Agnes Owens was a Scottish author. She was born in Milngavie in 1926 and spent most of her life on the west coast of Scotland. She has been married twice and raised seven children, also working as a cleaner, typist and factory worker.
A short and sweet-natured Scottish tale of a skint brickie looking for work, hooking up with a right fit bird who fair’s fair has to be said to be a cut above your man and the ups and downs of all of that. What it mainly concerns is the unceasing craving by the skint brickie for a couple of pints with whiskies, imagine that all the pubs in all the highways and byways of Scotland are powerful magnets and all the guys in Scotland are flimsy shards of iron being helplessly and remorselessly pulled in at all times of the day and night. But this is a gentle comedy, there are only a couple of beatings.
Sample dialogue:
“The fact is, though ye micht no’ believe me, but even in a great wee country like oor ain, folk are aye plottin’ things. Ye micht say that there’s always an undercurrent o’ unrest against the wans at the tap.”
“Excuse me, I’ll have tae leave afore I puke all over ye. But let me warn ye, if I meet ye outside I might be tempted tae stamp ye intae the ground like the black beetle ye resemble.”
Agnes Owens flew under the radar when she lived (1926-2014) and now she’s getting a posthumous reputation, so I’m sure she’s glad of that.
This 86-year-old Scottish grandmother is thrilling! Her debut novel(la) arrived in 1987 when she was in her early sixties (how many writers start their careers at sixty? there’s hope for you unpublished middle-aged hacks yet) and made absolutely no impact on any readers or reviewers, despite being published in hardcover from Fourth Estate. My beef with the realist school of writing is there are usually an orgy of poetical metaphors and worthy descriptions to endure—attempts to lift the ordinary into the hallowed world of the literary, to immortalise in words. Owens does no such thing. Her stories pass like the occasional Volvo S40 on a deserted Highland road. She has no need for the something-big-and-meaningful or the important-encapsulation-of-a-universal-emotion moments that make realist fiction the dreary bore it usually is. This novel concerns an alcoholic bricklayer who gets and loses a girlfriend and his job. And it soars as high as the title suggests.
I've heard "Shuggie Bain" author Douglas Stuart talking about Agnes Owens on a few occasions so thought it was time to check out her work. Physical copies of her stories are hard to come by (and exorbitantly priced) but some of her stuff is available to purchase in ebook format so I went with that. "Like Birds In The Wilderness" is a tale of addiction, masculinity and the precarious nature of employment for working class men in 1980s Scotland. Owens' has a gift for observation and her writing feels instantly familiar. I really enjoyed it and look forward to reading more of her work.
My first dip into Agnes Owen’s and I loved it. The writing is so smooth it effortlessly carries you through the story. Great observation of life and living in the margins. Beautifully down to earth characters and dialogue.