Agnes Owens

by Agnes Owens

  In an exaggerated fashion Molly lifted up her arm and studied the watch.

  ‘The time missus – the time.’ He stepped forward as if to grab her.

  She laughed. ‘The time is it? I’m afraid I can’t tell you that exactly, because you see my watch is always slow, I should think by quarter of an hour roughly. I should have got it fixed long ago but I’m never too concerned about what the exact minute is. It suits me, especially now Tommy and his Da have gone. Why should I care about the time?’

  There was a space of silence during which Molly could observe the whites of the young man’s eyes enlarge around the green and yellow flecked irises. She had always admired green eyes, yet Tommy’s had been deep blue with long eyelashes. Probably this young man with the green eyes was going to choke the life out of her since he was done for anyway, but he just sighed then sat down on the wet grass, reclining on one elbow, staring over at the ducks still bobbing up and down like plastic toys. He looked exhausted. It was time to get going, thought Molly. There was nothing to be done, but she couldn’t resist asking, ‘I suppose old Carlin won’t be exercising his horses any more?’

  ‘I reckon not,’ he said with his lop-sided smile. He sat up and searched in his pocket and brought out the cigarette she had given him earlier. It was crushed and bent. He threw it in the water. The ducks swam over. Before she left Molly handed him her cigarettes and matches. It was the least she could do. Now she dreaded going out into the street to hear the fearful whispers, the jubilant shouts and see the gloating eyes. It was all going to begin again.

  The Silver Cup

  If you glanced in at Sammy’s room when the door was open it seemed to be on fire. This was the effect of the flame orange paint which he had stolen from a garage. The room was really as damp and fetid as an old shed and contained a sagging bed, a set of drawers riddled with small holes caused by darts (not woodworm) and a carpet tramped free of its original pattern. Sammy liked his room. It was his territory and a haven to his friends who shared it with him most evenings from five to ten o’clock. The message on the outer panel of the door, ‘KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING’, was directed at his parents. Sammy’s Ma did her best to comply with it. His da was inclined to kick the door open if enraged by the noise coming from within, but usually ordered his wife to ‘see what that bugger’s up to’ rather than risk raising his blood pressure to dangerous heights. Sammy’s Da was not a happy man. He was banned from smoking and alcohol, was on an invalidity pension due to a poor heart condition from over-indulgence on both counts, and saw little in his son to give him pleasure. Yet pinned above the mantelpiece, the faded photo of himself when a youth was the spitting image of Sammy.

  ‘Why don’t you take your dinner beside us?’ asked Sammy’s Ma, entering his room with a tray of food after knocking.

  ‘His face wastes my appetite,’ said Sammy sitting on the edge of his bed, wrapped in a multi-coloured sleeping bag, twanging his guitar. Sammy’s Ma sighed.

  ‘What a sight you look. If the cruelty man could see you –’

  ‘Close the door behind you,’ said Sammy, his face invisible behind a fringe of hair.

  * * *

  Back in the living room she lifted her husband’s plate the second he had mopped up the final trace of gravy with a chunk of bread.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

  ‘I think I’ve left a pot on the gas,’ she explained, dashing through to the kitchenette where she felt safe amongst the unwashed dishes. She focused her thoughts on the evening ahead. The western film on the television was not to her taste but it should keep her husband quiet. He always maintained he liked a bit of action, but none of that lovey dovey stuff, nor plays that were all gab, nor anything which related to female predicaments. Sammy’s Ma had learned to keep her mouth shut about what she liked. After the film he was certain to go to bed with, as he described it, brain fatigue, prompted by ‘certain persons’, whom she took to mean herself. Then, alone, she would sit through the remainder of the viewing, her eyes flickering between the clock and the set, marking time until twenty-past eleven when she would make herself a cup of tea. By half-past eleven she was back at her post, cup in hand, leaning towards the screen, all attention to the preacher on ‘Late Call’. She considered his sermon as good as a tonic. If she closed her eyes she could imagine she was in church. Not that she ever attended church. Her husband viewed darkly any mission which necessitated her being gone from the house for more than an hour. Besides, her wardrobe was lacking in the formality required for such an occasion. ‘Late Call’, brief though it was, gave her an impression of being part of a congregation listening and nodding in unison. Sometimes, in a more fanciful mood, she imagined she was sailing down the Mississippi in a steamboat while an invisible choir sang ‘We shall gather by the river’, which was strange, since she had never been further than the townhead in all her fifteen years of marriage.

  ‘Have you seen my good ball-point pen?’

  Her husband’s voice broke into her thoughts, causing her to drop into the sink a plate, which immediately cracked.

  ‘Not recently.’

  She turned on the water forcefully to hide the ruined plate.

  ‘I’ve looked everywhere!’ he shouted.

  Sammy’s Ma shook her head in despair. His pen, his screwdriver, his socks, his heart pills, were just a few of the articles which he lost daily.

  ‘Have you tried behind the clock?’

  ‘Everywhere, I told you,’ then he added, ‘except that bugger’s room.’

  ‘I don’t think Sammy’s in his room.’

  She had been dimly aware of a door slamming a while back, which could have meant anything.

  ‘All the better,’ said her husband, and strode off.

  Sammy’s Ma suspected the pen was an excuse for him to search her son’s room. Once he had found a heap of empty beer cans and a half-full box of potato crisps under the bed. ‘Thieving – that’s what he’s up to,’ had been his cry at the time. Sammy’s staunch denials and assertion that one of his pals’ uncle owned a licensed grocer’s had not impressed her husband. She was placing the cracked plate in the bin when the roar came. When she entered Sammy’s room her husband was holding aloft a large trophy in the shape of a silver cup. Senselessly she asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ he thundered, pointing to an inscription on the base which said ‘PRESENTED TO THE PENSION CLUB BY COUNCILLOR HOOD’. Sammy’s Ma placed her fingers on her lips, unable to speak.

  ‘He’ll not get away with this,’ said her husband.

  She sat down on the bed feeling giddy. To rob a pension club was unforgivable. A football club was more acceptable, when one considered the risks.

  ‘He’ll do time,’ her husband stated with satisfaction.

  In a feeble manner Sammy’s Ma said, ‘But he’s not old enough.’

  ‘He’ll go to an approved school then.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she whispered, while her husband peered inside the cup, saying, ‘This must be worth a few bob.’

  Blinking rapidly Sammy’s Ma chanced the suggestion, ‘Maybe if you returned it there might be a reward.’

  His eyes bulged. ‘Me – return it?’

  ‘You could say you found it in a field when you were out for a walk.’

  ‘The only place I’m returning it to is the police station,’ he replied, banging down the trophy on the chest of drawers.

  Sammy’s Ma almost bit through her lip. She could picture the neighbours in the street watching Sammy being led into a police van. They would snigger, and look up at her window, and shake their heads as if it was only to be expected. She knew they talked about her. Once from her kitchenette window she heard a woman in the back green say to another, ‘That one upstairs is a proper misery. Never has a word to say and runs along the road on her shopping errands as if she hasn’t a minute to spare.’ She also knew they nicknamed her the road runner. Desperately she blurted out, ‘If Sammy gets lifted they
’ll only say we’re to blame, and you most of all because you’re his Da. They’ll say –’

  She broke off when her husband punched the wall in anger.

  ‘Who’ll say?’ he demanded.

  Sammy’s Ma shrugged her shoulders and closed her eyes for a second. She had a great wish to stretch out and sleep on this sagging but quite comfortable bed of Sammy’s and forget it all, but a groan from her husband snapped her to attention. He was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked dutifully.

  He sat down beside her breathing heavily. ‘I’m never all right in this bloody house.’

  Surreptitiously Sammy’s Ma moved away from the proximity of her husband’s body. She stared at the cup on top of the drawers. To her it had the look of a memorial urn on a grave. Moved by the association she suggested sullenly, ‘Perhaps we should bury it.’

  ‘Bury him is more like it,’ said her husband lifting the cup from the drawers now with a proprietary air, and polishing it lightly with the cuff of his sleeve. He appeared calm and breathed normally. ‘Could be worth a few bob,’ he said again.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ agreed Sammy’s Ma without enthusiasm.

  For some moments her husband continued to polish the cup with one cuff then the other. Finally he cleared his throat and said, ‘Our Perry could do something with this.’

  ‘You don’t mean he could sell it?’

  ‘I’m not saying he could, but,’ he looked furtively towards his wife, ‘he knows all the fences.’

  ‘Fences?’

  ‘Somebody who handles stolen goods.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  Her husband shouted, ‘God dammit woman we didn’t lift it in the first place, but it’s one way of getting rid of it with some money to the good!’

  ‘I’m not bothering about money,’ said Sammy’s Ma primly. ‘Besides, it will be traced with that writing on it.’

  Her husband wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. ‘Silver can be melted down,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  To placate his mounting wrath she said dubiously, ‘I suppose it’s not the same as stealing a purse, but all the same they’ll miss it.’

  ‘It will be insured. They can get another one.’ Her husband jumped violently to his feet. The rebound from the sagging mattress threw Sammy’s Ma across the bed.

  ‘I don’t care what you say!’ he said. ‘I’m getting rid of this cup the best way I can, even if it’s only to see the look on that bugger’s face when he discovers it’s gone.’

  He slammed the door hard as he left as if to shut her in.

  Back in the living room Sammy’s Ma looked down from her window to the street opposite where a group of women sat on the steps outside their flat, chatting and laughing and carelessly exposing their legs beyond the limits of decency. She clutched her husband’s small bottle of heart pills, which she had found behind the curtains. She was thinking that for once she would have them ready on his command, when Sammy suddenly appeared.

  ‘Who’s been in my room?’ he asked vehemently.

  ‘If you must know it was your Da,’ she replied, placing the pills in her apron pocket.

  ‘What? Why?’ he queried in a high-pitched tone. She regarded him sadly, standing with arms folded.

  ‘B-but,’ Sammy spluttered, ‘you know my room is private.’

  ‘Better tell him that.’

  ‘Where is he?’ said Sammy, jerking his head about.

  ‘Out.’ She added, ‘Seems he found a big silver cup in your room. Thought he’d better get rid of it. Thinks it’s worth money, so he took it to your Uncle Perry. Appears he can get in touch with a fence.’

  When Sammy remained open-mouthed, eyes as usual concealed behind his fringe, unresponsive to the statement, she said, ‘Imagine anyone being called a fence.’

  ‘It’s not his cup to get rid of,’

  Sammy finally gasped. Sammy’s Ma sniffed. ‘It’s not yours either. Donated to the pension club it read.’

  Sammy punched the air and shouted. ‘It was a pal who left it here! He was taking it to the jeweller’s to get the inscription fixed! He just left it while we went out for a gang bang with the guys up the lane.’

  Sammy’s Ma wrinkled her forehead. ‘Gang bang?’ she repeated.

  ‘What am I going to tell him?’ demanded Sammy.

  ‘Tell him it’s probably being melted down,’ said Sammy’s Ma with a nervous snigger.

  For a second her son stood as if turned to stone, then he was out of the room in one long stride shouting, ‘He’ll go to jail for this.’

  Two minutes later the sound of raucous laughter came from his room. Apparently Sammy’s pals had a sense of humour.

  * * *

  She checked the time on the clock on the mantelpiece. It would be a long wait for her tea before ‘Late Call’. She decided to waive the rules and make it now. In any case the prospect of the religious programme had lost its appeal after all this stimulation. She longed to speak rather than listen. At the window again she sipped the tea and noticed only three women remained on the steps. They no longer laughed. One yawned as if bored. The other two stared in opposite directions in an estranged manner. Clearly they sought diversion. Sammy’s Ma became quite giddy with the notion that seized her, which was to join them on their steps. The story of the silver cup was too good to keep to herself. They would appreciate the humour and the irony of it. The difficulty lay in the approach, since a bare ‘good morning’ or ‘good afternoon’ was the most she had ventured to any of them. Then she conceived a great idea. She dashed into the kitchenette and quickly brewed three cups of tea, which she placed on a tray and carried down the stairs of her flat. She was crossing the street towards the women, flushed and smiling, when her foot caught on the grating of a drain close to the pavement. The cups shattered on the ground, followed by the tray. As she bent down to retrieve the one unbroken cup the pills fell from her pocket through the bars of the drain. Peals of laughter resounded in her ears like the bells of hell going tingalingaling as described in the song. But the mocking women were not unkind. Two of them arose from the steps and led her back across the street. They escorted her up the stairs to her flat saying, ‘You’ll be all right.’

  ‘It’s about this silver cup,’ she began when they pushed her gently inside the door.

  ‘I must tell you about this silver cup,’ she said again.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ they soothed, placing her down on a chair inside the living room, while they looked around furtively.

  ‘I really must tell you about the silver cup,’ Sammy’s Ma insisted.

  ‘Do you think we should phone for a doctor?’ one woman asked the other.

  ‘Is your husband around, dear?’ said the other to Sammy’s Ma.

  They decided to leave when Sammy’s Ma began to laugh hysterically. On their way out they heard the discordant strum of a guitar from Sammy’s room. One of the women tapped the side of her head significantly while she gave her companion a meaningful glance. Softly they closed the door behind them to create no disturbance, and tiptoed down the stairs.

  Fellow Travellers

  Jean boarded the train standing at the station and pulled at the top of the sliding door to the empty compartment. It was stiff and hard to move but she wanted a few moments’ privacy to assemble her thoughts. She settled down in a corner and opened her bag to take out cigarettes, then changed her mind. Her throat was as rough as sandpaper with the concentrated smoking of the morning. She peered through the smeared window. By the platform clock there were still five minutes before the train left. Now she was undecided. Should she go back? Perhaps she had acted hastily. She rose and hauled upon the compartment door again. As she stood wondering, the electrically controlled outer doors of the train slid shut. She pressed the button, but they held fast. It was disgraceful. How were people to get in or out? She banged on the window, but the platform was deserted. The doors opened and she was confused again. To re
turn now was to admit defeat. She went back to her corner. To her chagrin a man and woman of advanced years got on. They dithered in the doorway of the compartment. The woman smiled at Jean. Jean’s eyes dropped. Subdued, the couple settled for the seat adjacent, and spoke to each other in whispers. Then the whistle blew like a sigh of relief.

  Just before the outer doors closed a man hurtled through the compartment and threw himself at the seat opposite Jean, breathless and unpleasantly close. He bumped her knee. ‘Sorry,’ he leered. She had a quick impression of dark hair and brown eyes. Before she could draw her breath he had thrust a packet of cigarettes towards her. Hypnotised by his forcefulness she took one. With similar speed he produced a lighter and held it under her nose.

  ‘Damned cold,’ he stated with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He leaned back and crossed his legs. The tip of his shoe prodded her calf.

  She nodded and withdrew her leg. His gaze veered over to the couple then back.

  ‘I’m bloody frozen,’ he said confidentially.

  He shivered in an exaggerated way and blew his free hand. She took an instant dislike to him, but what was worse she suspected he had been drinking. The prospect of being confined with this person for the half-hour’s journey was daunting, but to move away seemed drastic. Besides, she was smoking his cigarette.

  ‘The weather’s bloody awful,’ he complained.

  She grunted something unintelligible. Her throat was dry and her tongue fired with smoke.

  ‘Going to the city?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly.’ She considered getting off at the next stop, but then she would be landed in a village with nothing to offer except the Railway Hotel.

  ‘I’m going to see my brothers,’ he confided. ‘City lads.’

  ‘I don’t care for the city,’ she said, hoping to discourage him.

  ‘City folk are the best.’ His eyes were bold and disturbing. The old couple were staring openly at them.

  She backed down. ‘I’ve nothing against city people.’