Just realised that, thanks to this book, I've crawled up to 22 books on this list of Scottish literature.
Glancing over the list again there's only about 16 other books I'd want to read. Should I mention them now? No, another time.
Showing posts with label Agnes Owens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Agnes Owens. Show all posts
Saturday, April 22, 2023
Saturday, April 01, 2023
For the Love of Willie by Agnes Owens (Polygon 1998)
Foreword
Two patients sit on the veranda of a cottage hospital run by a local authority for females with mental problems, some of them long-term and incurable. Peggy, stoutly built, middle-aged, and with a hard set to her jaw, rises and stares down through the high railings at a bus shelter below.
‘A man in that shelter resembles someone I once knew,’ she tells her companion.
‘Really?’ says the companion, elderly and frail but known as the duchess because of her imperious manner. ‘It beats me how you can remember anything.
'I remember lots of things. That’s why I’m writing a book.’
‘A book? You never told me. What’s it about?’
‘About my life before they put me inside,’ says Peggy. She adds wistfully, ‘I had one, you know.’
‘I can hardly imagine it,’ says the older woman, whether referring to Peggy’s earlier life or the book not being clear. ‘Anyway,’ she says snappishly, ‘if you do manage to write a book who will read it? They’re all simpletons here, including the staff.’
‘I was hoping you might read it,’ says Peggy, ‘you being a highly educated woman with a superior knowledge of the frailties of the human heart.’
Her irony is lost on the duchess who says with a condescending smile, ‘I might, if I’ve nothing else to read. But wouldn’t it be better to get it published? Otherwise the whole thing could be a waste of time.’
‘What does it matter?’ asks Peggy. ‘I’ve plenty of time to waste.'
Wednesday, November 25, 2020
People Like That by Agnes Owens (Bloomsbury 1996)
Davey came up over the steep, stony track that would lead him to the golf course once he had climbed a fence and crossed a burn. Sometimes he stopped to catch his breath. He was coming up for sixty and a hard life had taken its toll. When he reached the fence he became uneasy. Tam Duggan sat on a tree stump, arms folded as if patiently waiting on him.
‘Saw ye comin’ in the distance,’ said Tam with a jovial smile. ‘I thought I might as well go along wi’ ye.”
'Aye,’ said Davey with a nod. He could hardly refuse the offer for Tam was a big strong-looking fellow in his early twenties with a police record as long as his arm, mainly for assault.
He climbed stiffly over the fence then jumped the narrow burn with Tam following more easily.
‘Up collectin’ your golf ba’s?’ said Tam. ‘I hear you dae quite well.’
‘No’ bad,’ mumbled Davey, his voice lost in the wind that had sprung up carrying a drizzle of rain with it.
He gave his companion a sidelong glance, wondering if he was as bad as folk said – it was easy to be in trouble nowadays, especially if you were young and had nothing to take up your time.
Tam faced him and said humbly, ‘I hope you don’t mind me comin’ along wi’ ye. I thought I might try some collectin’ masel’.’
His coarse, handsome face was marred by a scar running the length of the left cheek.
‘Why no’?’ said Davey. ‘It’s a free country,’ though his heart sank. He didn’t want anyone else poaching, at least not alongside him. Others who collected golf balls were usually solitary figures in the distance, acting as if they were out for a stroll and keeping well clear of each other.
From 'The Collectors'
Monday, September 27, 2010
100 Best Scottish Books
Following on from these two recent fiascos, I've finally found a book poll on the net where my reading count reaches double figures. It's sourced from The List, which is , I guess, Scotland's equivalent of Time Out and the article dates from 2005.
Twenty-one out of a hundred is not a bad reading haul, and there's another twelve or thirteen books on the list that I'd like to read at some point.
I thought it was a nice touch from the list compilers that they did not insist that the authors had to be Scottish by birth; just that the book listed had to have a strong Scottish connection. Hence, for example, the inclusion of Orwell's 1984 in the hundred, which was written on the Isle of Jura. (And, if you've ever read Orwell's collected essays and letters, his strong dislike of Scottish people is very apparent.)
Each listed entry in the linked article has a wee synopsis and well worth further investigation, but I have posted below links to some of the more interesting entries. (Well interesting to me.)
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