Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  As things slid further downhill, I kept the whole memory of Alastair shut up in that box. He was safe there. I tried not to think about him, only sometimes things opened it up. Like when I saw a little kid with ginger hair, or someone said my son, or I heard the name Alastair, or there was that question: got any kids?

  You’d be surprised how often people ask that. You might not have noticed. Medical people ask it, only they word it posher. Even people who stop you in the street to do a survey ask you. It’s the next question after married or single?

  All that went through my brain walking out of the hospital and going back on the tube. Felt like a wrung-out dishcloth by the time I got home. Took the shine off saving Jack.

  I changed the water in Jack’s flowers and settled the jug back on the window sill. Pictured him, pink and smiling, in his hospital bed. He must have said thank you about a dozen times.

  I looked out of the window. There was a little pool of light and colour under the streetlamp. Then a bleached-out bit and then everything else was dark. I’d given Jack – or his leg, anyway – another go at life. He was keen on football, he’d said. Keen to be back playing for his works team. I’d done that for him, me, Maggsie M, unlikely though it was. I pulled down the blind. I hadn’t given Alastair a go at life. Someone else had. I hadn’t been allowed to. I saw the back of his little head again, going out that hospital door.

  I went over to the wardrobe and ticked Sunday off on the calendar. Thumbed through the other months. All those spindly Scanda chairs. Lamps like skeletons. I imagined the end of the year, Mum smiling when she’d got over the shock of me sticking at anything. Her boasting about my youngest daughter, the one that works in London. Saw myself crowing to Nella. Imagined flapping a Woman’s World in the faces of all those teachers who’d written me off. I can read this now, see, cover to cover, practically. No thanks to you.

  I imagined something else. Shut my mind to Nella bursting out laughing. Tapped the biro on my lip. Took a deep breath in. And o-u-t.

  Maybe I could write to the adoption people. Ask them about Alastair. How to find him. Once he was eighteen, see, I could contact him, legally.

  I dropped the biro. He won’t want to know you, Maggsie, I heard. Not sure whose voice it was. Could have been a lot of people’s.

  But I’d be making things right. I could tell him how I hadn’t wanted to give him up. Say sorry for not fighting to keep him. Maybe, one day, I might even meet him. See he was alright.

  Yeah, he had an adoptive mum already, but that was different. They didn’t share blood or anything. Bet she didn’t have ginger hair. Not that that was a bonus, but knowing I did too, underneath, would be a bond, wouldn’t it?

  I picked up the biro. Held on to it. I could hardly write, let alone a posh letter. God knows how much practice that would take. Three hundred and fifty more days to go. Longer than some prison stretches. But after a whole year of sticking at a job and improving my reading, I’d be as good as anyone else, wouldn’t I? Maybe not my teeth, but the rest of me. I’d be a new person. I’d already done things this last week I never thought I could.

  I swallowed. Could I? Never seemed possible before. But now . . .

  9

  Woman’s World, 17 January 2018

  Schooldays – the Best Days of Your Life?

  Once I’d started thinking about Alastair again I couldn’t stop. His wisps of ginger hair. The back of his little head being carried out the door. The lovely dark eyes he might have got from Alex. I’d save up, take him out somewhere posh like Pizza Hut. He’d fill in the gaps for me, since he was born, his schooling, hobbies, all that. I’d say as little as possible about my life so he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  I got up early and fetched down my holdall. The ‘A Present from Margate’ box was in there, wrapped in a baby vest. Not one of his, I didn’t have anything of his. One I’d bought after. His photo was still inside – gave me goosebumps seeing it. Hadn’t been easy hanging on to that box. Not in some of the places I’d been.

  I was going to have to start writing letters, I thought, zipping up my jeans. Reading was bad enough, but as for writing anything down . . . I pulled on a black T-shirt, long-sleeved for winter. Turned back the sleeves a couple of inches. I’d work up to it. Start off with one to Enid.

  She wouldn’t mind mistakes. I’d tell her about Jack; maybe even Alastair. She’d asked me the got any kids? question once. ‘Not so you’d notice,’ I’d said, and changed the subject. But no way would I be able to put all that into words.

  Audrey was waiting outside the kitchen door. Purred when she saw the pilchard coming. Didn’t scarper when I scratched the top of her head. Saturday, she’d started letting me do that. She wasn’t in so much of a hurry to get back under the shed neither. She sat next to it, washing her white paws that Ruby thought were like gloves. Might even be filling out a bit. Still jumped a mile in the air, mind, if anyone else got near her. On the way back home from work – don’t laugh – I pictured her little furry face, her wide eyes with the black ‘eyeliner’, waiting for me. Well, for her pilchard.

  What put a dampener on things was Primrose coming over with some stuff I was supposed to read. Health and safety, great pile of it. Small print. Reading. People watching while I did it. Told you that would happen. That’s the sort of thing that’s made me walk out before.

  I could feel my face going red. It always shows because of my pale skin. Puts you at a disadvantage. I finished unloading the dishwasher. Wasn’t in a hurry to make a fool of myself. I stared at the pages of writing. Yeah, I could read bits in Woman’s World. Bits with pictures. But anything longer, whole pages, had only been with Enid helping. Sitting next to me, smiling and nodding. On my own I couldn’t work out where one sentence finished and another one began. My heart would start going. Often as not I’d end up chucking it on the floor. I’ve already told you I got dyslexia. Doesn’t mean I’m thick.

  I wasn’t going to tell Primrose. Not and have her look down on me. And, silly thing was, I had a Health and Safety certificate already. Never mind I’d got it in prison. I’d used it here, rescuing Jack!

  Primrose said I still had to do it. Insurance or something. She went back to the oven. I could see a couple of inches of bright material, orange with red and black lines, flouncing about under her overall.

  Just as I was stuffing the pages in my pocket, TJ looked over. He loomed about like Dad, and Dougie after him, had. Mum was soppy with the both of them. Looked up into their eyes, snuggled into their armpits. Made me want to vomit.

  ‘I can go over health and safety in break-time if you would like,’ TJ was saying. ‘When we have fags.’

  I stared at him. Nearly got a crick in my neck doing it. He was too ruddy tall. And why was he always smiling? He was smiling now. Was he taking the mick? Sneering? And if he wasn’t, what was in it for him? He could put any ideas of trying it on with me out of his head for starters. No thank you.

  I looked at his shiny black shoes. You could tell he was foreign before he’d even opened his mouth. It was the shoes and his bristly hair, like a coconut, and the size of him. Then, when he spoke you could really tell.

  Maybe he wanted to show off how clever he was. Men get a kick out of that. Well, even if he was – and I hadn’t seen any sign of it so far – he was foreign. I could speak English loads better than him. I folded my lips tight. When we have fags. That wasn’t right for starters. When we have our fags, I nearly said, only it would have encouraged him.

  How did he know I struggled with reading? Because I’d said I hadn’t got my glasses before? Had he read my mind? Never met a man yet who could do that.

  He was still smiling. ‘I read out fire precautions and sharp knives. And you explain when I make mistake with English word. Yes? Fair change is not stealing.’

  ‘Fair exchange is no robbery.’ Nan used to come out with those old sayings. I picked up the pile of plates. Once he’d given me a bit of help he’d have a hold on me. Plus he might tell other people
. Broadcast I was thick. Then him asking me for help with English sunk in. I wanted to burst out laughing. My teachers would have done their insides a mischief hearing that.

  I’d hated every second of school. Every single second. Had a gut ache every school day. Got confused from the very beginning. I could name the letters OK, but I couldn’t hear the different sounds they were supposed to make. They ganged up against me. No way could I stack them together to make words.

  Teachers thought I wasn’t trying: Concentrate, Marguerite! But at home I’d spent ages staring at the words on packets and tins. Touching them, in case I could feel what they said.

  One teacher, Mrs Connell, God love her – because sure as hell nobody else would – used to snatch the empty worksheets off my desk. Give me evils while she done it. Once I threw it at her first; got sent to the headmaster for that. She said I’d attacked her. Still made my gut burn, even now. Wish I had attacked her.

  The headmaster gave me the willies, although I didn’t let on. He had white hair and black eyebrows that didn’t match. Glasses on top of his head. Pointed his finger at me, like he was putting on a curse. ‘With that sort of behaviour I see a bleak future for you, Marguerite McNaughton. You’ll never amount to anything.’

  So that was it. I couldn’t read. End of.

  In prison, well . . . yeah, they had adult literacy classes. Went along once for something to do. But there wasn’t anyone else there who couldn’t read at all. I’d felt like a freak. The tutor fussed around, putting coloured plastic sheets over the printed writing, plonking down wooden alphabet letters. The other girls stared. No way was I going to be seen playing with kids’ toys. After that I knew there wasn’t no one on this earth who could teach me to read and write.

  TJ was still waiting. He handed me a stack of cups for the dishwasher. His eyes had the same expression that Lenny, Nan’s poodle, used to have when I ate a bacon sarnie.

  I carried on putting the cups into the racks. I was still thinking. I needed stuff read. And I didn’t care what TJ thought of me. Plus, he didn’t seem the type who’d make a move on you. Not with those shoes. He wore a silver ring with a dent in it; not that being married had counted for much with Dad.

  I squeezed the last cup into the dishwasher. After a couple of days of using it I’d worked out a way of stacking the cups closer. Getting more in speeded things up. Scanda’s staff got through shed-loads of coffee. It was because they didn’t smoke much or seem to eat snacks. A lot less of both in London.

  I glanced up at TJ. Big smile on his moon face. It struck me again he might be lacking in the brain department. But he could read and I couldn’t, not very well. I could speak OK. Gobby, some people said. And he thought I’d be helping him. I pressed the button on the dishwasher. Blew out a whumph of air. ‘OK, you’re on.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I drummed my fingers on the bench, blowing out smoke. TJ finished the last section. Something about wiping up floor spills straight away.

  He pointed to where I had to sign. Maggsie M, I put, like always. Looked at him to see if he was laughing at me. He was smiling but, seeing as he smiled all the time, it was difficult to say.

  He put the pen back in his apron pocket. I’d never seen a man wearing an apron till I came here. They must do things different in Scandinavia. And in Poland. They definitely did in London. ‘Your English ain’t bad,’ I told him, seeing as he’d done me a favour.

  ‘No, no. Slang I do not get right.’

  He went to English classes Tuesday evenings, he said. In Poland he’d been an agricultural scientist. ‘Test soil. Help farmers.’

  Blimey. He was all there then. ‘Ain’t much science in clearing tables. Ain’t much soil in London.’

  He had a big lumpy sort of face, like a potato, with little twinkly eyes that got swallowed up with the smiling. ‘No, is true.’ He swept his arm out at the skyscrapers around us. I ducked. One wave and he’d have me off the bench. ‘Sorry!’ He reached out to pat my arm. I moved away. ‘But here is opportunity,’ he went on, keeping his arm to himself. ‘Is future.’

  ‘Opportunities. Are opportunities,’ I corrected, tapping the ash off my fag. It felt good correcting him. Maybe that was what teachers got off on. Opportunity was what the probation officer, inside, had kept on about. It meant something similar to chance. Only more definite.

  I took a last drag and stubbed out my fag. Breathed the smoke out slow. Hugged myself against the cold. I’d found a way of not going off on one with the health and safety stuff. Alastair would have been proud of me. I looked at the new glass buildings shining in the distance. One day I’d be able to read official stuff on my own.

  Enid hadn’t said the word opportunity. Not something you’d think you’d get in prison. But that’s what she’d given me getting me started on the reading. Funny how it could hurt, remembering someone doing something good for you.

  10

  Woman’s World, Summer Special 2017

  The Joy of Reading!

  Every prison’s different. It’s a roll of the dice who you get banged up with. When the doors slammed behind me last stretch I had no idea my life was going to change. If you’d told me I’d have learnt a bit of reading by the time I got out again I’d have said you were having a laugh. Even more if you’d said it’d be another con who’d learn me.

  I’d been having a lie-down – splitting headache, cold coming on. Actually, I’d dozed off. Then Only me, ducks. I heaved myself up on one elbow. Enid. Chatterbox Enid. What did she want?

  Enid was coming to the end of a ten-year sentence for bumping off her mum. She had done it, but it was mercy killing. Enid had looked after her for years and, when her mum couldn’t get about at all, or swallow or even speak hardly, she’d asked Enid to help her out with a cushion and sleeping pills.

  Enid couldn’t ever find a bra that could cope with her boobs. Red marks on her shoulders. Wore cardigans, not done up, because they wouldn’t stretch across and a load of necklaces and pendants. The plastic beads clicked together when she tip-tapped around the place.

  She had an eager sort of expression, like she was looking for something. Always wanted to know what was going on, did Enid. And could she talk? Never stopped.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ She reached out to straighten my duvet. Think it came automatic with looking after her mum.

  I nodded. My throat was parched.

  She came back with a strong, sweet cup of tea – four sugars, not many people remember that, or believe it – and a pile of women’s magazines. Woman’s World, she said they were.

  ‘Thought you might fancy a read if you’re not feeling well. There’s a bit about Prince Harry here.’ She folded back a page.

  ‘Enid,’ I slumped back on the bed. ‘You know I can’t read.’

  ‘Can’t read? Well, I don’t suppose anyone in here’s brilliant at reading. But you can read a magazine, can’t you?’

  I pushed it away. ‘No! Can’t hardly read a bloody thing.’

  Enid didn’t laugh. She picked up her magazine and smoothed out a crease from its pages. ‘Well that’s because nobody showed you how, dear. Perhaps they never had no patience at your school.’ She said it very definite, like of course that was the reason. Like of course it wasn’t because I was thick.

  She turned more pages. ‘Now here’s an interesting bit: “What to eat for a healthy heart”.’

  I groaned. Peered up. ‘Fish and bananas,’ I said and she got excited. But that was what the pictures were about.

  ‘Ah, but it says the same underneath.’ Enid pointed to some swirls and shapes of words.

  Then I guessed ‘Olive Oil’, because of the capital letters being big circles. Heard a chorus of teachers: It’s no good you guessing, Marguerite.

  ‘Nothing wrong with guessing.’ Enid sat down on my bed, bouncing me up with her weight. ‘When you don’t know a word, just keep going until you find one you do know. Gives you a clue, see. Even if it’s right at the end of the sentence.’

  I flipped through
Enid’s magazine. Asked her what a couple of words were, to show willing.

  ‘You’ve done ever so well, love.’ Enid got up. ‘Come and see me and have another go. Got to practise, else you’ll forget.’

  A few days later she came in when I was having a weak moment. ‘Whatever’s the matter, love?’ As if being in prison and on my own with no future wasn’t enough. She took me into her cell for a cup of tea. Fetched a Woman’s World to cheer me up, seeing as I done so well before. Yeah, right.

  Her cell was real homely. Because of all the years she’d spent inside, I suppose. It smelt of peppermints and there was a crocheted cover on the bed. Little squares, all bright colours. The other girls gave her bits of wool left over from their knitting. She crocheted while I read. Tried to read. Just as well she had something to do seeing as every bit took me ages. The hook went in, up and over. Soothing rhythm to it.

  There was a collection of dolls from other countries in fancy skirts on a shelf. They stared down at me with beady little black eyes like they couldn’t believe how thick I was.

  The other girls in here had photos and kids’ drawings and cards on their walls. One, a right show-off, posh, had a whole wall covered with arty postcards. But Enid’s were travel pictures, cut from the holiday pages of Woman’s World. Foreign cities by moonlight, forests, mountains, castles, that sort of thing. She’d been inside so long they were going yellow.

  At school my ‘reading’ books were nearly all pictures. I’d got teased about it. But Enid said pictures helped tell you what the writing was about. That’s how I learnt about a new hair dye, one that didn’t fade so quick. That was useful. And I managed to follow a recipe for scones because the pictures showed you how to make them, step by step. I was never actually going to cook any scones, but it was nice to know it was possible.

  I ended up doing a bit of reading most days. Never seemed no point in trying before. Enid said she got a kick out of teaching me. God knows how she had the patience. After half an hour of concentrating I had to jump off her bed and pace about.