Agnes Owens (30 page)

‘Do you happen to know if the Manchester train is running on time? I didnae see it up on the board.'

The woman looked around. ‘I'm sure I don't know,' she said, her fat face quite petulant. She had on a pale-blue shiny coat, the kind that Mary associated with those worn by older women at weddings. She didn't like the look of this woman at all but being so nervous and jumpy and alone, she felt compelled to tell the woman that she was meeting her son off the Manchester train and though he had a good job down there, he always liked to come up for a holiday whenever he got the chance because, she added appealingly, ‘There's no place like home, is there?'

‘Really,' said the woman, looking straight ahead. Mary coughed and settled back on the bench, staring at her wrist and surprised to see no watch on it. She must have left it behind in her hurry
to get away. It had been a present from one of the staff too. Well, they could keep it for all she cared, and anyway there was a clock hanging from a pole facing platform 10, so there was no need to worry about the time. All the same, she began to get a bit uptight when she noticed the woman put on a pair of grey kid gloves then begin stroking the backs of them, one hand with another, as though they were pet mice.

‘Do you mind not doing that,' said Mary.

‘What do you mean?' said the woman, her eyes bulging with indignation as she stared hard at Mary.

‘Well, you see it reminds me of the time Brian had his gerbils. He used to stroke them like the way you're doing. Then one day he squashed them, accidentally, mind you. He wouldn't do it deliberately. My Brian was always good with animals –'

The woman broke in. ‘If you don't mind, I don't want to hear any more about your Brian.' Then she looked behind her as if expecting to see someone she knew.

‘I'm sorry if I've offended you,' said Mary. ‘It's just that Brian cried so hard about his gerbils.'

‘This is too much,' said the woman. She stood up and stamped off down the terrazzo-tiled floor of the station, her heels clicking like castanets. Perplexed, Mary watched her go, wondering what she'd said to annoy this woman with a face like a pig and legs as thick as tree trunks. Likely she was off her head. You were bound to meet people like that in a railway station. That pale-blue coat she had was a ridiculous colour for a woman of her age. Thinking about clothes made Mary wonder if Brian would be ashamed when he saw how she was dressed. Her coat was warm and comfortable but she'd had it for ages, and as for her boots (she reflected, stretching her legs out), the tops were as wrinkled as concertinas, even though she had bought them only two years ago. She frowned. Something else had happened two years ago – something of importance. She was sure it would come to her sometime. She asked a passing porter if the Manchester train was due soon. ‘Any minute
now,' he said, giving her a suspicious glance. When the train arrived at platform 10 she was standing in front of it, calm and smiling. People came spilling out through the doors but no one who looked like Brian. On the other hand he might have altered a lot since he'd left home, grown taller or fatter, maybe. Her heart leapt when she noticed one young man coming towards her who might possibly be him. He had the same longish chin and colour of hair, though his was worn shorter than Brian's but it was quite possible he'd had it cut by now.

‘Excuse me,' she said, standing in front of him. ‘Are you Brian McGuire?'

‘Shove off,' he said, his face red and indignant.

She stared after him, humiliated. It was terrible the way she got everything wrong nowadays. Come to think of it, that fellow had been nothing near as good-looking as Brian, even allowing for slight changes. Within minutes the people had dispersed and she was left standing on the empty platform. The driver pulled down his window to look at her curiously.

‘Can you tell me when the next train arrives in from Manchester?' she asked him. ‘You see, I expected my son to be on the one that just came in, but he must have missed it.'

‘It's not due for another three hours,' said the driver, ‘and it won't come into this platform. As a matter of fact, this one is now going to Greenock.'

‘Greenock,' said Mary, her face brightening. ‘I believe I've been there once. It's rather a nice place as far as I can remember.'

‘Is it?' said the driver, pulling his window back up while she suddenly remembered it was Ayr that she was thinking of. She'd taken Brian there on his twelfth birthday. She remembered how he'd sat tight-lipped and sullen on the journey because she'd snatched the packet of cigarettes out of his hand before they'd stepped onto the train.

‘It doesn't look right smoking in front of your mother at your age,' she'd told him. ‘You'll get them back when we get there.'

‘Aye, and that's a whole two fuckin' hours away,' he'd said.

On looking back she saw it as a good day. Brian had spent all his time in the amusements when he wasn't lighting up fags, while she had sat on a seat on the esplanade looking out on a stormy sea. After that she'd taken a walk along the beach where the sand blew into her eyes. Still, it had been May, so what could she expect. Anyway, the cold wind had made her all the more appreciative of the warm café where she ordered tea and scones. Brian had stood outside eating a fish supper. He wouldn't be seen dead in a dump like that, he'd explained. She sighed with regret that he was too old to take anywhere now and even apart from that she knew he preferred being with his pals. She began to wonder what she could do to pass the time. Perhaps she should go for a cup of tea if Wimpy's was still open. Her hand searched inside her coat pocket for the pound coin she had amongst some change. She might even manage to buy herself a cake. It was such a nuisance that she had lost track of what things cost nowadays. She was walking in what she hoped was the right direction for Wimpy's when she saw in the distance the woman in the pale-blue coat talking to a porter and pointing in her direction. Mary panicked. Was the woman complaining about something, saying she'd been sworn at, or worse still, assaulted? This had happened to her before on a chance encounter with another crazy bitch who'd said Mary had tried to steal her purse, which was a downright lie; nevertheless she had ended up in court charged with attempted theft, and fined. Don't let it happen again, she prayed. Luckily the Ladies was only a few yards away. She nipped into it quickly down a few stairs then through a turnstile marked
OUT OF ORDER
.

‘Ten pence, please,' called the attendant.

Mary turned back and threw a few coins on the counter which she was sure was more than enough but she had no time to count them in case the woman in the blue coat was following her. Inside the cubicle she waited for at least ten minutes. By the time she came back up into the station there was no sign of the woman.
The place was strangely deserted except for a few people sitting or standing here and there. Perhaps they'd nowhere else to go, thought Mary. At least she had a reason to be here. She began to wander down past the shops on the left-hand side of the station, all closed but their windows displaying articles which Mary considered were trash. Imagine paying five pounds for a tie and worse, forty pounds for a thick, ugly string of beads no better than the ones her mother used to keep in a chest. The coffee house, still open, was more interesting in its own way with its delicious smell of coffee wafting through the door. But she would never have gone in there even if she could have afforded it. It was much too snobbish-looking. She would have been very much out of place. The Wimpy bar was closed when she came to it so she went back up to the kiosk that sold newspapers and chocolate, thinking a Milky Way would do her fine, and discovering it was closed too. She saw a man standing at the side of the kiosk wearing a long fawn raincoat and drinking out of a dark bottle. She glanced at him without meaning to as she walked past but something about him made her stop and turn back. The man took the bottle away from his mouth.

‘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.'