Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  All About Me!

  You might be wondering how someone like me got the chance to work in a posh place in London and find a body soon as they walked through the door. Obviously they didn’t choose me. It was a charity scheme, one where they give ex-cons a leg-up in the world.

  Once you’d served half your sentence there was a chat about getting a job outside. And somewhere to live. A joke, seeing as most of us wouldn’t get work. Not legal work. And a lot of us wouldn’t get housing, neither. But this time the probation officer, inside, had heard of an opportunity.

  She took off her glasses, frumpy metal frames they had, too severe. She was getting on a bit, had grey hair, cut like a man’s. Said they’d noticed an improvement in my behaviour this stretch. Buffed up her glasses on the sleeve of her shirt. Asked me why that was.

  I shrugged. I wasn’t big on thinking. ‘Done a bit more reading this stretch. Maybe that.’ More. I’d never done any reading before. But, this time, Enid, from the cell down the corridor, had shown me the basics.

  That got her going. She blinked, all excited. But my reading was only bits and pieces from Enid’s Woman’s World magazines, not proper books or nothing.

  She picked up a bit of paper. My CV. The IT tutor had done it for me on the computer. After I’d nearly broke the mouse. I wasn’t good with computers and I had dyslexia. It hardly filled a page, seeing as I’d never had a proper job, or proper schooling.

  She tapped her finger on the courses I’d done: Anger Management, Food Hygiene and the Health and Safety in the Workplace one. Yeah, they’d make up for me not being able to read properly and not having any work experience, I don’t think.

  She put down her pen. Scandinavian company, she said, smiling, like that was something special. London, she said. Supported housing, she said.

  My stomach lurched. London was a big city. I knew that. Knew it was a long way from here. I knew Scandinavian was some kind of foreign. I wasn’t thick, in spite of what people said.

  I’d never stuck at a job before. Hadn’t been able to read that hotel’s cleaning schedule when the Job Centre sent me there as a chambermaid, and I’d got sacked from a cake factory for throwing a Swiss roll at a fat bloke who’d laughed at my size. My size. Plus, I ask you, how can a Swiss roll be dangerous?

  I’d done other things to get by: shoplifted, climbed through windows too small for anybody else, looked after empty flats and people’s dogs when their owners were called away sudden.

  I’d shared a flat for months with a pit-bull and a Staffie. They were supposed to wear spiked collars when I took them out, because their owner wanted them to look hard. Soon as we were back indoors though, they’d be on the sofa with me, slobbering for crisps.

  I’d bought a blue scarf, spotted, at a charity shop, and cut it in half for them to wear as bandanas. When they were off duty. The charity shop was Cats Protection but I didn’t think the dogs would mind. The Staffie, Mikey, always wagged his tail when he saw a cat staring down at him from a wall.

  The probation officer was still smiling. Tiring having someone grin at you all the time. Specially when it was misguided. I tried telling her this opportunity wasn’t going to happen. People have these ideas and schemes about helping the poor and underprivileged. And making sure they’re, we’re, grateful. But even if this one ever did get off the ground, it wasn’t going to work. A different city, yeah, a different set-up, but still the same old me. But there was no stopping her. In the end I just let her get on with it. I chewed my nails, pushed down the cuticles, while she went on about this Scandinavian company designing furniture and ceramics, whatever they were, so it wasn’t a complete waste of my time.

  They discharge you early in prison. I was on the seven o’clock coach to London, seven a.m., with a group of old biddies and a few studenty-looking blokes with rucksacks, sitting at the back. Noisy. Full of themselves. I gave them a get stuffed stare. First men, apart from screws, I’d seen in a year. Hadn’t missed much.

  I sat by a window. You’re high up on a coach. I don’t often get to look down on people. Hardly anybody about that time in the morning, though. Cold enough for Eskimos. I was wearing my denim jacket, plus a scarf and two jumpers, and I was still cold. January, see. The time of year when people go on about fresh starts even more.

  Soon as we left the town I got that unsettled feeling you get leaving prison. It was worse this time because of Enid. Her being good to me. Lord knows why.

  She’d given me a hug before I left, her saggy bosom squashing my ribs, and this week’s Woman’s World that she hadn’t even started yet. I’d promised her I’d practise my reading. Do a bit every day. I looked out of the window, blinking. Then I got some Nicorette chewing gum out of my holdall because you weren’t allowed to smoke on a coach. I looked out of the window for the rest of the journey. Thought what a long way it was going to be, hitching back.

  VIC-TOR-IA, I read on the sign. I dragged out my holdall from under the seat. I was the last one off and I only got off at all because I was dying for a wee and a fag. I mean, what the hell was I, Maggsie ruddy M, doing in a great big place like London? Poxy probation officers and their big ideas. Sending people like me off on wild-goose chases. A sodding waste of time.

  Outside, crowds of people were barging in different directions. Crowds and traffic are the hardest things to get used to again after you’ve been banged up. Someone tripped over me. I’m not that small! I scowled, but I didn’t say anything, not even under my breath, because this was London and I was on my own.

  I had the bus number to the supported housing place written down. Only I couldn’t find the right bus stop. No rhyme nor reason in the numbering. Beyond the forest of signs I saw one I could read: TESCO EXPRESS. I read it straight off, just like that. Good old Enid. She’d had the patience of a saint, teaching me. I felt inside my holdall to check her Woman’s World was still there.

  I thought about going into Tesco’s. I had my discharge grant in my purse. I only thought about it for a minute and then I took a hold of myself. What helped was spotting an old biddy in a bus queue that reminded me of my nan. Same white hair – Nan swore it was ash blonde, not white – same bright pink lipstick. I showed the old biddy my bus number. She knew exactly where it went from and when it was due. Reckon she spent all day in bus queues.

  I got out the Oyster card the probation officer had given me. A perk from Scandinavian Solutions, she said. I didn’t know what you did with it. The driver snatched it out of my hand and banged it down on a little machine before I’d even spoke. Annoying he didn’t seem to notice me snatching it back.

  So I was on the right bus and there was a woman’s voice saying the names of the stops. But London went on for miles and miles. Took me deeper and deeper into something I wouldn’t be able to manage. An hour to get where I was supposed to go to and it was still London. When things went pear-shaped, which, let’s face it, they would do, it was going to take for ever to find my way out.

  It looked like an ordinary house from the outside. It was only a support officer coming to the door that made you realize it wasn’t.

  Ruby was ever so gushing, like I was a guest, rather than someone straight out of prison. One of those people who whizz about doing things. The sort of person who always has their sleeves rolled up. ADHD, I thought. Tiny (Timothy, my brother, six years younger than me) had that. But it made him do stuff he shouldn’t, not be a support worker. Ruby had long curly hair which bounced about. Wore a swishy skirt and a flower-pot-coloured necklace, which made me think of Enid because she wore necklaces. Ones with plastic beads – you weren’t allowed chunky jewellery in prison in case it got used as a weapon. The necklaces were supposed to draw attention up, away from her chest, which was massive. Ruby didn’t have that problem. Didn’t look no older than a teenager but maybe that was just me. I was only thirty-three but a hard life ages you.

  I handed Ruby the forms that said who I was, etcetera. I’d have liked to just crawl into bed, but it was still only the afte
rnoon. I wanted a fag and a cuppa. And, well, something else, but I was trying not to think about that. It was because of the early start and the stress and all that.

  Ruby showed me the back yard where you could smoke. Said there was a cat lived out there, under the shed, but I didn’t see it. Then she made me a cup of tea – not enough sugar, I take four spoons – and some toast. Sat down chatting while I chewed. Fidgeted. Jumped up soon as I’d put the cup down. Went upstairs, two at a time, in front of me.

  ‘Blimey. How many Weetabix you had this morning?’ I asked, from half a flight down.

  She laughed. Said she’d had porridge, with soya milk. People thought you lived off porridge in prison, but actually, there was more cornflakes.

  Ruby unlocked a door. ‘This is your room, Maggsie. It’s got all the basics.’

  Yeah, it was basic alright. Bare, scuff marks on the walls, candlewick bedspread, threadbare patches on the carpet. But at least it was indoors and I didn’t have to share it with anyone. Plus I wasn’t planning on staying.

  My holdall was one of those tartan ones you take stuff to the launderette in. Didn’t take me long to unpack. I folded up my T-shirts and the rest of my clothes, such as they were. Then I looked out of the window, from one of the threadbare patches. Loads of other ex-cons must have stood there, looking out at the world – well, at London.

  You’d think it would look different because it was London. But it didn’t, except for some tower blocks at the end of the road. Cars parked both sides, people shouting, grimy brickwork. Same as anywhere.

  After I’d settled in, Ruby explained the rest of it. She’d help me with paperwork. Monitor my progress. Drinking or drug-taking was strictly off limits. And no going out after nine at night. Breaking the rules could mean being booted back inside. ‘Alright?’ she asked.

  I nodded. Prison wasn’t much of a threat. Home from home, more like.

  Think I’d hate rules, wouldn’t you? Well, I did and I didn’t. Rules gave you a structure. Meant someone else was in charge and you didn’t have to sort out your own life. All that stuff – bills, forms, getting things organized – was beyond me, to be honest. There was so much you had to do just to get by. It was having to start doing it all over again when you came out that made you want to go back inside.

  Ruby showed me the kitchen. The other girls here marked their food with their initials. I could manage that. She gave me some cheese and biscuits to tide me over. Kept using my name like social workers did.

  ‘I’m just out of probation, myself, Maggsie.’ Training for her job, she meant, not something criminal. I’d thought she was inexperienced. I picked up on that straight away. Told you I wasn’t thick.

  She was more excited about my ‘new start’ than I was. Would have got on well with the probation officer. They could have formed a little duo, sung a song about lucky chances. I wasn’t excited at all, seeing as it was going to go pear-shaped. It made me nervous, her keeping on about it. Made me want to get thrown out now. Save everyone the trouble on Monday. No way was I, Maggsie – Marguerite McNaughton! echoed from school – going to manage working for a posh design company in the centre of London.

  Ruby whisked about the kitchen with a dishcloth. I put down my cream cracker and slice of cheese. The pattern on the Formica table blurred. I was homesick, if you want to know. You might think it was strange, being homesick for prison. But it was what I was used to. And I was thinking about Enid, seeing her leaning forwards, arms folded under her saggy boobs, listening to me trying to read. Remembering the way she punched the air when I cracked a new word. And all the cuppas with the girls on the wing and the chips we got on Fridays. And no decisions to make because they was made for you and no bloody forms.

  Upstairs I took off my jeans and hung them in the wardrobe. I liked things neat, in spite of living in places before where I couldn’t be, not always. I put on my pyjamas. Picked up Enid’s Woman’s World. Funny how a magazine can be a comfort. Never thought that would happen. I thought about writing to Enid, to let her know what I was doing. I’d never written an actual letter before, only cards. Enid would be thrilled at me writing anything. But there was no point unless I stayed, and that wasn’t going to happen. I tried to get through a bit in the magazine about ‘New year, new you’, but I couldn’t concentrate. Plus, there were words I didn’t know and I didn’t have anyone to ask.

  After a while I got up and pulled the blind down. Shut out the outside.

  4

  Woman’s World, 10 January 2018

  New Year, New You!

  Next morning I put on the hooped earrings Nan gave me. She was supposed to have gypsy blood. First time I’d wore them in over a year and I’d forgotten the weight of them. I swung them about a bit to feel more on top of things.

  Voices downstairs in the kitchen. Never a nice feeling being the new girl. I marched downstairs, pushed open the door and barged straight in because of it.

  Two women, one old, one young, standing up, eating toast. The older one, Shirl – Big Shirl, she said – looked like she’d be the Queen Bee in here. Every place got one. She wore a frilly blouse and little pointed shoes. And make-up – powder and red lipstick. The powder showed up her wrinkles. If you read the beauty pages of Woman’s World you’d know that. I only wore mascara and eyebrow pencil myself. And that’s because I’m ginger underneath the hair dye. I’m not a beauty.

  The younger one, Lucy (‘Juicy Lucy we call her,’ Big Shirl cackled), was another big girl. Baggy sweatshirt. Heavy eyelids. The sort of glasses with black frames that make people look swotty, only they didn’t with her. She gave me a couple of slices of bread so I could make some toast and told me the way to the Co-op round the corner.

  In prison you get what’s given you. Once you come out you’ve got choices again. Too many of them. I dithered for ages in the Co-op over the cans of soup. Bought tomato in the end, plus fags and basics. No point in stocking up if I wasn’t staying. Threw all the stuff in my basket quick so I didn’t find myself in the aisle at the end of the shop.

  Ruby put scraps outside for the cat that lived under the shed. She’d already told me she was a vegetarian, so God knows what they were. She called the cat Audrey. Audrey! What kind of name was that for a cat? Ruby thought she might have been someone’s pet before, way back. Someone no ruddy good then, who’d abandoned her. Or treated her bad.

  Soon as I flicked on my lighter the cat dashed out and went up and over next door’s wall. She was a tabby, with a white belly and paws. It was the white paws, Ruby said, that made her think of Audrey. Said they looked like gloves and the dark lines round the cat’s eyes reminded her of Audrey Hepburn. I couldn’t see it myself. Mind you, I didn’t know who Audrey Hepburn was. I didn’t let on, of course, but Ruby showed me a picture on her phone anyway. Film star. Dead. Looked like a deer.

  Ruby said a cat charity had taken a litter of kittens off Audrey last year. They’d tried to catch her and all, to give her the snip, but she’d been too clever. Or too daft, seeing as it’d only take another Tom hanging around to put her in the family way again, even though she was just a bag of skin and bones. But that’s men for you.

  Ruby said Audrey was semi-feral, which meant half wild, so no use trying to make a pet of her. Blow that for a game of soldiers, I thought. I went straight down the Co-op again and bought a tin of pilchards. Tossed one to Audrey, who wolfed it down and came a bit closer to try and get her jaws around a second.

  ‘Another one tonight. But you got to come out and say hello first,’ I told her. She blinked at me from a safe distance away. ‘Ain’t much of a life living under a shed. Take it from one who knows.’

  I put the pilchards in the fridge along with my butter. I’d bought real butter at the Co-op, although it was twice the price. Tubs of marge reminded me of being a kid. We’d lived off toast and marge because of Mum being a bad manager and Dad drinking. Bread and marge, when there wasn’t any electric for the toaster.

  I stayed in Sunday. Stayed near the toil
et. Must be the London water. Couldn’t eat much, only the tomato soup. Got through loads of fags.

  Tossed and turned all through Sunday night. Why was I hanging around here when I already knew things were going to end in tears? Better to sneak off first thing in the morning. Hitch back up north, once I’d found out how to get to the motorway.

  I put my jacket on over my pyjamas and went downstairs to make a brew. I didn’t know what it was that made me change my mind, decide to give the job a go for a day. Get the do-gooders off my back. It might have been opening the fridge and seeing the tin of pilchards I’d bought for Audrey. Thinking of her wolfing them down. Thinking of those kittens being taken off her.

  I hooked out another one now. I had to throw it through the ventilation shaft, because the kitchen door was locked overnight. I called out – ‘Audrey!’ – so she’d know it was from me.

  Then it was dawn on Monday and my throat was so dry I couldn’t hardly get a cup of tea down. In a couple of hours I’d be getting the tube by myself, meeting people I didn’t know, posh people, having to do stuff I wouldn’t know how to do.

  Trouble with worrying is it doesn’t prepare you for what actually happens. Stuff you’ve dreaded never comes up, but stuff you’ve never even thought of does. Because, take it from me, finding a body, soon as I got through the door on my first day, had never even crossed my mind.

  5

  Woman’s World, 10 January 2018

  Are You Too Quick to Judge?

  Not exactly an opportunity, finding a young lad collapsed at your feet, is it? I tell you one thing, it didn’t half put me off working. If I’d been doing one of those stress tests from anger management I’d have been off the scale.

  The ambulance people stretchered him off. I was going to sneak away and all. Have another set-to with the revolving door and head back to the tube. Only my legs were shaking. I felt like a plate of melting jelly. Plus I’d been really early and now I was going to be late. Get a telling-off before I’d even started. They’d be bound not to believe what had happened. People didn’t when it was me telling them.