by Agnes Owens
He leaned forward. ‘My family come from the city – great people.’ He added, ‘And my father was born in the city. He’s been dead for ten years.’
He sighed. Jean’s eyes were glazed with apathy.
‘Do you know,’ he said pointing his finger, ‘they had to hold me back in the hospital when they told me he’d snuffed it. One of the best, he was.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jean.
‘He gave us everything. It wasn’t easy, mind you.’ He shook his head sadly, and ground his cigarette end into the floor creating a black smear near her shoe. The train sped through the start of the built-up area. Jean tried to calculate the stops ahead of her.
Unthinkingly she took out her cigarettes, then felt obliged to offer him one. He took it without saying thanks.
‘I could get off at any stop and I would be sure to meet a relative.’ He smirked and added, ‘Where are we anyway?’
They gazed through the window to multi-storey blocks of flats flashing by.
‘My uncle lives up there somewhere,’ he said.
‘Fancy,’ she said, looking out to a field of cows.
‘Do you remember Dickie Dado, the footballer?’
She lied. ‘Uh huh.’
‘He was my nephew – great player wasn’t he?’
‘Er – yes. I don’t know much about football though.’ She gave a depreciating giggle.
He glared at her. ‘He died two years ago. Surely you knew that.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’ Jean’s face reddened.
‘The team was never the same.’
He looked over at the old couple and raised his voice.
‘To think he died at twenty-three and some of these old fogeys go on for ever.’
Jean pulled hard on her cigarette. The old man stiffened. She concentrated on the view but she could feel her companion’s eyes probing through her skin.
‘You wouldn’t think I’ve got a great family of my own – would you?’
She was forced to confront his sly smile.
‘No. I mean, have you?’
‘Two girls and a boy. Marvellous kids.’
The information angered her. So what? she wanted to scream. Then to add to her misery the train increased its speed and caused them to bump up and down together in a ridiculous fashion. She pressed herself back against the compartment wall as he lurched about slackly, giving off a sour smell of alcohol. Her cigarette fell from her fingers and rolled about the floor. Mercifully the bumping stopped. Jean wiped the sweat from her forehead.
He began again. ‘The wife says I shouldn’t show any favouritism. She thinks because I bought the boy a fishing rod he’s my favourite. It’s not true you know.’ His eyes pleaded for justice.
To stop his flow of words she began in desperation, ‘I’ve got a headache, would you mind –’
He appeared not to have heard her.
‘I bought the girls a teaset,’ he went on. ‘You should see them with it. They make me drink tea out of the wee cups – simply marvellous.’ He shook his head, overcome at the image.
‘I see,’ said Jean letting her breath out slowly. Her eyes wavered towards the couple, who were whispering intently. She pulled herself together and stated in a loud voice, ‘I find families a complete bore.’
‘Never,’ he said, taken aback for the first time. ‘The trouble with people nowadays is they don’t care enough about their families. Pure selfishness, that’s what’s wrong with everyone.’
He looked over to the old couple for support but they were staring ahead with blank expressions.
He continued, ‘Take my girls, they’re just great, and the boy as well. Mind you I don’t show any favouritism – the wife’s wrong, but she can be a bitch at times.’ His lips curled and he repeated, ‘A pure bitch.’
‘If your kids are so wonderful, why didn’t you bring them with you?’ Jean snapped and looked upwards to check the position of the communication cord.
He spread his hands out and whined, ‘The wife wouldn’t let me. I told you she’s a pure bitch.’
Jean felt worn out. The train was slowing down for the next stop.
‘I think this must be Duntrochen,’ she mumbled, toying with the idea of getting off.
‘Not this place,’ he said with authority.
As the train pulled out she spied the signboard.
‘It was Duntrochen,’ she accused, and closed her eyes to avoid any further involvement. Her eyelids flickered as his leg brushed against hers. She was obliged to move. Her companion was staring over the top of her head when she faced him with fury. To sever all contact she turned to the woman sitting beyond.
‘Very tiring these train journeys,’ she gabbled. The woman looked startled.
‘Yes, they are,’ she stammered.
‘I was really intending to get off at Duntrochen,’ Jean added, hoping to establish a safe relationship with the dreary pair.
‘It’s a one-eyed hole anyway,’ her brown-eyed companion stated.
Jean was trapped into answering. ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
‘My mother died in Duntrochen hospital.’
Jean was prepared to sneer at this disclosure, but the couple were looking at him with concern.
‘That’s enough to put you off any place,’ the woman replied.
‘She was a wonderful person. Brought up ten of us without any complaint.’
The couple nodded with compassion. Jean pictured with contempt a family album portraying a white-haired woman with ten leering faces looking over her shoulder.
‘She couldn’t do enough for us,’ his voice jarred on.
Jean coughed and began searching in her handbag. Anything to distract her from the creeping weight of his words.
‘Mind you, she liked her drink now and then.’
The couple were definitely attracted by this news. Their eyes blinked rapidly as the image of the saintly mother changed to one of a boozy hag.
‘It was her only pleasure.’
‘Amen,’ said Jean under her breath.
But the subject was not finished. He touched her knee and said, ‘He was never off her back, my old man.’
For a hideous moment she thought he was making a sexual innuendo.
‘Gave her a life of hell,’ he added.
‘Oh you mean,’ Jean spoke in relief, ‘a kind of persecution –’
The woman tutted. Her husband looked ill at ease. Jean rejoiced at their discomfort.
‘Not surprising,’ she said, addressing the couple.
Her companion gave her a hard look, but he let the remark pass, and stated, ‘She was one of the best.’
‘But,’ said Jean, determined now to expose his inanity, ‘you told me your father died ten years ago, and he was one of the best.’
‘That’s right,’ he replied, defiant.
‘Now you say he gave your mother a life of hell and she was one of the best. I don’t follow you.’ She bestowed a knowing smile on the old couple, but they looked at her uncomprehendingly.
‘She never complained,’ he said with the quiet triumph of one who holds the ace card.
Jean wiped her clammy hands on her skirt. She judged she could be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The word Valium came into her head. Her friend Wilma took Valium pills regularly and she was in charge of a typing pool. They must work wonders. She decided to get off at the next stop, no matter where it was, and head for the nearest chemist. She stood up and tugged at the compartment door.
‘What’s the hurry?’ he called, but she was transfixed by the thought that she might have to get a doctor’s prescription for Valium. As the train pulled up she was flung back almost on top of the woman.
‘Are you all right?’ the woman asked with concern.
‘Yes,’ said Jean, pulling down her skirt. To justify her erratic behaviour she explained, ‘I thought I was going to be sick. I haven’t felt well all morning.’
‘I see,’ said the woman darting a considerate glance in the
direction of Jean’s stomach. Jean shot up like a jack-in-the-box. A tic beat on her cheek and her mouth twitched.
‘I must get out of here,’ she gabbled.
‘Don’t upset yourself.’ The woman pulled on her arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
Jean fell back on the seat. She explained in a heightened manner, ‘Not morning sickness – just ordinary average sick.’
The woman patted her hand. Jean rounded on her with venom.
‘I’m not even married.’
The couple regarded each other with dismay. The brown-eyed man blew smoke through his nostrils.
‘Of course,’ said Jean, forcing herself to be calm, ‘I think you are all of your rockers.’
‘Really,’ said the old man. His wife shook her head as if in warning. The other man continued to blow smoke like steams of fury.
‘I thought it was bad enough listening to that loony,’ she gestured towards the other man, ‘but you two appear to be in your dotage.’
The couple cowered close to the window. The man tapped his head significantly.
‘Thank goodness I’m getting off here,’ Jean uttered wildly and charged out of the compartment. She alighted from the train without a clue to where she was.
‘Ticket please,’ said the collector when she scuttled through the barrier. ‘Always have your ticket ready,’ he reproved as she fumbled in her bag.
She moved out of the station in a distraught manner. She hesitated, torn between the beckoning brightness of Woolworth’s and a telephone box on the opposite pavement. She braced herself and headed for the box. She dialled a number and held the receiver to her ear. Almost immediately the voice spoke. She cut through the querulous preamble.
‘It’s me – Jean. I’m sorry I rushed out like that –’ She paused to listen as the voice gained strength. ‘I know, mother,’ she replied wearily, ‘but you must understand I have to get out sometimes for a bit of relaxation. I won’t be doing anything desperate. After all I’m not a teenager.’
Her reflection in the stained mirror on a level with her eyes verified the statement, showing the marks of the crow’s feet.
The voice began again like the trickle of a tap. Jean interrupted.
‘Yes mother I’m fine. I won’t be gone for ever you know. I’ll be back around tea-time.’
She replaced the telephone and stood for a moment within the box feeling she had placed herself beyond mercy. In retrospect the man with the brown eyes became desirable. He had spoken to her and touched her knee. In his inept way he had offered her an association. She should have been flattered if not actually grateful, and really he had not been all that bad-looking. It would have been something to boast about to her friend Wilma, who according to herself was continually exposed to such encounters. When she stepped out of the telephone box she was shamed by the memory of her neurotic outburst. She walked along the pavement, head downwards, hunched against the cold – going nowhere.
McIntyre
After fifteen years I could scarcely credit my eyes when I saw McIntyre again. I had come to the meeting because I was lonely. It would pass a little time and I would at least be warm. The issue would be boring, but members were always welcome. McIntyre looked older than the fifteen years warranted. I hoped the same did not apply to me. I thought I did not look my age though in the mirror the sight of criss-cross lines round my eyes made me wonder. His hair was now sparse and his once ruddy complexion had a jaded look, but his gaze was as direct as ever.
‘How are you keeping?’ he asked.
Tonelessly I replied, ‘Fine – and you?’ but inwardly I felt an upsurge of pleasure at this chance encounter, wishing at the same time I had applied my make-up more carefully. After an awkward pause we drifted into the hall along with the others. It was the usual number of desultory figures waiting for the curtain to rise on the evening’s business. He sat down at the table beside another shabby, younger man, and the six from our branch, including myself, sat opposite. The branch secretary spoke at some length on the matter of pay rises. I dreaded the moment for questions because I never had the courage to ask any, but I wanted to prove to McIntyre that I was still the same political enthusiast of old, though why, I don’t know. We had gone our separate ways long since. Before any questions could be asked he had taken over.
‘Five years ago,’ he informed us in his slightly nasal voice, ‘we were as poorly paid as yourselves, but we fought the management tooth and nail. We resisted their threats. We stuck together, and while I’m not boasting I am pleased to say we are one of the highest paid factories in the district. Don’t give up. Don’t be swayed and don’t be intimidated. You will win in the long run. Yours is the power. Yours is the glory.’ He continued in this vein. I had heard it all before, but it still sounded authentic. Often it held good. Often, but not always. Fifteen years before he had been saying much the same.
‘Let there be no increase in the rents. It is up to us, the people. We shall fight. We shall resist. We shall harass.’ And so we had.
My sister and I along with seven hundred or so council tenants had marched with McIntyre at our head to the Town Hall. We chanted ‘No increase in rents’ until we were hoarse. It must have been difficult for the councillors inside to carry on with their business, which, McIntyre informed us, was the implementation of the new Rent Act. To us at that time it seemed the thin end of the wedge, calling for drastic measures.
The faces of the councillors peered anxiously out of the Town Hall windows while we all booed loudly. McIntyre turned to us, holding up his hands for silence. We quietened down, but not before Walter Johnson, normally an inoffensive simpleton, in the heat of the moment flung a full can of beer at Colonel Martin’s car. This caused a large dent and some of the crowd were splashed. The Colonel was one of the few able councillors, but had no time for the tenant, so irrespective of the Rent Act we couldn’t stand him. Still, we thought it was going a bit far flinging cans of beer around.
McIntyre looked angry. ‘I suggest the person who threw that can return home or I will call an end to this demonstration. There must be no violence.’
He took it for granted that outside his commands we had no will of our own – which we hadn’t, so we moved away from Walter, leaving him in a lonely circle. He shuffled about with a downcast face then finally slouched away from our midst.
A messenger emerged from the building in the shape of Daniel Smith, the town’s well-known benefactor, who was always getting mentioned in the papers for his donations to natives in Moly Pololy or Chitinbanana. This charity cut no ice with us. We believed it should begin at home. McIntyre and Smith withdrew from our earshot. You could have heard a pin drop as we tried to listen, but apart from the nodding and shaking of their heads nothing could be gleaned. Then Smith retreated hurriedly and McIntyre conveyed the message. ‘I think we’ve got them worried. I am informed they are going to discuss all the implications of the Rent Act and will tell me first thing in the morning what the result is. I am confident they are impressed by the wishes of you, the people. So my friends, I would ask you to return home and await the verdict, which I think will be favourable.’
We all cheered and broke up in good spirits.
In the morning the headlines of the local paper read, ‘RENT ACT GOES THROUGH, DESPITE DEMONSTRATION BY TENANTS’. My sister, one of our revolutionary committee, was very angry.
‘Who does that McIntyre think he is, trying to fool us last night that there would be no increases?’ Though McIntyre was the leader of our movement she had never liked him. I was disappointed too, but more on his behalf, rather than because we would have to pay a few shillings extra on the rent.
‘Well, he tried,’ I said. ‘It’s no reflection on him. He did his best.’
‘Thanks to him my husband is not speaking to me. He is fed up with my gallivanting to all those tenant meetings.’
‘That’s not McIntyre’s fault.’
‘You are infatuated with the man, and always have been.’
> I didn’t answer. Infatuated was not the correct word, though I had never met anyone like him before. He spoke of little else but how to change the world for the benefit of the people – when his eyes would light up with a passion which would probably never be inspired by me or any other woman.
The first time I had had any contact with him was at a meeting my sister and I attended more out of boredom than anything else. He spoke against the council and the careless manner in which they spent the ratepayers’ money. I admired his style and thought he had guts. Previously I had assumed the councillors were a bunch of well-meaning citizens, but he opened my eyes. On the way out I was close behind him wondering if I dare make any kind of an approach. Suddenly I was pushed against him with the surge of the crowd. He placed his hand on my shoulder to steady me and smiled. I wanted to say something intelligent, but before I could, he looked beyond me to someone he recognised. It seemed he was always looking beyond me.
‘You won’t get me to come to any more of his stupid meetings,’ my sister stated. She was wrong. Curiosity always got the better of her. Our next meeting was very much reduced in numbers, but the hardy few of us left apparently had another part to play. It was then I got the impression that McIntyre had forgotten that the Rent Act had gone through, because he ignored this point and carried on to tell us of the next stage of his campaign.
‘As you know,’ he said, ‘Saturday is the opening of the new Town Hall. We must be there to demonstrate how we feel about this colossal waste of money and get as many people as we can to turn up. I’ll do some organising and you can do the same – get banners and slogans ready. We will meet outside the cinema. Maybe’, he added dreamily, ‘I could get a band going – I’ve got contacts.’
My sister was doubtful. ‘We haven’t much time. It’s a lot of work. There’s hardly any of us left –’
McIntyre smiled at her sweetly, ‘Of course you can do it.’
‘We’ll try,’ I said.
‘That’s right my dear,’ he said, patting my hand. ‘I know you both will try.’
On Saturday at the proposed time my sister and I along with her kids set off, giggling nervously, and carrying our banners self-consciously. But when we reached the busiest part of the town without meeting any other demonstrators, our faces became frozen with doubt, and we let the kids carry the banners. Eventually they were trailed along the ground until the brave slogan of ‘No Rent Increases’ became unrecognisable with dirt. Outside the new Town Hall, as perfect as a doll’s house, we spied another committee member, Curly MacFadyen, the worse for drink, but no sign of McIntyre or any kind of band. We peered through the glass door and saw that the official opening had begun. My sister looked at me bitterly. Always a woman of quick decisions, though, she opened the door. We barged in, right in the middle of a speech by an elegant lady in a floppy hat. She broke off immediately she saw us. The kids rushed in ahead of us perhaps thinking they were going to the Saturday film matinee, and Curly, bringing up the rear, fell on his back on the slippery polished floor. This should have been funny but no one laughed. The local bigwigs and officials were transfixed in horror behind draped tables. Then an official came to life and moved in front of the floppy-hat lady perhaps anticipating violence but we merely chanted in quavering voices, ‘Justice for the tenants – down with the rent increase.’ For good measure the kids aimed their banners at the table and upset an arrangement of flowers. With crimson faces we caught hold of them and marched them out by the scruff of the neck. Then we had to go back and get Curly who was punching soundlessly at the glass door. And still there was no sign of McIntyre.
