Free Agnes Owens by Agnes Owens Page A

hauf-pint.’
    â€˜Zank you.’ He turned to the barman, ‘A hoff and hoff pint.’
    The barman was puzzled. ‘What’s that?’
    â€˜A hauf an’ a hauf-pint,’ I explained.
    â€˜That is what I say,’ said the big fella.
    â€˜Aye, but it’s no’ whit ye say, it’s the way that ye say it.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Speak away chum.’
    â€˜Chum?’ he questioned.
    â€˜Mate then.’
    â€˜Mate?’
    I sighed, ‘Friend then. Savvy – friend?’
    His big face creased into a beautiful big smile.
    â€˜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 tothe 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.
    â€˜Whit’s yer name?’ I asked.
    He understood this. ‘Max.’ He held out his hand. His grip was warm and firm.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜How’s that then? I mean why do you prefer to be Scottish?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Whit dae ye want wi’ castles?’ I asked.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Whit dae ye want tae dae that for?’ I asked, returning to my original opinion that he was a nut