Agnes Owens (8 page)

In the middle of all this creepiness was a wooden seat twisted and gnarled as a corpse itself. I could picture Tom of an evening coming out of his grave and sitting there peacefully with arms folded and legs crossed. So I sat down too. It was strange but I couldn't hear any birds singing now. The only sound was my breathing and I tried to quieten this down a bit. I sat as still as the vision I had of old Tom because I didn't think I could move even if I tried. I had the crazy feeling I was part of the seat. Then from the wood there was a crack as if someone or something had stood on a branch while he or it was watching me. I could bear it no longer. I wrenched myself off the seat and ran past the hut down the path then up over the top of the island like a mountain goat. I didn't stop until I reached the jetty, just in time to be caught by the mailboat returning.

Once I got my breath back I noticed everybody had loosened up since I last saw them. They gave me broad, forgiving smiles for leaving. I smiled back gratefully because at least they were human, if English. ‘I'll take the High Road and you'll take the Low,' they sang to me with big winks. ‘An' I'll be in the pub afore ye,' I rendered back as quick as a flash. This caused a laugh all round. The big fella still stood apart looking at me calmly as if he had planned it all. Anyway all this did not matter because the boat was chugging towards the mainland and the Clansman.

*  *  *

Beneath the plastic beams and cross swords of the Clansman I downed my beer in one gulp. In the bar there was only myself, the barman and a tweedy type in the corner, of no consequence. The barman wasn't much cop either. Pointedly he wiped a spot of beer on the counter, spilled from my glass. ‘Lively,' I thought. Then I became aware of a looming presence behind me. I turned to encounter the gentle blue eyes of the big fella.

‘Could you tell me, pleaze,' he asked in the exact English of the educated foreigner, ‘how I ask for some beer and spirits?'

‘Sure. Ye jist say a hauf an' a hauf-pint.'

‘Zank you.' He turned to the barman, ‘A hoff and hoff pint.'

The barman was puzzled. ‘What's that?'

‘A hauf an' a hauf-pint,' I explained.

‘That is what I say,' said the big fella.

‘Aye, but it's no' whit ye say, it's the way that ye say it.'

‘Beg pardon.' His voice was uncomplaining.

I sighed. I become bored when I have problems in making myself understood.

As if he knew what I was thinking he said, ‘I hope you shall speak with me. All this day I have been alone and now I think it would be pleasant to speak with someone.'

I looked steadily at my beer so he could not read the annoyance in my eyes.

‘Speak away chum.'

‘Chum?' he questioned.

‘Mate then.'

‘Mate?'

I sighed, ‘Friend then. Savvy – friend?'

His big face creased into a beautiful big smile.

‘Friend – that is good. You will be my friend.'

I could see it was going to be hard to shake this guy off. Maybe he was a nut case. It was hard to tell with foreigners. For them and us there would always be something lost in the translation. I looked him over. His gear was casual but expensive, down to
the open sandals. Leather, definitely not plastic. Probably a foreign hippy. One of the flower people. All love and marijuana. Though he looked familiar, as if I had met him before. But I wasn't happy with his company. He was not my style. He swallowed his whisky with the ease of a professional drinker. Then I thought maybe he wasn't so bad.

‘Whit's yer name?' I asked.

He understood this. ‘Max.' He held out his hand. His grip was warm and firm.

‘Call me Mac. Everybody does,' I told him, with no hope of understanding.

He laughed. ‘Mac and Max. It is the same. Perhaps we are the same.'

Privately I didn't think so, but I agreed. ‘Sure,' then, ‘you're a Gerry, I mean a German?'

His face straightened. ‘Yes, but I would prefer to be Scottish.'

‘How's that then? I mean why do you prefer to be Scottish?'

‘In Scotland everyone is kind. In Germany they are not kind. All they wish to do is work and make money. They do not care about people. In Scotland people do not have this wish to work and make money all the time. If they have enough they are satisfied. Here people have helped me and many times buy me whisky. Sometimes they speak loud and violent but I think they have kind hearts.'

It did cross my mind that he might be a con man, but still I did not wish to disillusion him about our kind hearts, so I ordered two whiskies.

‘Pleaze,' he protested, ‘I will buy you a whisky.' He carefully extracted a fifty pence piece from a leather purse.

The barman frowned. ‘Another ten pence,' he snapped.

To save time I quickly slapped down the ten pence. At this point the big fella brought out a parcel from his stylish anorak and laid it on the counter. Fascinated, the barman and I watched as he unfolded it to reveal sandwiches and a hard-boiled egg. He offered us both a sandwich and then started to unshell the egg.
I accepted mine gratefully but the barman refused his. He seemed to be searching for words. Unpleasant ones, I suspected.

‘Do you have castles in this place?' the big fella asked him.

The barman was defeated. Without answering he walked away. Maybe to look up a rule book, consult his union or 'phone the police.

‘Whit dae ye want wi' castles?' I asked.

‘I have come here to study Scottish castles,' he explained as though it was as normal as cleaning windows. ‘Then I shall write my book. I shall send you a copy since you are my friend. I shall have it specially translated.'

‘Whit dae ye want tae dae that for?' I asked, returning to my original opinion that he was a nut case.

‘Because you are my friend.'

This guy definitely had the knack of making a fella feel selfconscious. To change the subject I said, ‘You remind me o' somebody.'

He considered then replied, ‘I understand. I remind you of Jesus Christ,' without as much as a smile. I was convinced, definitely a nut case.

He went on, ‘In Germany many people say I look like Christ. I have been asked to take this part in the Passion Play, but I refused because I do not like to pretend.'

He offered me his last sandwich. I declined. My appetite was gone. I was not certain, but the sandwich could be a test. He shrugged and ate it.

‘My friend,' he said, ‘I would willingly buy another whisky, but I have only a little money, just enough to buy a ticket on a ship to return home.'

That figures, I thought. ‘Don't worry, I'm gaun for the bus anyway.'

‘Good, I must get the bus also.'

It all loomed up. Back home to the auld wife with Max. She would love him. He would have my bed and I would have the couch. Quickly I ordered a carry-out, leaving the barman wiping
crumbs off the counter with a pained expression on his face. When we were seated on the bus I handed him a can of beer. The old dames in front gave us cold stares. He didn't notice. I didn't care. For me it was always the done thing. The booze had no effect on him. My head was feeling swimmy but I was resigned. The big fella was coming home. I was not going to be the one who turned him away.

Again he read me for he said, ‘I have a room to go to this evening. As you call it, a bed breakfast place.'

With relief I said, ‘That will cost you plenty. Ye can always get a kip, I mean a bed, in ma hoose. Ma mother is a great person. She will put anybody up for the night.' I took care to look away as I said this.

‘This woman is also good. She does not charge much money, because she explained I must stay in the kitchen since I might upset the guests.'

I was indignant. ‘Jesus Christ!' I blushed at the expression. ‘That's terrible. How could ye upset the guests?'

‘My hair is very long as you see. Sometimes it is upsetting to others. In Germany when people drink too much they wish to cut my hair off. For this reason I did not go out at night.'

I was disappointed at this gutless attitude so I forgot to look away.

‘You may think,' he explained as though I had said so, ‘that I was afraid, but I do not believe in violence. Many times in the past I gave my parents much sorrow. Once I was a drug addict.' At least I had guessed that correctly. ‘But with their love they helped to cure me so I keep my hair long that I will remember my disgrace. It is my penance.'

He looked at me intently. ‘In your face I see the scars of violence. Perhaps that is your penance.'

I said nothing. He was wrong. I liked my scars. They were status for me. The bus drew in at the terminus. We got off. Everybody rushed away, maybe glad to escape from his loud, open conversation, and we were left alone. In a last attempt to
do the right thing I said, ‘Are ye sure ye'll not meet me later? We could have a drink the gither.'

He placed a hand on my shoulder, ‘This would not be wise. For you my presence would cause violence because you are my friend, but give me your address so that I can send you my book.'

I wrote my address down on the back of my bus ticket. He placed it carefully in a wee book.

‘How can ye be so sure of everything?' I asked. ‘I mean that ye'll even get it published.'

‘I am sure,' he replied with his awful certainty. He tucked his hair neatly inside his polo-neck jumper, shook my hand then walked away.

I looked after him wishing I could be as sure of everything. I turned the corner to head for home, kip, then tea and the boozer. Outside my close two lassies were skipping to the chant of

Trust the papes to know all the good ones. ‘D'ye want a kick in the backside?' I asked them.

‘King Billy! King Billy!' they shouted, then ran away laughing.

They are a right ignorant lot round here, but some day I will get away from this place. Some day I might go and see castles myself.

T
he modern trend was catching up with the clientele of the Paxton Arms. For the first time in living memory we were going to have entertainment. Behind the bar, sellotaped to the mirror, was a poster informing us in bold black print that a group called the Basket Weavers were, at great expense to the management, making a personal appearance every Friday at 8 p.m. We, the regulars, were suspicious of this development because, being creatures of habit, we always expected to have the same conversations and the same arguments with the same faces.

‘Once they start bringin' groups in here it'll never be the same,' pronounced Paddy McDonald. ‘A' these microphones an' amplifiers will only deafen us an' droon oot the conversation.'

‘Too bloody true,' agreed Splash Healey, spraying Paddy with beer as he spoke.

Paddy wiped his face and considered, ‘Still, it might serve a purpose. Some folks are better keepin' their face shut.'

Now though Splash was one of the most affable and generous of fellas nobody could stick his company too long. He was usually left alone at the end of an evening swaying about the bar talking to himself or his dog. Even the dog didn't pay too much attention to him. It was always sprawled sound asleep in front of the bar, causing folk to trip over it every time they went up for a glass of something. Not that he was excluded completely from our company, because as I said he was generous when he had the cash. Many a time he kept me going in drink through the week when I was stuck for the ready, though my discussions with him were limited and usually confined to pats on the back to both he and
his dog. Speaking of his dog, I knew it well. It had been Paddy McDonald's before it became Willie Morrison's, and it had taken a lot of effort on Willie's part to convince it that it was not wanted – like trying to brain it with boulders. Splash had came across it one night in a dazed condition. Being a kind-hearted fella he had adopted it on the spot. It turned out to be a suitable arrangement since the two of them had a lot in common.

However, to get back to the subject of the group, when Friday came we were all in the Paxton as usual. Despite our prejudice about entertainers we were curious about them. It must have been about half-past eight before they appeared, and by then we had forgotten about them and were getting involved in deep discussions. Twice Paddy had tripped over Splash's dog and what was worse he had spilled his drink the second time.

‘That bloody dug wants drooned,' he said, giving it a kick. The dog opened one eye. If it remembered Paddy from away back it gave no sign. It just growled and shut its eye again.

‘Sorry aboot that Paddy,' spluttered Splash. ‘I'll get ye anither drink.'

‘Aye, well watch it then,' said Paddy. He added, ‘I never thought tae see the day when an animal wid put a man aff his drink – here, whit the hell is that?'

A noise like a balloon letting out air exploded in our ears.

‘It's only the group testing,' explained Flossie nervously.

We turned to see what was going on and there was the group testing their gear and tossing their hair about.

‘Whit a racket,' groaned Paddy, ‘if that's whit it's gaun tae be like I'll be givin' this place the go-bye.'

‘That we should be so lucky,' gushed Flossie.

‘Gie the fellas a chance. They're only testin',' I said.

‘Aye, they're only testin',' repeated Splash.

‘Sounds mair like they're testin' their arses,' said Paddy tersely. However, sensing that opinion was against him he kept quiet.

After coughing and repeating the word ‘testing' for ten minutes
the group finally got going. They gave us ‘A Boy Named Sue' and ‘A Girl Called Lou' which went down great and got loud cheers from everybody except Paddy who was staring moodily at his empty glass. He had been trying to attract Flossie's eye for a while, without success, since Flossie was giving all his rapturous attention to the group. He was recalled to reality when Paddy threw a box of matches, hitting him on the nose. But Paddy's views had lost their impact. By now we were all livened by the beat and thought the group were great. Eventually they stopped to refresh themselves and we were plunged into comparative silence.