Agnes Owens Read online

  ‘That’s your worry,’ he replied, as he put on his trousers. ‘Anyway the smell in this place makes me sick. I don’t know what’s worse – you or the smell.’

  ‘Now, now, Murgatroyd,’ said Arabella reprovingly, pulling a black petticoat over her flabby shoulders, ‘you know you always feel better after your treatment. Don’t forget the children’s money box on your way out.’

  Murgatroyd’s final advice, before he left, was, ‘Try your treatment on the Sanitary Inspector when he calls. It might work wonders.’

  After giving this matter a lot of thought and getting nowhere, she decided to call on her parents again. They were rather short on advice nowadays, but she still had faith in their wisdom.

  Her mother was still huddled over the fire and she noticed with vague surprise that her father did not draw the sheet over his face. Optimistically, she considered that he could be in a good mood.

  ‘Mummy, I’m sorry I had no time to bring flowers, but be a dear and tell me the best way to get rid of Sanitary Inspectors.’

  Her mother did not move a muscle, or say a word.

  ‘Tell me what to do,’ wheedled Arabella. ‘Is it chopped worms with sheep’s dropping or rat’s liver with bog myrtles?’

  Her mother merely threw a lump of coal on to the fire. Then she softened. ‘See your father,’ she replied.

  Arabella leapt over to the bed and almost upset the stained pail lying beside it. She took hold of her father’s hand, which was dangling down loosely. She clasped it to her sagging breast and was chilled by its icy touch, so she hurriedly flung the hand back on the bed saying, ‘Daddy darling, what advice can you give your little girl on how to get rid of Sanitary Inspectors?’

  He regarded her with a hard immovable stare then his hand slid down to dangle again. She looked at him thoughtfully and pulled the sheet over his face. ‘Mummy, I think Daddy is dead.’

  Her mother took out a pipe from her pocket and lit it from the fire with a long taper. After puffing for a few seconds, she said, ‘Very likely.’

  Arabella realised that the discussion was over. ‘Tomorrow I will bring a wreath for Daddy,’ she promised as she quickly headed for the door. ‘I have some lovely dandelions in my garden.’

  Back home again, Arabella studied her face in a cracked piece of mirror and decided to give it a wash. She moved a damp smelly cloth over it, which only made the seams of dirt show up more clearly. Then she attempted to run a comb through her tangled mass of hair, but the comb snapped. Thoroughly annoyed, she picked out a fat louse from a loose strand of hair and crushed it with her fingernails. Then she sat down on the bed and brooded. So engrossed was she in her worry she forgot to feed her children, who by this time were whining and squatting in corners to relieve themselves. She couldn’t concentrate on making their food, so she took three of them outside and tied them to posts. The fourth one, under the bed, remained very still. Eventually she decided the best thing to do was to have some of her magical potion ready, though such was her state of mind that she doubted its efficiency in the case of Sanitary Inspectors. Besides, there was no guarantee he suffered from afflictions. Sighing, she went outside. Next to her door stood a large barrel where she kept the potion. She scooped a portion of the thick evil-smelling substance into a delve jar, stirred it up a bit to get the magic going, then returned indoors and laid it in readiness on the table. She was drinking a cup of black sweet tea when the knock came on the door. Smoothing down her greasy dress and taking a deep breath to calm herself, she opened it.

  The small man confronting her had a white wizened face under a large bowler hat.

  ‘Please enter,’ requested Arabella regally. With head held high she turned into the room. The Sanitary Inspector tottered on the doorstep. He had not been feeling well all day. Twenty years of examining fetid drains and infested dwellings had weakened his system. He had another five years to go before he retired, but he doubted he would last that long.

  ‘Please sit down,’ said Arabella, motioning to an orange box and wondering how she could broach the subject of cures before he could speak about his business. She could see at a glance that this was a sick man, though not necessarily one who would take his clothes off. The Sanitary Inspector opened his mouth to say something but found that he was choking and everything was swimming before him. He had witnessed many an odious spectacle in his time but this fat sagging filthy woman with wild tangled hair and great staring eyes was worse than the nightmares he often had of dismembered bodies in choked drains. Equally terrible was the smell, and he was a connoisseur in smells. He managed to seat his lean trembling shanks on the orange box and found himself at eye level with a delve jar in the centre of a wooden table. Again he tried to speak, but his mouth appeared to be full of poisonous gas.

  ‘My good man,’ said Arabella, genuinely concerned when she saw his head swaying, ‘I can see you are not well and it so happens I am a woman of great powers.’

  She knew she had no time for niceties. Quickly she undressed and stood before him as guileless as a June bride. The small man reeled. This grotesque pallid flesh drooping sickly wherever possible was worse than anything he had ever witnessed.

  ‘Now just take your clothes off, and you’ll soon feel better,’ said Arabella in her most winsome tone. ‘I have a magical potion here that cures all ailments and eases troubled minds.’ So saying, she turned and gave him a close-up view of her monumental buttocks. She dipped her fingers in the jar and tantalisingly held out a large dollop in front of his nose. It was too much for him. His heart gave a dreadful lurch. He hiccuped loudly, then his head sagged on to his chest.

  Arabella was very much taken aback. Nothing like this had ever happened before, though it had been obvious to her when she first saw him that he was an inferior type. She rubbed the ointment on her fingers off on the jar, then dressed. The manner in which he lay, limp and dangling, reminded her of her father. This man must be dead, but, even dead he was a nuisance. She would have to get rid of him quickly if she didn’t want it to get around that her powers were waning. Then she remembered the place where she had buried some of her former children and considered that he would fit into the pram – he was small enough. Yet it was all so much bother and very unpleasant and unpleasantness always wore her out.

  She went outside to take a look at the pram. The dogs were whining and pulling on the fence. Feeling ashamed of her neglect, she returned to fetch their supper, when the barrel caught her eye. Inspiration came to her in a flash. The barrel was large – it was handy – and there would be an extra fillip added to the ointment. She felt humbled by the greatness of her power.

  Cheerfully she approached the figure slumped like a rag doll against the table. It was easy to drag him outside, he was so fragile. Though he wasn’t quite dead because she heard him whisper, ‘Sweet Jesus, help me.’ This only irritated her. She could have helped him if he had let her. She dragged his unresisting body towards the barrel and with no difficulty toppled him inside to join the healing ointment. With a sigh of satisfaction she replaced the lid. As usual everything had worked out well for her.

  GENTLEMEN OF THE WEST

  McDonald’s Dug

  McDonald’s dog was not the type of animal that people took kindly to, or patted on the head with affection. It was more likely to receive the odd kick, along with the words ‘gerr oot’, which it accepted for the most part with indifference. If the kick was too well aimed it bared its teeth in a chilling manner which prevented further kicks. Large, grey and gaunt it roamed the streets, foraged the dustbins and hung around the local co-operative to the disgust of customers coming and going. The manager, who received continual complaints about it, as if it was his responsibility, would throw pails of water over it to pacify plaintive statements such as, ‘Ye’d better dae somethin’ aboot that dug. It’s a bloody disgrace the way it hings aboot this shop.’ Though he had no heart for this action, as more often than not he missed the dog, which had the sensory perception of a medium and could move li
ke a streak of lightning, causing innocent housewives to be soaked instead. Even so, McDonald’s dog was a valuable asset to its owner. With its height and leanness, plus a sharp, evil face, it might have been a greyhound on the loose, but in fact its character was determined from a lurcher ancestor, an animal talented in the art of poaching. I had an interest in McDonald’s dog due to the following incident.

  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 g
ive 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.