Agnes Owens (45 page)

M
rs Gutters couldn't find her spectacles. This often happened, and it was a nerve-wracking business concealing it from her husband, who would shake his head and tell her she was getting worse, and if it went on he would have to put her in a home. This was meant as a joke but she saw it more as a threat. She knew she was not as fit as she had been, and as for her memory, almost anything told to her more than five minutes previous was wiped clean from her head.

‘What are you looking for now?' he asked in a deceptively kind voice.

‘Nothing,' she said, guiltily dropping a cushion she had lifted from the settee.

‘It wouldn't be your specs, would it?' he said, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

‘As a matter of fact it is. I know they're in the house somewhere.'

‘Did you know you've got them on?'

When she touched her cheek and found no spectacles there he burst out laughing. She said, ‘That's not funny.'

‘If you could see your face you'd think it was.'

She flounced out of the room and immediately found them in the toilet. She was relieved to put the blasted things on, though she would rather have lain down to relax. But he was bound to shout on her about something else and she'd have to get up to listen to him because she'd lost her hearing aid and didn't want him to know about it yet. She kept looking into corners for it but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. She had never expected all the symptoms of old age to hit her so suddenly:
extreme tiredness, loss of balance, a pain in her back from one side to another, and her shopping feeling double the weight. Then losing the hearing aid made it hard to know what people were saying, and when her husband had heard what it cost he had nearly hit the roof. He cried, ‘Why didn't you get it on the National Health?'

‘I did, but their hearing aid didn't work for me.'

She had disliked the young man who attended her at the private clinic. He had a face full of pimples which he shoved close to hers while displaying a substantial amount of wax removed from her ear. This made her feel so sick she thought she might faint.

‘Don't worry Ma,' he said, noticing her discomfort, ‘I'm used to these sort of things from old people. Some of them are a disgusting lot.'

Then he stuck something inside her ear and told her to let him know if she could hear anything.

‘What will I do to let you know?'

‘Anything at all. Throw your knickers in the air if you like.'

Then he laughed aloud. His firm had charged four hundred pounds and she had taken out a bank loan to cover it.

‘Have you not been out the messages yet?' said her husband when he saw her putting on a coat.

‘Not yet. I've been busy.'

‘Looking for your specs I bet.'

He was saying something else when a fresh anxiety struck her: where had she left her purse? Then she remembered she always left it under the mattress in case they were burgled through the night.

‘First place they'll look,' he said.

‘I keep it under my pillow.'

‘Then they'll cut off your head,' he said and went into a fit of laughing that ended in a fit of coughing.

Mrs Gutters did not completely hate her husband or even intensely dislike him, but he was bad-tempered nowadays and
ready to snarl at anything. He wouldn't accept that this was due to his age.

‘It's you that makes me feel that way with your stupid carry-on, always forgetting things.'

Her neighbour over the fence told her, ‘Better a grumpy old man than none at all. You've no idea how lonely I am, living on my own. I don't half miss my husband at night, when it gets dark.'

Mrs Gutters wondered if she was talking about having sex or about loneliness in general. Her neighbour always seemed to be having a good time, going to bingo nearly every night and to Majorca every year for a fortnight's holiday with her daughter. Mrs Gutter's only escape from monotony was watching the telly or reading a book.

‘I wouldn't be seen dead with a book in my hand,' said her neighbour. ‘What good does it do you? No wonder your outlook is always so dreary.'

Mrs Gutters didn't like this neighbour who either tried to make her feel guilty about still having a husband, or was full of pity for her dull life. But today the neighbour had news: a young family was moving into the flat next door, ‘With four children, too!' she added significantly. Mrs Gutters said she supposed they had a right to a flat, especially with four children.

‘Maybe so, but I heard they're not even married. God knows what this country is coming to. It's just like America.'

‘It's the style nowadays,' Mrs Gutters observed mildly.

‘Is that what you call it? Style? It's more like disgusting behaviour, if you ask me.'

This statement forced Mrs Gutters to retreat into her house and be met with a kitchenette full of smoke and an irate husband saying, ‘You left the oven on and the dinner's burnt.'

‘I thought I turned the oven off,' she said weakly. ‘In fact I'm sure I did.'

‘That only goes to show how far gone you are, when you say you're sure.'

Mrs Gutters was almost in tears. She could sense he was going to mention going into a home without joking, and looking at the mess she could hardly blame him.

‘We're going to be burnt in our beds one of these days,' he said. ‘That's what will happen.'

‘Especially to him,' she thought, for he spent most of his day in bed, resting his bad leg.

Her husband said, ‘You'll be the death of me yet,' as she went about the business of cleaning up.

She wondered if she was going demented. This was not the first time she'd set the kitchenette on fire by walking out and forgetting to turn off the cooker. It was becoming a habit. The way things were going, she would have signed herself into a home right now if she had the money to get a good one. It would be easier to throw herself under a train, but she hadn't got the guts. To think of something more cheerful she wondered about the new neighbours. How did a mother cope with four children? She couldn't imagine it, having none of her own. Her husband disliked children because they only caused trouble, he said, but she wouldn't mind keeping an eye on them if their mother had to go out. She would offer to do that when she knew the new neighbours a little better. It didn't pay to be too forward to begin with. These thoughts were interrupted by her husband asking, ‘Did you get that crossword magazine I asked for?'

‘It's on the sideboard.'

‘Well, things are looking up!' he said, rising to his feet with what she thought surprising alacrity, for he was usually complaining about a sore back.

Being ready to enjoy his good mood while it lasted she cheerily shouted, ‘Yes dear.'

Mrs Gutters was happy to see the children playing in their back garden, which converged on hers with a fence and a tree between. When they scrambled up the tree to sit on a branch she sometimes worried that they would fall off. One day the youngest boy who
always climbed highest cried for help because he couldn't get down. She hurried out and stood below, stretching up hands to support his feet, but he pulled them back and stuck out his tongue at her. She almost ran back through her own house, knocked on the new neighbour's door and, when it opened, began explaining what had happened.

‘You mean they're making rude gestures?' said the young woman. ‘My kids are not like that.'

‘I'm not complaining,' said Mrs Gutters. ‘I was just trying to help in case they fell off. I can understand they were annoyed at me interfering, but I was –'

She broke off when the young woman said, ‘My kids know what they're doing! They are not stupid. Besides, it's not your tree, it's on our side of the fence.'

‘I'm not disputing that,' said Mrs Gutters, quietly. In the distance she could hear a man swearing, the father no doubt. It was a pity the children had to hear such language. No wonder they were rude.

‘Well, I can't stand here all day,' said the young woman. ‘His Lordship will be wanting his breakfast.'

As she walked off Mrs Gutters noticed a bruise on her leg and the old woman felt a stab of pity. With a man like that she was bound to be defensive regarding her children. Mrs Gutters could have wept for her, but interfering would put her in the wrong.

Then the unthinkable happened. Next day the youngest boy fell off the tree, landing on his back on her side of the fence. Mrs Gutters ran out as fast as she could, carried him into her house and laid him gently on the couch. She never knew where her strength came from because usually a bag of potatoes seemed too heavy. When she bathed the cut on the back of his head he opened his eyes and said he wanted his mammy.

‘Yes darling, you'll get her as soon as I can.'

She'd almost forgotten about his mother, being so wound up about the boy. She went next door, told his mother what had happened and the young woman went hysterical.

‘What do you mean he's lying on your couch? What have you done with him?'

‘Nothing,' stammered Mrs Gutters. ‘He fell off the tree and I took him into my house because I thought he might have hurt himself.'

She led the way into her house where the boy sat with eyes very wide open. When his mother asked grimly, ‘What happened?' he said, ‘She pushed me.'

‘I didn't,' said Mrs Gutters, turning pale. ‘But maybe he's afraid of getting into trouble for climbing the tree, which I guess is why he is making out I pushed him, like any child would.'

‘You can guess what you like,' said the young woman, ‘but I'm getting the police.'

Mr Gutters, who had been dozing in the bedroom, came out to ask what the commotion was about.

‘Your wife's just after shoving my son off that tree so I'm sending for the police.'

‘Is that right?' said the husband to his wife. ‘Are you mad? I might have known you'd end up doing something like this.' He looked at the young woman and tapped the side of his head. ‘She's been like that for years.'

‘Maybe she should be put away,' said the young woman, softened by the old man's reasonable attitude. ‘I'll let it go this time, but you should keep an eye on her.'

‘I will,' said the husband. ‘Don't you worry.'

Mrs Gutters put her hand to her mouth, a habit she had when confused. She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again. The boy stared up at her fearfully when she said, ‘I meant you no harm.'

The boy sat up and buried his face in his mother's skirt.

‘Don't tell Daddy,' he said.

‘See what I mean?' said the young woman shrugging her shoulders. ‘He'll be upset about this for ages. He's a very sensitive child.'

She took him by the hand and they walked back to their house.
Mrs Gutters was already lying in bed. She hardly ever left it after that. Neighbours who had been there for years often wondered if she had been put in a home, but didn't like to ask her husband. He was always surly and one never got a civil answer.

‘She was a nice enough woman,' said one neighbour, ‘but you could see she was getting past it.'

A
ccording to a neighbour in the flat below we were a dysfunctional family, though I wasn't sure what dysfunctional meant. I sometimes thought it meant we didn't wash enough. My young brother usually had tide marks of dirt up his arms and sometimes I had them. Or perhaps it meant my mother went around all day without stockings.

‘I don't like them,' she'd say, ‘they make my legs itch.'

I didn't like the sight of her bare legs with ugly blue veins showing where she sat too close to the fire; otherwise they were fat and white, like lard. I told her to wear long skirts but she said bare legs gave her a feeling of freedom. Then Albie, my older brother, was doing time for holding up an old-age pensioner with a toy pistol. Was he dysfunctional? Or my Da? He got drunk every Friday so we had to walk the streets until he fell asleep in the big room chair, otherwise he became very violent. I was the in-between sister and didn't think I did much to make the family dysfunctional, but never definitely knew, not being sure of what the word meant. A social worker visited us when Albie was in jail. I and my younger brother were ushered out of the room and pressed our ears to the door to hear what was going on. My mother came out smiling.

‘What do you think?' she said. ‘Albie's being let out for good behaviour.'

Da said, ‘How did they figure that out? He's never had a moment's good behaviour since the day he was born.'

‘Just be nice to him,' said the social worker. ‘Probably that's all he needs.'

Da gave her such a look of disgust that I had to laugh.

‘None of that nonsense from you, miss!' said my mother, ‘Albie has had a terrible time in jail, and don't forget he wasn't always a criminal.'

‘Does that mean he's dysfunctional?' I asked. She glanced at me sharply.

‘Where do you get all these fancy words? I hope you're not swearing.'

‘It's a very good word,' said the social worker. ‘I bet your daughter will turn out clever by the time she leaves school.'

‘That'll be a surprise. She never goes there,' said my Da.

The social worker hesitated as if going to say something about that, then shook her head and said, ‘Good luck with Albie. I'll be back to see how you're getting on.'

‘Do that,' said my mother, and after the woman left added, ‘Interfering bitch.'

It was rotten for me when Albie came home. He lay in bed all the time smoking or snorting dope. Worse still it was my bed, so I had to sleep on the big-room couch until one day he got up early, washed and shaved without saying a word, then left the house and was never seen again. At the evening meal mother started laying out a plate for him, though before that he had never come to the table. When the plate was emptied into the bin my Da said, ‘A waste of good food,' though none of us would have eaten it anyway. I had never liked my older brother but became so bored that I wished he'd come home and liven things up. When he was here you never knew when the cops would come to the door because he'd done something. At school I had written a story about him for a composition, making him out to be wrongly accused of stealing money by a spiteful old-age pensioner. The teacher said this was not the kind of story she wanted and put a big cross through it. I was so angry I stayed off until the school board came to the door threatening Da with a fine. Between one thing and another we at last forgot all about Albie except my mother, who sometimes said he might have gone to Australia to live with a
cousin of hers who had a sheep farm. Da said that was unlikely, since Australia would not let in a boy who could hardly write his own name.