by Agnes Owens
Intruders
Nobody lived in the terrace any more apart from an old man who’d refused to leave when it had been condemned. Then one night tinkers crept in for shelter and stayed for ages. There was also a boy who hung around the crumbling doorways sniffing glue. Nobody worried about these folk. The authorities knew they’d shift when the bulldozer moved in.
Entering a room whose only furniture was a table and two chairs left by the previous owner, George the tinker asked his wife, ‘Where is she then?’
‘If it’s Greta yer talkin’ aboot,’ said Flora, ‘Ah dinnae ken. She was away when Ah got up.’
‘Whit time was that?’
‘Ah’m no’ sure. Whit difference dis it make?’
‘Nane.’
George lifted his tobacco-tin with an air of exhaustion. He’d drunk too much the night before and doubted if he’d feel better before he drank some more but the bottle on the table was empty. After watching him make a very thin roll-up Flora gestured to a heap of ash in the grate.
‘Mibby you could see yer way to bringin’ in wood for a fire afore we freeze to death.’ She pointed to the child under a heap of blankets in a big pram. ‘If ye don’t, how wull Ah heat his milk?’
‘Give it to him cauld,’ said George, who had forgotten to chop up logs the night before but didn’t want to admit it. He offered his wife the roll-up. She refused.
‘If he takes it cauld he’ll get a chill.’
‘He usually takes it cauld,’ said George, closing his eyes to blot out his wife’s accusing face.
He opened them when she poked his arm saying, ‘Mibby she’s gone tae Maggie’s.’
‘Who’s gone tae Maggie’s?’
‘Greta, you fool.’
He thought for a minute then said, ‘Maggie’s is miles away.’
‘She could’ve got a lift.’
‘And somethin’ else beside,’ he said darkly.
‘Greta can look efter hersel’. She’s nearly sixteen,’ said Flora though inwardly angered as well as worried by her daughter’s disappearance. Greta had been good with the child. ‘Onyway,’ she added, ‘Ah widnae be surprised if she’s got money for the fares. You know whit she’s like.’
‘Naw. Whit’s she like?’
‘You know as well as Ah dae that she’s good at the cadgin’, with her being so pretty and well spoken like Ah wis masel’ once.’
George gave a harsh laugh. ‘That must have been afore ma time.’
Flora’s anger flared up as the child began to whimper. ‘You’d better get that fire goin’. The bairnie’s cauld.’
‘He’s no sae much cauld as hungry,’ said George. ‘Gie him somethin’ tae eat.’
Flora spread some jam on a slice of bread and gave it to the child, who immediately stopped whimpering as if to prove his father’s point.
‘Ah telt ye he wis hungry,’ said George, adding quickly when he saw the look on Flora’s face, ‘Ah’ll fetch the logs as soon as Ah smoke this fag.’
‘Ah’m no’ waitin’,’ said Flora, blowing on her hands then rubbing them together. ‘Ah’m gaun tae lie under the blankets ben the room. It’s the only way Ah’ll get a heat.’
‘Me too,’ said George. ‘Ah could dae with a right cosy kip.’
‘You’re stayin’ here tae look after him. He’ll no want tae lie doon noo he’s wakened and he cannae be left by hissel’.’ As an afterthought she added that maybe they should take a walk later to look for Greta.
‘Ah thought you said she’d likely be at Maggie’s?’
‘There’s nae herm in lookin’,’ said Flora. With that she was off into a back room leaving George staring after her resentfully.
Two hours later they walked along the pavement with Flora pushing the pram. The child could easily have walked but pushing him was less trouble. When they reached the Rowantree Inn she suggested that they buy some cans of lager. George frowned as if it hadn’t been his intention, then produced some silver from his pocket.
‘It so happens Ah might hae enough,’ he said, disappearing into the public bar. Minutes later he came out with four cans of lager, three of which he placed in the bottom of the pram. The other they drank between them before setting off. When they reached a side road leading up a hill Flora turned the pram in its direction. George asked her why as it only led to a farm.
‘Ah like the smell o’ dung.’
Bemused, George scratched his head then said, ‘Isn’t that the place where they offered me a job once?’
‘Which ye didnae take.’
‘Well, Ah hope you dinnae think Ah’m takin’ it noo,’ said George. He drew her attention to the child rolling the cans up and down the pram. ‘They’re gaun tae be fizzing all over the place when we open them.’
‘Stop yer grumblin’,’ said Flora. ‘Yer always grumblin’.’
George reached for a can and she told him to leave it until later.
As the top of the hill they sat on a grassy verge next to the farmhouse wall with the child crushed between them. Flora was drinking from her can when George asked her why, if they were supposed to be looking for Greta, they had come up here.
‘Ah’m no sure,’ she said. ‘Ah thought we might run intae her, but it doesnae seem likely. Mibby she’s at Maggie’s right enough.’
‘So how can ye be sure o’ that then?’
‘Ah never said Ah wis sure. Ah’m only thinkin’ she might be because she wis aye talkin’ aboot her aunt’s fine caravan and how could we no’ stay wi’ her instead o’ that dump we’re in. That’s whit she wis aye sayin’.’
George swallowed some lager. ‘Ah don’t know how she could say that when she knows fine Ah couldnae staun bein wi’ your sister for a single second, fine caravan or no’.’
‘Maggie couldnae staun you either but Ah don’t doubt she wid have been pleased tae see some o’ her kinsfolk. It’s no’ fair Ah don’t get tae visit her because o’ you.’
‘Because o’ me?’ said George indignantly. ‘You can go and see her ony time ye want.’
At that point the child began to struggle.
‘Stop that, ye devil,’ said Flora, giving him a nip on the leg which made him sit still. ‘Ah think Ah wull go,’ she said, resuming the previous subject. ‘Ah might as well enjoy masel’ for a chinge.’
‘Don’t forget it takes money,’ said George.
‘Mibby Ah could get a lift.’
‘Who’s gaun tae gie you a lift?’ said George in a derisive tone. ‘Yer no whit ye’d call good-lookin’.’
Flora looked round at him dangerously. ‘Whit’s that ye said?’
‘Ah wis just jokin’,’ said George hurriedly. ‘Ye can be good-lookin’ enough when ye want tae.’
He made them each a roll-up. Slightly mollified, Flora took hers then pointed out they could both go to Maggie’s when the giro came since by then they’d have the money for fares.
‘Mibby,’ said George. ‘But whit if Greta’s no’ there? Whit will we dae then?’
‘We’ll have tae report her missin’.’
She took a sip of lager then spat it out. ‘That stuff ’s rotten,’ she said. ‘Either that or it’s ma stomach.’
George then said that if they reported Greta missing the cops would find they were living in the terrace and boot them out and they’d have nowhere to go.
‘So whit can we dae?’ said Flora sourly. The dampness of the grass was seeping through her skirt and her stomach felt queasy. The child began struggling again and she put the can to his mouth to shut him up. He pushed it away, spilling the contents. She lost her temper and threw it over the wall, then stood up and almost flung the child into the pram.
‘Ah’m gaun back,’ she said. ‘This place stinks.’
‘Hey, wait a minute,’ said George. ‘There’s still a can left.’
‘You take it,’ said Flora. ‘Onyway, Ah’ve got this funny feelin’ Greta could be in by noo and wonderin’ where we are.’
‘You and your funny feelin’s,’ said George
. ‘Ah widnae be surprised if you’ve gone clean oot yer mind.’
‘Neither wid Ah,’ said Flora.
In silence they walked back the way they’d come. The child was lulled to sleep with the bumping of the pram. George finished his lager and threw the empty can into a turnip field.
‘Ah’ll get some o’ these turnips later,’ he promised.
Flora didn’t bother to answer. They were halfway down the terrace lane when they encountered the boy standing in a doorway with a Cellophane bag stuck to his chin.
‘God, you gied me a fright,’ Flora said to him. ‘Whit’s that thing on your jaw?’
George said, couldn’t she see it was for sniffing glue, then asked the boy if he’d seen a girl hanging around the place, pretty and fair-haired. The boy, frightened at being spoken to, ran off.
‘Ah dinnae like the look o’ him,’ said Flora. ‘Ah widnae be surprised if he knows somethin’.’
‘Like whit?’
‘Like where Greta is. Ah’d go efter him if Ah wis you.’
George sighed. The whole business was beginning to give him a headache. He suspected Greta wasn’t far away but he wished she was, for she’d been getting on his nerves lately. That last time she’d stolen his money, he’d had to keep his mouth shut about it in case she told Flora what they got up to when she was away for the messages. It would suit him better if she never turned up.
‘Let’s forget aboot Greta,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty ither things on ma mind.’
‘Whit kind o’ things?’
‘Things like me gettin’ in tae the hoose so’s Ah can rest ma bones in a chair. Ah dinnae ken whit’s wrang wi’ me this weather but Ah’m always tired.’
‘So you want me tae forget ma daughter,’ said Flora bitterly. ‘Is that whit yer sayin’?’
‘She’s no’ ma daughter,’ said George. ‘I didnae clap eyes on her until she wis ten.’
Unable to dispute the truth of this, Flora said with mounting fury, ‘Ye’ll be tellin’ me next that bairn in the pram isnae yours either?’
‘Ah widnae be surprised if he’s no’,’ said George, taking the pram off her and pushing it along the cobble-stones in a desperate fashion. When they reached the stairs leading to their makeshift home he ordered her to give him a hand up. Sullenly she complied.
Inside the living room they both sat down on the chairs with their legs apart.
‘So she never came back,’ said Flora after a while.
George, who’d been about to doze off, opened one eye and said, ‘She’s probably at Maggie’s.’
‘Probably,’ said Flora. She stared at the grate full of dead ash and was about to ask George to go and fetch in logs but decided against it when he began to snore. He usually got into a rage when awakened suddenly. She’d fetch them in herself. With a sigh she stood up and went outside.
From within a doorway, the boy who’d been sniffing glue saw her cross the lane and go into one of the old wash-houses and wondered if she was looking for the girl. If he hadn’t taken fright when they bumped into him earlier he could have explained that he’d seen the girl go up the old man’s stairs. Though they might not have believed him. They’d looked at him very suspiciously. In any case it wasn’t the first time he’d seen the girl go up the old man’s stairs. Maybe it was to clean his house or make him a cup of tea. He couldn’t imagine what else it could be. Anyway, it was none of his business what she did and besides, tinkers were always best avoided. They didn’t act like normal people. He was thinking these things when someone grabbed him by the back of his jumper.
‘Got you,’ said a man’s voice. ‘And sniffing glue as well. You’re definitely for it now.’
The boy managed to twist his head round far enough to see the man from the school-board.
‘Ah’ll come,’ said the boy, ‘but leave me go.’
The man only tightened his hold on the jumper and frogmarched him down the lane. By that time the tinker girl was clean gone from the boy’s mind. He’d too much else to worry about.
Léonie
This is an account of a day in the life of Léonie Fabre who lived in a village in Provence. Before the war it had been a good place to stay though the villagers sometimes referred to it as a hole in the ground, encircled as it was by a canyon of rock and overshadowed by a range of mountains. Tourists came to gaze at the mountains and the canyon and most of all the fountain of water that poured from a cleft in the base of the rock, filling a basin in the earth then spilling over to become a fast-flowing river that ran through the centre of the village. But when war broke out no one came except soldiers and foreign officials. The village had become occupied.
On the morning of this particular day Léonie opened the shutters and was dismayed to see that snow had fallen during the night. It was three years since snow had last fallen but she did not welcome it the more for that, especially when she must go to the store for bread and tobacco. Her shoes were unsuitable for walking through snow and she had nothing better to wear. She turned to her husband who sat tapping his pipe on the table.
‘I suppose you have no tobacco left?’ she asked.
‘You have supposed correctly,’ he said with a scowl on his dark, lean face. Though middle-aged he appeared much younger, perhaps because of his lithe figure, and his hair which was as black as a raven. His eyes were cold and when he smiled, which was seldom, he did so grudgingly. He was known in the village as a very proud man. Some said he was merely overbearing and conceited because of the land he owned. Most of the villagers owned land but not as much as he. His crops were the finest and even though part of them was confiscated by the foreign officials he still tended them lovingly and diligently. Léonie, though younger than her husband, had aged beyond her years. Her face, pretty at one time, was pinched and marked with lines. Her once light-brown and curling hair had become dingy and lifeless. Her expression had been serene but was now permanently anxious. Those changes had taken place after her son had been drowned on his ninth birthday many years before. They were not caused by the strain of living in an occupied village.
‘I suppose you know it is snowing,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘You are still going to the land then?’
‘Where else?’
‘I thought perhaps because of the snow –’
‘Whether it is snowing or not there is always something to do. Besides I would go out of my mind if I did not get to my land.’ He threw her a disparaging glance. ‘It is the only thing that gives me any pleasure.’
Léonie plucked at her lips nervously. ‘I was thinking that perhaps I might not be able to get any more tobacco from the store. As you know it is rationed and I –’
Her husband answered loudly, ‘Then I must go without.’
‘On the other hand perhaps if I pay extra Madame Renet will allow me some. It is scarce, you understand, but sometimes she can get it from the black market which means I have to pay extra.’
‘In the name of God,’ her husband shouted, ‘do not tire me with all this talk of tobacco. If you cannot get it for me someone else will and without any fuss either. You should know by this time I depend on you for very little.’
‘Yes,’ she said vaguely, relieved to hear that the responsibility of his tobacco did not entirely rest with her. She still knew she would have to try the store for it was not certain he would get it from someone else.
She began to speak on a subject that had been on her mind since she had heard about it from Lotz the postman.
‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I cannot get it out of my head about the Mayor.’
‘The Mayor?’
‘According to Lotz it appears he has been burned to death in some kind of place called a concentration camp. I was going to tell you last night after you finished your meal. But when you fell asleep I decided it was best not to disturb you. But isn’t that terrible if it’s true?’
Her husband frowned as he pondered on this. Then he said, ‘I doubt that it will be
true. Why should they burn a cowardly man like the Mayor who has never shown his face in the village since the occupation began?’
‘Lotz said that the foreign officials took him away many months ago and only now has this terrible news been heard. If it is not true why should he tell such a story?’
‘Because he is a gossip and a liar like all the others in this village who have nothing else to do than make up tales.’
‘But what if it is true?’
‘Then if it is true I would say the Mayor has done something to deserve it. He was always a corrupt man and easily bribed. I remember the time he got young Patrice Rouyer out of the village to stand trial in the city after he raped a servant girl and so got off with a light sentence instead of being lynched by the villagers as he deserved. Of course the Rouyer family were rich in those days so the Mayor would have been well paid.’
‘I do not recall that,’ said Léonie, ‘but anyway, Lotz said that the Mayor was burned because his own son is one of those who lives in the mountains.’
Her husband smiled sardonically. ‘Oh, well, that would be reason enough to burn the Mayor when his son is one of those who take it upon themselves to blow up a train or a bridge and let innocent people pay the price. But even if Lotz’s story is true I am not concerned. I have more important matters to think of.’
He rose from his chair and picked up his jacket from their bed near the fireplace then lifted his parcel of bread and cheese from the dresser and left without saying goodbye.
The moment he had gone Léonie entered the one other room, which had been her son’s, and sat on the edge of the bed where he had slept, waiting for what she thought of as his presence. This presence was nothing she could see or touch. Sometimes it was like a warm draught in her face and sometimes like a soft breathing in her ears. Once she actually thought she saw his shape at the foot of the bed but when she reached out with her hand it disappeared. She told no one of this, certainly not her husband, and she never entered this room when her husband was at home. It was her one solace.
