Agnes Owens (3 page)

One particularly dreich evening I was waiting at the bus stop, soaked to the skin. My bones ached from damp clothing. All day I had been sitting in the hut at the building site waiting for the rain to stop in order to get on with the vocation of laying the brick, but it never halted. We played cards, ate soggy pieces and
headed with curses for the toilet. On that site it was wherever you happened to find a convenient spot.

So I was thankful when Willie Morrison drew up with his honkytonk motor like something out of Wacky Races.

‘Jump in Mac,' he said.

I did so with alacrity, hoping the door would not fall on my feet. It was that type of motor.

‘Thanks Wullie.'

We proceeded in silence since Willie had a job to see where he was going. The windscreen wipers did not work too well. I was on the point of falling asleep when suddenly we hit a large object.

‘Watch where yer gaun,' I said, very much aggrieved that my head had banged against the window. A spray of liquid spurted over our vision. For a sickening minute I thought it was blood, then I realised it was water from the radiator.

‘My God, that's done it,' croaked Willie. Panicking, I opened the door regardless of the danger to my feet. I was just in time to see the shadow of an animal limp towards the hedge.

‘Ye've hit an animal o' some kind,' I said.

‘Whit wis it – a coo?'

‘Don't be daft. This motor wid have nae chance against a coo. I think it wis a dug.'

‘Och a dug. It's nae right bein' on the road.'

He started up the engine and with a great amount of spluttering the car roared off at thirty miles an hour. I felt a bit gloomy at the thought of a dog maybe bleeding to death in the sodden hedgerow, but Willie was only concerned for his car.

‘This motor's likely jiggered noo.'

I couldn't be bothered to point out that it was jiggered before. I was only wishing I had taken the bus. We reached our destination without saying much. Hunger had overcome my thoughts on the dog. I hoped my mother had something tasty for the dinner, which would be unlikely.

Some days later I happened to be in McDonald's company.
McDonald was like his dog, very difficult at times. But in the convivial atmosphere of the Paxton Arms we were often thrown together, and under the levelling influence of alcohol we would view each other with friendly eyes. Though you had to take your chances with him. On occasions his eyes would be more baleful than friendly. Then, if your senses were not completely gone, you discreetly moved away. McDonald labelled himself a ploughman. To prove it he lived in a ramshackle cottage close to a farm. Though the word cottage was an exaggeration. It was more like an old bothy. Some folk said he was a squatter, and some folk said he was a tinker, but never to his face. On this occasion I was not too sure about his mood. He appeared sober, but depressed.

‘How's things?' I asked, testing him out to see if I should edge nearer to him.

‘Could be better.'

‘How's that then?' I asked.

‘It's that dug o' mine.'

‘Yer dug?'

‘Aye. Some bastard run him ower.'

‘That's terrible Paddy.' My brain was alert to danger.

‘As ye know yersel,' continued McDonald, unobservant of the shifty look in my eyes, ‘ma dug is no' ordinary dug. It's a good hardworking dug. In fact,' his chest heaved with emotion, ‘ye could say that dug has kept me body and soul when I hudny a penny left.'

I nodded sympathetically. McDonald's dole money was often augmented by rabbits, hares and pheasants that he sold at half the butcher's price.

‘An' d'ye know,' he stabbed my chest with a grimy finger, ‘I've hud tae fork oot ten pounds for a vet. Think o' that man – ten pounds!'

I didn't believe him about the ten pounds, but I was relieved the dog wasn't dead.

‘Where's the dug noo?' I asked.

‘The poor beast's restin' in the hoose.'

I remembered his house. On one or two occasions I had
partaken of his hospitality. A bottle of wine had been the passport. He kept live rabbits in the oven – lucky for them it was in disuse – pigeons in a cage in the bedroom, and a scabby cat always asleep at the end of a lumpy sofa, with the dog at the other end. I don't know if this menagerie lived in harmony, but they had survived so far. I thought at this stage I had better buy him a drink to take the edge off his bitterness before I shifted my custom. It was obvious his mood would not improve with all this on his mind. McDonald swallowed the beer appreciatively but he was reluctant to change the subject.

‘An' I'm tellin' ye, if I get ma haunds on the rat that done it I'll hing him.'

‘It's a right rotten thing tae happen.' To get out of it all I added, ‘I wish I could stay an' keep ye company, but I huv tae gie Jimmy Wilson a haun' wi' his fence, so see ye later.'

Swiftly I headed for the Trap Inn hoping I would see Willie Morrison to break the bad news to him. However, it was a couple of days before I met Willie again. He was waiting at the bus stop motorless, and with the jaundiced look of a man who has come down in the world. He grunted an acknowledgement.

‘Huv ye no' got yer motor?' I asked.

‘Naw.'

He shuffled about, then explained. ‘Mind that night we hit that dug?'

I nodded.

‘Well, the motor has been aff the road ever since. And dae ye know whit it'll cost me tae get it fixed?'

‘Naw,' I said, although I was not all that much agog.

‘Twenty nicker.'

He stared at me for sympathy. Dutifully I rolled my eyes around.

‘That's some lolly.'

‘Anyway I've pit it in the haunds of ma lawyer.' His eyes were hard and vengeful.

Before any more was said the bus rumbled up. Justice was
forgotten. We kicked, jostled and punched to get on, and I was first. Before Willie managed to put his foot on the platform I turned to him saying, ‘I heard it wis McDonald's dug ye run ower.'

In his agitation he sagged and was shoved to the back of the queue.

‘That's enough,' shouted the hard-faced conductress. The bus drove off leaving Willie stranded.

‘I hear that somebody battered Johnny Morrison last night,' said my mother conversationally as she dished out the usual indigestible hash that passed for a meal by her standards.

‘Whit's this then?' I asked, ignoring the information.

‘Whit dae ye mean “whit's this”? It's yer dinner.'

‘I don't want it.'

‘D'ye know whit I've paid for it?'

‘Naw, an' I don't want tae.'

‘You really sicken me. Too much money an' too many Chinese takeaways, that's your trouble.'

‘Shut up, an' gies a piece o' toast.'

‘Oh well, if that's all ye want then,' she said, mollified.

She was very good at toast.

Then her opening remark dawned on me. ‘Whit wis that ye said aboot Johnny Morrison?'

She poured out the tea, which flowed from the spout like treacle. ‘Jist as I said. He opened the door aboot eleven at night an' somebody battered him.'

‘Whit for?' I asked. I would have seen the connection if it had been Willie.

‘How should I know? He got the polis in but he didny recognise the man. He had a pair o' tights ower his heid.'

‘Tights,' I echoed. ‘Do ye no' mean nylons?'

Stranger and stranger, I thought. I could hardly see Paddy McDonald wearing either tights or nylons, just to give somebody a doing. Anyway, two odd socks were his usual concession to
style. And why batter Willie's brother? Not unless he was out to get the whole family.

I was soon put out of my bewilderment. On Saturday night I saw Paddy McDonald in the Paxton, swaying like a reed in the wind. His expression was one of benignity for all mankind, but like a bloodhound or his lurcher he spied me straightaway.

‘There ye are son. Here whiddy ye want tae drink?'

Straightaway I said, ‘A hauf an' a hauf-pint.' I was in a reckless mood and heedless of hazards. It was a Saturday, and I was out to enjoy myself. I was going to get bevvied.

He took a roll of notes from his pocket and waved one of them in the direction of the barman like a flag of victory.

‘You seem to be loaded,' I said.

‘Aye.'

‘Did somebody kick the bucket and leave you a fortune?'

‘It's no' a' that much,' he replied modestly. ‘Only twenty pounds.'

‘How dae ye manage tae have that on a Saturday?' McDonald's money was usually long gone by that time. He got his dole money on a Friday.

He was lost in a reverie of happy fulfilment. Before he could make any disclosures Johnny Morrison entered. Both his eyes were a horrible shade of yellowish green and there was a bit of sticking plaster above one of them. McDonald regarded him with concern. ‘That's a terrible face ye have on ye Johnny.'

‘D'ye think I don't know. Ye don't have tae tell me!' replied Johnny with emotion.

‘Have a drink John,' said McDonald. ‘Wi' a face like that ye deserve one.'

He waved another pound at the barman.

After doing his duty by Johnny he turned to me and put an arm round my shoulder.

‘I wis really sorry aboot Johnny,' he whispered.

‘Wis it you that done it then?'

‘Dear God naw, though I know how it happened.' Dreamily he paused.

‘How?' Now I was interested and hoped he would not sag to the floor before he could tell me. He swayed a bit then came back to the subject.

‘D'ye know that heid-banger Pally McComb?'

I nodded.

‘Well, I heard it was Wullie Morrison that ran ower ma dug. So I gave Pally a couple o' rabbits tae gie him a doin'. I wid have done it masel but I didny want involved wi' the law.' His voice sank confidentially. ‘As ye know I huvny got a dug licence. Anyway, Pally is that shortsighted that he didny know the difference between Wullie and Johnny, so he banged Johnny.'

‘I see,' I said, but I didn't think it was such a great story.

‘How's the dug then?'

‘I selt it.'

‘Ye selt it?'

‘Aye, it wis gettin' past it. Matter o' fact it wis a bloody nuisance wi' a' these complaints aboot it. But dae ye know who I selt it tae?'

‘Naw.'

He began to laugh then went into paroxysms of coughing. I was getting impatient. He finally calmed down.

‘It wis Wullie Morrison that bought it.'

I said nothing. I couldn't make any sense out of it.

‘Ye see,' McDonald wiped the tears from his eyes, ‘I sent Pally up wi' a note tae Wullie this afternoon tae say he'd better buy the dug, due tae its poor condition efter bein' run ower, or else. Well, he must have seen the state o' his brother's face, so he sent the money doon right away. Mind ye, I didny think he'd gie me twenty pound. Personally I'd have settled for a fiver.'

‘Wullie could never stick the thought o' pain,' I said. I began to laugh as well, and hoped Paddy would keep on his feet long enough to get me another drink.

‘Right enough, Paddy,' I said, holding firmly on to him, ‘ye're a great case, an' I'll personally see that when ye kick the bucket ye'll get a big stane above yer grave, me bein' in the buildin' trade an' that.'

I
was taking a slow amble along the river bank. The weather was fine, one of those spring mornings that should gladden anyone's heart. The birds were singing, the trees were budding and the fishing season had started, but I was feeling lousy. The scar in my temple and the cuts round my mouth were nipping like first-degree burns. My neck felt like a bit of hose pipe and the lump on the back of my head was so tender that even the slightest breeze lifting my hair made me wince. My mother's remark, ‘You look like Frankenstein', had not been conducive to social mixing, but since I wanted someone to talk to I decided to look up my old china Paddy McDonald because at times he could be an understanding man if he was not too full of the jungle juice.

I turned with the bend in the river and there on the bank, under the old wooden bridge, was a gathering of his cronies, namely, Billy Brown, Big Mick, Baldy Patterson and Craw Young. They were huddled round a large flat stone that displayed two bottles of Eldorado wine and some cans of beer, but I could not see Paddy.

They did not hear or see me approaching. Billy Brown jumped up as startled as a March hare when I asked, ‘Where's Paddy?' at the same time staring hopefully at the wine.

‘Paddy's died,' he informed me.

My brain could scarcely adjust itself to this statement.

‘That canny be true.' Without waiting for the offer I took a swig from the bottle.

‘It's true right enough,' replied Billy, smartly grabbing it back.
‘I found him masel up in the Drive as cauld as ice an' as blue as Ian Paisley.'

The Drive was a derelict building where the boys did their drinking when it was too cold for outdoors.

‘Whit happened to yer face?' asked Big Mick.

‘That's a long story.' I was so stunned by the news that I had forgotten about my face for the first time since I woke up. Billy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were like saucers and his face greyer than grey. He was a close associate of Paddy's. Not exactly a mate, more like a sparring partner, but they spent a lot of time together except when they were in jail.

‘I didny know whit tae dae, so I got the polis in an' they sent for an ambulance. They carted him off while I waited ootside.'

‘How dae ye know he wis deid? When Paddy wis out cauld he always looked deid,' I said.

‘If ye'd seen the colour o' his face you'd hiv known he wis deid.' No one disputed this fact.

‘That wis a rerr wee hoose he had,' said Baldy Patterson wistfully. He was referring to the broken-down bothy where Paddy lived. ‘I think I'll go up efter an' see tae his pigeons.'