diagram?’ He went into a brooding world of his own and finally muttered, ‘I want tae die in my ain hoose. No’ in jail or hospital.’

  ‘Ye mean yer ain midden,’ I sneered.

  ‘Call it that if ye like.’

  It appeared as if he had answered my question. I regarded Splash who had returned to the senseless stage. I shook him viciously.

  ‘C’mon, get up,’ I said, ‘ye’re gaun hame. You and yer dug.’

  He yelled as I hauled him up by the skin of his shoulder. ‘Where are we gaun?’

  ‘Hame – wi’ me.’

  Splash was the last person I wanted to take home, but I was filled with a twistedness that wanted to do the awkward thing.

  ‘How’s that?’ he asked, spitting over me as usual.

  There was nothing better to say than, ‘Because ye’re a better man than he is Gunga Din,’ jerking my head in Paddy’s direction.

  Flossie had dried his eyes by this time and was handing Paddy another whisky. I walked past them both without a word. Splash lurched behind me with his dog following. The night air must have nipped my eyes because they were wet, and I had the cheek to talk about Splash being a wet guy, but then if ever I had liked a fella it had been Paddy and him an informer.

  Paid Aff

  ‘Whit’s happened tae that wee layabout Rab Tunnock?’ the ganger asked me in an aggrieved tone.

  ‘How should I know,’ I replied as I wiped the mortar off my trowel.

  ‘Well, ye might know if he has been in the pub recently.’

  ‘Never seen him.’ I turned my back and placed a brick with marked concentration.

  ‘If ye dae – tell him he’s paid aff.’

  I carefully evened off the mortar and said nothing. I wasn’t going to be the one to do the ganger’s dirty work. I had seen Rab the night before lying stupefied on the grass outside the Paxton Arms, but what had happened to him since was anybody’s guess. Besides, at the moment I didn’t give a damn about anything. My hands were stiff and my feet were numb. It was a damp, freezing morning. My jacket, bought in the height of the summer, was as warm as a piece of net and my year-old boots were as sturdy as a pair of sandshoes. In the summer you completely forgot about the winter so when it came you were never prepared. You just wondered how you could wangle a sick line. But if you did go on the sick you hated every minute of it, being exposed to the heavy breathing of the auld wife bitter about money prospects. Who would work on a building site, the worst trade in the world in the winter? Talk about the miners. At least they had Mick McGahey. The nearest we ever got to a strike was one from a winey’s spade. Anyway who could protect us from the sleet and the frost? Then we had to put up with gangers like Harry McCafferty who must have served his apprenticeship in Siberia, intolerant of anything above a twenty-five-watt bulb in the workmen’s hut and a nip of alcohol to put a bit of heat in you.

  McCafferty walked away. ‘Whit’s the time?’ I asked the apprentice.

  He looked at his digital watch. ‘Half-past eleven.’

  ‘Dear Christ, another hauf ’oor tae go. Ma fingers will have fell aff by then.’

  ‘Mine as well.’

  ‘How’s that? Ye’ve had them in your pockets a’ mornin’. Look lively, we’ll never make oor bonus at this rate.’

  He glared at me then picked up his trowel. Right enough he was a knockout. The first wall he had built collapsed as he was admiring it. Luckily the wind blew it away from him instead of on top of him.

  ‘Always lock yer hut before ye leave in case the tools get stolen,’ I had told him. He had done that, never bothering about who was in it. After shouting themselves hoarse McCafferty and the foreman had managed to unpick the lock to free themselves. However, he was now McCafferty’s blue-eyed boy because he never drank, never took a day off and never answered back. He never did much work either.

  Eventually the whistle blew. We all stamped into the hut.

  ‘It’s bloody freezin’ in here,’ we complained.

  ‘Whit aboot gettin’ us a heater? We’re fed up strikin’ matches,’ said Fitty Peters to McCafferty who was munching away on his sandwiches.

  ‘You lot don’t work hard enough to get the circulation going,’ said McCafferty. We ignored this statement and chewed on our pieces.

  ‘Another thing,’ he said, ‘ye don’t eat the right grub. Whit’s that muck ye’ve got?’ he asked me.

  ‘Spam,’ I replied.

  ‘Ye’re lucky,’ said Fitty, ‘I’ve got jam.’

  ‘I’ve got roast pork and pickles,’ said the apprentice. ‘It’s a’ rubbish,’ pronounced McCafferty. ‘The best thing for keepin’ oot the cauld is a flask o’ soup followed by broon breid an’ peanut butter sandwiches.’

  ‘Imagine that,’ said Randy Smith, ‘a flask. We couldny afford one.’

  ‘Naw,’ said McCafferty, ‘but ye can afford tae staun in the pub a’ weekend.’

  ‘That’s how we canny afford a flask,’ I said. ‘It’s a vicious circle.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Big Joe to McCafferty, ‘if I lived like you I’d hang masel, but we’re no’ interested in yer diet. We want a heater or else we don’t work.’

  ‘Is that whit ye call it – work?’ said McCafferty. ‘Well, if ye don’t work ye’re paid aff, so please yersels.’ He gave a righteous be
lch then marched out.

  ‘Maybe he’s away for a heater,’ said Randy wiping the drips from his nose.

  ‘Mair likely away for a shit,’ said Fitty.

  ‘He hasny a good one in him.’

  The apprentice turned red. ‘Don’t talk dirty in front o’ the boy,’ laughed Randy.

  I stepped out of the hut to throw away a tea bag. ‘Will you credit that,’ I shouted, ‘it’s rainin’!’

  ‘Good, we canny work then. Get the cards oot.’

  We put ten pence each in the kitty. I dealt the cards. We played in silence, apart from the odd curse. After losing two games the apprentice said he was fed up and threw in his hand. We played some more. Then Fitty said, ‘I’ve nae money left, unless somebody wid like tae pay me in.’

  ‘No thanks,’ we all said.

  So far I had won fifty pence when McCafferty returned. ‘OK boys, time’s up – oot!’

  ‘Whit do ye mean?’ we asked. ‘It’s rainin’. We don’t work in the rain.’

  McCafferty exploded. ‘It’s only drizzlin’. Ye don’t work in the cauld! Ye don’t work in the rain! Who dae ye think ye are – a bunch o’ bloody civil servants!’

  ‘We don’t work in the rain,’ Big Joe repeated and proceeded to deal out the cards.

  McCafferty swore. ‘You mollycoddled bastards! This job is away behind schedule as it is. Every day somethin’ happens wi’ you lot.’

  ‘Like last week when auld Jimmy broke his leg fallin’ through a hole that wis covered up wi’ sackin’,’ I said.

  ‘It wisny covered wi’ sackin’,’ growled McCafferty. ‘He wis half blind wi’ booze.’

  ‘Ye needny worry aboot bein’ behind wi’ the schedule,’ said Big Joe, ‘because ye’ve saved this firm a lot o’ money in compensation wi’ a’ these accidents ye swore were pure carelessness.’

  ‘I’m no’ gaun tae bandy words wi’ you lot. Just get back tae work or ye’re a’ paid aff.’

  The apprentice stood up and placed himself beside McCafferty.