by Agnes Owens
‘Hey, whit are ye lookin’ at?’
Bleary-eyed and unshaven though he was, Mary thought she recognised him. The more she looked at him, the angrier he became.
‘You want a punch on the face or somethin’?’
It dawned on her who it could be. Of course she mustn’t jump to conclusions.
‘Pardon me,’ she said, ‘but do you happen to be Brian McGuire who used to live with his wife Mary along in Young Street twenty years ago, though I expect the place is not there now and –’
‘What the fuck are you on about?’ he said, wiping the side of his mouth.
She could have slapped his face at the rotten way he spoke to her, but then even in those early days he had been a foul-mouthed drunkard.
‘I’m Mary, your wife.’
‘Mary,’ he repeated, as if this information was no surprise. He held out the bottle. ‘Dae ye want some of this?’
‘No thanks, I only usually have a port and lemon.’
The last time she had a port and lemon was on Christmas Day with two of the staff. It was funny how she could remember that. Yet she couldn’t remember the important things, like what the thing was that had happened two years ago.
‘Don’t be so bloody sarcastic when I’m only tryin’ to be civil,’ said the drunk whose name she was convinced was Brian McGuire.
‘Do you know,’ she told him, ‘you’ve got a son who’s coming up in the Manchester train. Don’t you think you should go and meet him?’
Even as she said this she couldn’t see Brian pleased to find this man was his father. The drunk man puffed his cheeks and shook his head as if all this information was getting him down. He thrust the bottle in front of her face.
‘Better take some o’ that. You need it mair than I dae.’
This time Mary accepted the bottle, wiping it first with the rim of her coat sleeve before she put it to her mouth.
‘Anyway,’ said the drunk, ‘my wife’s name wis Nan and she’s been deid a long time so it’s no’ possible.’
‘Would you like to see Brian’s photo?’ asked Mary, fumbling inside her dress. The drunk held up a hand in warning.
‘Don’t try pinnin’ anything on me. I’ve nae son.’
Mary didn’t answer. Her attention was taken up by the sight of a policeman heading in their direction. The drunk must have seen him too for he shoved the bottle in his coat pocket and moved hastily towards the taxi rank. Blindly, she followed him, and the next thing she was out on the busy street, but not for long. When he veered without warning to his left, she discovered she was in a dark alley enclosed on each side by tall buildings. Unable to see very well, she groped her way along the wall thinking that the drunk man, who might not be her husband after all, would be gone by now, but when she touched his face as he stood inside a doorway, she realised he’d been waiting for her all along. He grabbed her wrist.
‘Right, whit’s your game?’
‘I’ve no game. I only wanted to get away from that policeman.’
He laughed. ‘You’re a hoor then. Is that it?’
‘I told you already, I was waiting on my son coming off the Manchester train.’
The drunk swore under his breath then asked her if she had any money. She told him that she’d only a few coins but when he pulled her towards him and began to put his hands all over her body, she gave him the pound coin she’d been clutching ever since she left the station.
‘Christ, that’ll no’ get much,’ he said savagely, peering at it in the palm of his hand. ‘And you’d the bloody cheek to take some o’ ma drink.’
He took the bottle out of his pocket, emptied what was in it down his throat then smashed it against the wall. Mary was frightened to move in case the glass went through the sole of her boot but that consideration was soon forgotten when she was slammed back against the wall.
‘Scream and I’ll throttle ye,’ said the drunk as he wrenched her coat open. Mary heard the buttons she had newly sewn on that morning rattling along the cobblestones as a flaccid penis was thrust in her hand. ‘Pull it,’ he demanded. Mary did her best to comply in the hope he would let her go all the sooner but nothing happened. It was like flogging a dead horse, she thought. Her arm was getting tired.
‘See you,’ he said, thrusting it off, ‘you’re nae fuckin’ use. Try gi’en it the kiss o’ life.’
When Mary refused absolutely he pulled up her dress and said, ‘Is this whit ye want?’
Then he began to pump away at her as though his life depended on it. Mary’s head hit the wall and as if this jolt had done the trick she remembered suddenly that Brian had died of an overdose two years ago when he’d gone down to Manchester with his junkie friends. ‘There’s nothin’ to dae up here,’ had been his excuse.
‘Oh, my poor Brian,’ she said aloud, wanting to cry but unable to do so with the man’s weight crushing against her.
‘Never mind poor Brian. Think o’ me for a change,’ said the drunk. After what seemed like an eternity, he gave a shudder and became still. It seemed to be over. He must have had some success yet she expected a blow on the mouth. Her husband had always done that. However, the drunk, who was fumbling with the zip on his trousers, only said, ‘Another thing. Ma name’s Ronnie, no’ Brian, so ye can rest assured I’m definitely no’ the man yer lookin’ for,’ then he walked away into the dark.
Mary made sure he was gone before she went back to the station, with the smell of him in her nostrils, which she suspected might never go away. A man and woman came forward to meet her as she headed for platform 10.
‘Right, Mary,’ said the woman taking a hold of her arm, ‘there’s no need to go any farther. You’re coming back with us.’
The man took her other arm. Both their grips were gentle but firm.
‘You’re a bad girl giving us such a hard time trying to find you. Where have you been?’
‘I was waiting for the Manchester train.’
‘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.’
The Marigold Field
After 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.’
‘Sure
ly 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.
