Agnes Owens (20 page)

‘It's about this silver cup,' she began when they pushed her gently inside the door.

‘I must tell you about this silver cup,' she said again.

‘Yes, yes,' they soothed, placing her down on a chair inside the living room, while they looked around furtively.

‘I really must tell you about the silver cup,' Sammy's Ma insisted.

‘Do you think we should phone for a doctor?' one woman asked the other.

‘Is your husband around, dear?' said the other to Sammy's Ma.

They decided to leave when Sammy's Ma began to laugh hysterically. On their way out they heard the discordant strum of a guitar from Sammy's room. One of the women tapped the side of her head significantly while she gave her companion a meaningful glance. Softly they closed the door behind them to create no disturbance, and tiptoed down the stairs.

J
ean boarded the train standing at the station and pulled at the top of the sliding door to the empty compartment. It was stiff and hard to move but she wanted a few moments' privacy to assemble her thoughts. She settled down in a corner and opened her bag to take out cigarettes, then changed her mind. Her throat was as rough as sandpaper with the concentrated smoking of the morning. She peered through the smeared window. By the platform clock there were still five minutes before the train left. Now she was undecided. Should she go back? Perhaps she had acted hastily. She rose and hauled upon the compartment door again. As she stood wondering, the electrically controlled outer doors of the train slid shut. She pressed the button, but they held fast. It was disgraceful. How were people to get in or out? She banged on the window, but the platform was deserted. The doors opened and she was confused again. To return now was to admit defeat. She went back to her corner. To her chagrin a man and woman of advanced years got on. They dithered in the doorway of the compartment. The woman smiled at Jean. Jean's eyes dropped. Subdued, the couple settled for the seat adjacent, and spoke to each other in whispers. Then the whistle blew like a sigh of relief.

Just before the outer doors closed a man hurtled through the compartment and threw himself at the seat opposite Jean, breathless and unpleasantly close. He bumped her knee. ‘Sorry,' he leered. She had a quick impression of dark hair and brown eyes. Before she could draw her breath he had thrust a packet of cigarettes towards her. Hypnotised by his forcefulness she took one. With similar speed he produced a lighter and held it under her nose.

‘Damned cold,' he stated with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He leaned back and crossed his legs. The tip of his shoe prodded her calf.

She nodded and withdrew her leg. His gaze veered over to the couple then back.

‘I'm bloody frozen,' he said confidentially.

He shivered in an exaggerated way and blew his free hand. She took an instant dislike to him, but what was worse she suspected he had been drinking. The prospect of being confined with this person for the half-hour's journey was daunting, but to move away seemed drastic. Besides, she was smoking his cigarette.

‘The weather's bloody awful,' he complained.

She grunted something unintelligible. Her throat was dry and her tongue fired with smoke.

‘Going to the city?' he asked.

‘Not exactly.' She considered getting off at the next stop, but then she would be landed in a village with nothing to offer except the Railway Hotel.

‘I'm going to see my brothers,' he confided. ‘City lads.'

‘I don't care for the city,' she said, hoping to discourage him.

‘City folk are the best.' His eyes were bold and disturbing. The old couple were staring openly at them.

She backed down. ‘I've nothing against city people.'

He leaned forward. ‘My family come from the city – great people.' He added, ‘And my father was born in the city. He's been dead for ten years.'

He sighed. Jean's eyes were glazed with apathy.

‘Do you know,' he said pointing his finger, ‘they had to hold me back in the hospital when they told me he'd snuffed it. One of the best, he was.'

‘Hmm,' said Jean.

‘He gave us everything. It wasn't easy, mind you.' He shook his head sadly, and ground his cigarette end into the floor creating a black smear near her shoe. The train sped through the start
of the built-up area. Jean tried to calculate the stops ahead of her.

Unthinkingly she took out her cigarettes, then felt obliged to offer him one. He took it without saying thanks.

‘I could get off at any stop and I would be sure to meet a relative.' He smirked and added, ‘Where are we anyway?'

They gazed through the window to multi-storey blocks of flats flashing by.

‘My uncle lives up there somewhere,' he said.

‘Fancy,' she said, looking out to a field of cows.

‘Do you remember Dickie Dado, the footballer?'

She lied. ‘Uh huh.'

‘He was my nephew – great player wasn't he?'

‘Er – yes. I don't know much about football though.' She gave a depreciating giggle.

He glared at her. ‘He died two years ago. Surely you knew that.'

‘I'm sorry. I didn't know.' Jean's face reddened.

‘The team was never the same.'

He looked over at the old couple and raised his voice.

‘To think he died at twenty-three and some of these old fogeys go on for ever.'

Jean pulled hard on her cigarette. The old man stiffened. She concentrated on the view but she could feel her companion's eyes probing through her skin.

‘You wouldn't think I've got a great family of my own – would you?'

She was forced to confront his sly smile.

‘No. I mean, have you?'

‘Two girls and a boy. Marvellous kids.'

The information angered her. So what? she wanted to scream. Then to add to her misery the train increased its speed and caused them to bump up and down together in a ridiculous fashion. She pressed herself back against the compartment wall as he lurched about slackly, giving off a sour smell of alcohol. Her cigarette
fell from her fingers and rolled about the floor. Mercifully the bumping stopped. Jean wiped the sweat from her forehead.

He began again. ‘The wife says I shouldn't show any favouritism. She thinks because I bought the boy a fishing rod he's my favourite. It's not true you know.' His eyes pleaded for justice.

To stop his flow of words she began in desperation, ‘I've got a headache, would you mind –'

He appeared not to have heard her.

‘I bought the girls a teaset,' he went on. ‘You should see them with it. They make me drink tea out of the wee cups – simply marvellous.' He shook his head, overcome at the image.

‘I see,' said Jean letting her breath out slowly. Her eyes wavered towards the couple, who were whispering intently. She pulled herself together and stated in a loud voice, ‘I find families a complete bore.'

‘Never,' he said, taken aback for the first time. ‘The trouble with people nowadays is they don't care enough about their families. Pure selfishness, that's what's wrong with everyone.'

He looked over to the old couple for support but they were staring ahead with blank expressions.

He continued, ‘Take my girls, they're just great, and the boy as well. Mind you I don't show any favouritism – the wife's wrong, but she can be a bitch at times.' His lips curled and he repeated, ‘A pure bitch.'

‘If your kids are so wonderful, why didn't you bring them with you?' Jean snapped and looked upwards to check the position of the communication cord.

He spread his hands out and whined, ‘The wife wouldn't let me. I told you she's a pure bitch.'

Jean felt worn out. The train was slowing down for the next stop.

‘I think this must be Duntrochen,' she mumbled, toying with the idea of getting off.

‘Not this place,' he said with authority.

As the train pulled out she spied the signboard.

‘It was Duntrochen,' she accused, and closed her eyes to avoid any further involvement. Her eyelids flickered as his leg brushed against hers. She was obliged to move. Her companion was staring over the top of her head when she faced him with fury. To sever all contact she turned to the woman sitting beyond.

‘Very tiring these train journeys,' she gabbled. The woman looked startled.

‘Yes, they are,' she stammered.

‘I was really intending to get off at Duntrochen,' Jean added, hoping to establish a safe relationship with the dreary pair.

‘It's a one-eyed hole anyway,' her brown-eyed companion stated.

Jean was trapped into answering. ‘That's a matter of opinion.'

‘My mother died in Duntrochen hospital.'

Jean was prepared to sneer at this disclosure, but the couple were looking at him with concern.

‘That's enough to put you off any place,' the woman replied.

‘She was a wonderful person. Brought up ten of us without any complaint.'

The couple nodded with compassion. Jean pictured with contempt a family album portraying a white-haired woman with ten leering faces looking over her shoulder.

‘She couldn't do enough for us,' his voice jarred on.

Jean coughed and began searching in her handbag. Anything to distract her from the creeping weight of his words.

‘Mind you, she liked her drink now and then.'

The couple were definitely attracted by this news. Their eyes blinked rapidly as the image of the saintly mother changed to one of a boozy hag.

‘It was her only pleasure.'

‘Amen,' said Jean under her breath.

But the subject was not finished. He touched her knee and said, ‘He was never off her back, my old man.'

For a hideous moment she thought he was making a sexual innuendo.

‘Gave her a life of hell,' he added.

‘Oh you mean,' Jean spoke in relief, ‘a kind of persecution –'

The woman tutted. Her husband looked ill at ease. Jean rejoiced at their discomfort.

‘Not surprising,' she said, addressing the couple.

Her companion gave her a hard look, but he let the remark pass, and stated, ‘She was one of the best.'

‘But,' said Jean, determined now to expose his inanity, ‘you told me your father died ten years ago, and he was one of the best.'

‘That's right,' he replied, defiant.

‘Now you say he gave your mother a life of hell and she was one of the best. I don't follow you.' She bestowed a knowing smile on the old couple, but they looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘She never complained,' he said with the quiet triumph of one who holds the ace card.

Jean wiped her clammy hands on her skirt. She judged she could be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The word Valium came into her head. Her friend Wilma took Valium pills regularly and she was in charge of a typing pool. They must work wonders. She decided to get off at the next stop, no matter where it was, and head for the nearest chemist. She stood up and tugged at the compartment door.

‘What's the hurry?' he called, but she was transfixed by the thought that she might have to get a doctor's prescription for Valium. As the train pulled up she was flung back almost on top of the woman.

‘Are you all right?' the woman asked with concern.

‘Yes,' said Jean, pulling down her skirt. To justify her erratic behaviour she explained, ‘I thought I was going to be sick. I haven't felt well all morning.'

‘I see,' said the woman darting a considerate glance in the direction of Jean's stomach. Jean shot up like a jack-in-the-box. A tic beat on her cheek and her mouth twitched.

‘I must get out of here,' she gabbled.

‘Don't upset yourself.' The woman pulled on her arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

Jean fell back on the seat. She explained in a heightened manner, ‘Not morning sickness – just ordinary average sick.'

The woman patted her hand. Jean rounded on her with venom.

‘I'm not even married.'

The couple regarded each other with dismay. The brown-eyed man blew smoke through his nostrils.

‘Of course,' said Jean, forcing herself to be calm, ‘I think you are all of your rockers.'

‘Really,' said the old man. His wife shook her head as if in warning. The other man continued to blow smoke like steams of fury.

‘I thought it was bad enough listening to that loony,' she gestured towards the other man, ‘but you two appear to be in your dotage.'

The couple cowered close to the window. The man tapped his head significantly.

‘Thank goodness I'm getting off here,' Jean uttered wildly and charged out of the compartment. She alighted from the train without a clue to where she was.

‘Ticket please,' said the collector when she scuttled through the barrier. ‘Always have your ticket ready,' he reproved as she fumbled in her bag.

She moved out of the station in a distraught manner. She hesitated, torn between the beckoning brightness of Woolworth's and a telephone box on the opposite pavement. She braced herself and headed for the box. She dialled a number and held the receiver to her ear. Almost immediately the voice spoke. She cut through the querulous preamble.

‘It's me – Jean. I'm sorry I rushed out like that –' She paused to listen as the voice gained strength. ‘I know, mother,' she replied wearily, ‘but you must understand I have to get out sometimes for a bit of relaxation. I won't be doing anything desperate. After all I'm not a teenager.'

Her reflection in the stained mirror on a level with her eyes verified the statement, showing the marks of the crow's feet.

The voice began again like the trickle of a tap. Jean interrupted.

‘Yes mother I'm fine. I won't be gone for ever you know. I'll be back around tea-time.'

She replaced the telephone and stood for a moment within the box feeling she had placed herself beyond mercy. In retrospect the man with the brown eyes became desirable. He had spoken to her and touched her knee. In his inept way he had offered her an association. She should have been flattered if not actually grateful, and really he had not been all that bad-looking. It would have been something to boast about to her friend Wilma, who according to herself was continually exposed to such encounters. When she stepped out of the telephone box she was shamed by the memory of her neurotic outburst. She walked along the pavement, head downwards, hunched against the cold – going nowhere.