Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  Sometimes letters stopped doing their own thing and clumped themselves together into words. Other days I got stuck on the simplest thing. ‘I ain’t never going to get it, Enid.’

  ‘No such word as never, my girl.’ Enid pushed her hair back. (It could have done with a wash, to be honest; it was always falling in her face.) ‘Look at all the words you read yesterday. Couldn’t have done that a few weeks back, could you?’

  We moved on to the problem page. Some poor cow’s hubby playing away. Read what the agony auntie said about him. Agreed, the both of us, we’d chop his balls off. Had a good old cackle. Interesting what you read sometimes.

  One day, and it was frustrating it didn’t happen every day, I read a whole sentence on my own. Without stopping. Read another, then another. I was on a roll. It was a bit from the problem page about confidence. There were other hard words: positive, self-esteem. (Four ‘e’s in that, plus a nasty little line stuck in the middle.) In the end I read the whole bit. Took me nearly an hour rather than five minutes, and Enid gave me clues, but still.

  I put the Woman’s World down and danced about. Enid punched the air, bosom bouncing. Maureen, from the cell next door, came in and asked if we were partying. Thought we’d got hold of some booze. Turned surly when we said we’d been reading. Stomped back to her cell.

  Being able to read felt like being rescued from drowning. I knew what that was like. Gone too far in a school swimming lesson once, hadn’t I, and the teacher hadn’t noticed me going under. When the lifeguard fished me out I’d sat on the side, dripping, not minding the teacher shouting. Just looked at the people staring from the gallery, like I’d never seen people before.

  I copied out the words positive and confidence. Long words I could read now. I’d never hardly written anything before so the letters straggled like spray-can graffiti. I tried to do them neater. There was a little word, sit, inside positive, and con and den in confidence. That’s what I was: a con in a den.

  I stuck them on my wall with blobs of toothpaste. About all it was good for with me. We weren’t allowed Blu-Tack on account of it could be used to gum up the locks. I never normally had stuff to put up. Mum still sent me birthday cards and Christmas cards, but Nella had stopped bothering. One day, if I could write proper, I’d send people cards left, right and centre. And the ones I got back I’d stick up everywhere like that posho, Louise, did with her arty postcards. There’d be whole rows of them, hanging from strings.

  Think Enid was lonely, myself. She wasn’t exactly streetwise. Some of the girls sniggered behind her back. No way could you see her bumping off anybody, even if it was putting her mum out of her misery.

  She didn’t mind talking about it. Said her mum’s eyes used to follow her around the room. Pleading, like. Broke Enid’s heart. She’d used a cushion her mum had embroidered to do it.

  Said it was a kindness and she didn’t regret it, even after years inside, because she’d loved her mum.

  I looked at a picture on her wall of a desert with a string of camels. ‘What you going to do when you get out, Enid? Travel?’

  ‘Bet your bottom dollar, I am.’ Her chest flopped as she sat down on the bed. ‘My niece got one of they apartments in somewhere ever so foreign. Romania! By a lake. Pine forests all around. That’s where I’m going. Less than eighteen months and I’ll be on that plane.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘You won’t see me for dust.’

  I didn’t say anything. My release date was before Enid’s. I didn’t think about getting out. Out wasn’t good when you didn’t have plans. This was before the probation officer came up with the Scanda idea. ‘’Spect I’ll get myself put back inside soon as I can.’

  ‘Nah, reading’s going to put you on the right road this time, my girl.’ Enid leant towards me, her face all lit up. ‘I can feel it in my water.’

  I put down the Woman’s World I’d bought at the Co-op. The beauty page was about making the most of your skin. Glow had taken me a while to work out. Think it would sound the same as now, wouldn’t you?

  That letter to Enid. I got to have a go. For her, and for Alastair.

  I fetched a notepad I’d bought earlier. I knew how to spell Enid, at least. Knew it had a capital letter. Names and places had one, and beginnings of sentences. But how did you know when to start a new sentence? Why couldn’t you just keep on going with the old one? I leant over the notepad, clutched the pen and made a start. I could hear myself breathing.

  Dear Enid

  I am heer in London. I am ok. There is a cat heer I am in charg off the dishwash. I save a lad in the lift. 1 day I will try and rite to somone. I hop you ok. Luv, Maggsie M.

  I crumpled up the first go. Sat back and looked at the second. I’d pressed so hard the biro had come through the other side. First letter I’d ever wrote, though. A little bit of me was on that sheet of paper now. When Enid got it she’d know what I’d been thinking. Some of it.

  I crossed today off the calendar. Put down my biro, then picked it up again. Under the date I squeezed in: rote a letter.

  11

  Woman’s World, 31 January 2018

  Dairy Fresh – Cooking with Butter!

  I began to tick off my calendar soon as I got home from work. I got a bit obsessed by it, to tell you the truth. Looking at the ticks, counting them. In bed at night I thought about what me and Alastair would do together. I already told you about Pizza Hut.

  All I had to do was keep going. Seemed pretty straightforward to me. Only, according to Ruby, I still had anger issues. I couldn’t see it myself. I’d been on two separate anger management courses. Got the certificates. Knew all the tricks. Strat-e-gies, they called them, not tricks. Had the special breathing – in for four, hold for four, out for s-i-x – imprinted on my brain, practically. But them in charge had to pick on something. Otherwise it didn’t look like they were doing their job.

  I posted Enid’s letter outside the Co-op. Heard a little soft thud as it landed inside. I’d just sent a letter. I was someone who wrote letters. Someone going places. Someone who had a goal in life. Contacting their son. Alastair.

  I bought some stamps and this week’s Woman’s World and a new toothbrush, one that was supposed to work miracles, and some mouthwash. Didn’t want Alastair cringing away. Plus a little tin of posh cat food for Audrey. I knew it was posh because the cat on the label had fluffy white fur and a diamond collar. And a Snickers bar for myself. It had peanuts in it and nuts were good for you. Bought a banana as well. They’re more into that kind of thing in London.

  Apart from me and TJ the people in the roof garden were smartly dressed. I had on my too-big overall and my jeans and trainers. I could have changed my overall for a smaller one but having it so big meant I could wrap it round me to keep out the cold, smoking. How the women who worked here ever walked in their shoes beat me. You might think I’d be one for heels, given I’m shorter, but I like the idea of a quick getaway and you can’t do that in heels.

  Me and TJ were about the only people who sat down to have a fag. There were a few other smokers but they stood up to do it. It was because they were posh and had jobs where they could sit down for the rest of the day.

  I rolled a fag and handed it to TJ. He’d given me one of his before. I still sat at the other end of the bench. Didn’t want him getting ideas. Or him knocking me to the ground when he stuck his great arm out at something. ‘Read us a bit of your paper, then.’ It was the Metro that you get free at tube stations. It was the names in the stories I struggled with.

  TJ was looking at the rollie. His eyes had purple shadows underneath. He worked other places as well as Scanda. Wore himself out, more fool him. ‘I know it’s skinny. When you ain’t got much, you’ve got to make your baccy last.’

  ‘You use words I not understand, Maggsie. Is dialect?’

  I stopped, tongue out, ready to lick my fag paper. Did that mean slang? Wasn’t going to let on I didn’t know. Bit of a cheek him not understanding me, seeing as he mangled English soon as he ope
ned his mouth. I nodded. Jerked my chin at the paper. ‘Go on then. What’s the news?’

  ‘“TRAGIC SECRET OF HIGH-FLYING COUPLE”.’ TJ pointed to the headline. He read nice and slowly, I’ll say that for him.

  I peered across. Tragic. Now you’d think there’d be a ‘j’ in that, wouldn’t you? I’d felt I was getting somewhere writing that letter to Enid, but then up comes a word, an everyday word, I’d never have worked out in a million years. I mean, who decided to stick a ‘g’ in tragic?

  On my way home – well, to the house – I picked up a Metro myself. I’d read the article again. I’d be able to read it now, see, now I knew what it was about.

  I had a couple of sandwiches in my jacket pocket. Primrose parcelled up the left-over ones at work. The weird ones nobody wanted. Dropped them off at her church, the Church of the Everlasting Light, in Peckham. She sang in the choir there. She was always singing, humming hymns and that. And she went on about her ‘pastor’. I’d thought she meant spaghetti or something, but no, it was a type of vicar.

  Last week she’d seen me looking at the sandwiches and offered me a couple to take home. I said I wasn’t bothered, one way or the other. Didn’t want to look poor. But it is a sin to waste good food, Primrose said, practically stuffing them into my pocket. So I let her. Saved me money and cooking so I was quids in. Don’t know about ‘good food’, though. They weren’t always sandwiches I’d have chosen myself. The bread had bits in it. Seeds. Or there’d be grated carrot where you wouldn’t expect it. Once, stuck into some pongy cheese, there was actual grapes. The meat or fish ones were the best, because then Audrey could share them. I threw her little bits through the kitchen doorway. I’d got her to come right up to the door now.

  Big Shirl and Juice got beady-eyed over my sandwiches because of them being free and posh. Juice said a vegetable stew – hers, she meant – had more goodness in it. Big Shirl went on about how she’d used to order in special little sandwiches and sausage rolls from Waitrose for her clients. ‘Nothing but the best. And all included in the price.’

  I thought she’d run a beauty salon or a posh clothes shop. ‘Establishment,’ she’d called it with an airy wave of her fag.

  That evening, out in the yard, I found out her establishment was a knocking shop. An upmarket one, yeah, but still a brothel. I felt thick for not cottoning on before. Not as if I hadn’t known plenty of girls inside who’d been on the game. I wasn’t thick. It was a mistake anyone could have made because of the way Big Shirl looked. Wavy hair. Skirts. Pointed shoes. She had a pink cardigan on today. Pearl buttons.

  Some of her clients had been solicitors, one an MP, she said, hugging herself – well, as far as she could reach. It was freezing out in the yard. She looked me up and down, telling me the details. Sizing me up. Old habits die hard. I bristled. I wouldn’t be a good candidate for no knocking shop, trust me on that one. Wouldn’t have no man pawing me for all the tea in China.

  Funny how you can’t go on first impressions. That’s not just me. That’s a well-known thing. I stubbed out my fag, wondering what there was to find out about the other two girls, the foreign one – Kasia, Big Shirl said her name was – and the nosey old one next to me.

  I’d looked inside her room once when she left the door open, seeing as she’d done the same. Had a good stare. I’d expected it to be messy and full of stuff – piles of old newspapers and old books and clothes like you see on TV before they bring in a decluttering expert. It wasn’t messy but there were lots of ornaments and candles, like some old hippie’s boudoir. The ornaments were buddhas and cats. There was a shawly thing on her bed and a cat picture stuck above it. A kitten swinging from the branch of a tree. Underneath were some torn-out pictures: cats looking smug and pleased with themselves, like the cat food adverts you saw in Woman’s World sometimes.

  I was in bed by half nine. Still got tired being on my feet all day and heaving plates about. I’d stacked them more logical in the cupboards now. In the order they got used. Breakfast bowls on the top shelf, that sort of thing. My brain worked OK doing stuff like that. Seeing the big picture. It was the little things I struggled with. Like why is it sometimes ‘ie’ in words, and other times ‘ei’? No logic to it. Just torture. Primrose and TJ were pleased about the tidy cupboard. ‘Is clever idea,’ TJ said. ‘A clever idea,’ I told him.

  Although I was tired I couldn’t drop off. The blind was moving about in the draught from the window. Yellow stripes of light from the streetlamp showed through and they moved about as well. Got on my nerves. In the end I went downstairs to make some toast.

  I opened the fridge to get out my butter. Half of it was gone.

  My initials were all over the packet. No way could you miss them. Someone had helped themselves. Without asking. Bet it was Big Shirl. She was just the sort of person who’d ‘borrow’ things. Well, two can play at that game. I bunged three slices from her loaf – it had a stick-on label with a giant ‘S’ on it – in the toaster. Hovis, it was, not my favourite. I slathered them all over with butter and pushed my packet right to the back of the fridge. Blowed if she was going to take any more.

  I crammed the toast down before I went back upstairs. The TV was still on as I passed the lounge door. Big Shirl was probably in there, flicking through her address book, remembering all the vicars and MPs that used to eat her Waitrose sandwiches, wiping my butter from her mouth.

  Being worked up don’t help you get to sleep. Nor does your belly groaning.

  I was pulling on my jeans when there was a rap at the door. The banging got louder. I had to hop to the door before I’d got them on properly.

  Big Shirl. Looking so pissed off I wanted to close it again. But she was already in. Slammed it shut herself.

  I hoisted up my jeans double quick. You don’t want to be staggering about when someone’s having a go.

  ‘You pinched my bloody Hovis! Three slices you took. I counted!’ Big Shirl wagged her finger in my face. I hate that. Behind the bulk of her I saw a crowd of other people: Mrs Connell from school, Dad, Dougie, a whole lot of policewomen and screws, and all of them wagging their fingers.

  My heart was going. I swelled out my chest and stood feet apart, hands on hips, to give myself presence. Can’t let people grind you down.

  ‘You nicked half my bloody butter!’ Trouble was, getting riled up made my voice go squeaky. Then people didn’t take me serious. Started on about mice and that. Which got me more worked up. I lowered my chin. ‘Half!’ I growled out.

  Big Shirl poked her face close. She bloody hadn’t. She was cutting down on her col . . . colander, or some such. Something butter’d got in it.

  Her wrinkles looked like screwed-up paper when you’d tried to smooth it out. Like my first go at Enid’s letter. I swallowed. Couldn’t say I’d got it wrong, could I? Give people the upper hand and they start on the grinding. But she didn’t move. Or speak. I could hear myself breathing quick and heavy.

  I coughed. Then, lower, ‘Next loaf I buy I’ll give you your slices back.’

  ‘Mind you bloody do.’ She was still frowning. She’d drawn in her eyebrows too dark. Made her look like something out of a cartoon. They were probably bald underneath. Overplucked.

  Soon as she’d gone I went over to the window. Some of Jack’s flowers were still doing OK. I’d moved them into the vase from the kitchen. It had been a blow, throwing out the dead ones. I leant on the window sill. Rubbish in the gutter. An old man shuffling along. An Alsatian, with a grey muzzle, trailing behind. I shut my eyes. Not a nice feeling when someone the size of Big Shirl comes into your room and has a go. The sort of feeling that makes you want . . . well, what I’ve already told you, a drink. What I’ve told you I’ve put behind me. What there is no reason on this earth to go on about. Someone had nicked my butter, caused this kerfuffle. I did my breathing. People breathe in too much without letting go. You might sometimes. We all get angry; it’s how you deal with it that matters.

  I used to be an angry person. Had to be wit
h my background and the places I’d spent time in. People looked up to you when you were angry. Listened. It was the only time they did listen. But that was before I’d done the two courses and got my certificates.

  Four, four, s-i-x. I looked at the calendar, at the three weeks crossed off so far. Three weeks closer to Alastair.

  After I’d sent Enid the letter, I’d written out positive and confidence on half a page torn out from my notepad. I remembered how to spell them because of the little hidden words inside. I’d stuck them on my wardrobe mirror, above the calendar. They reminded me of Enid. She’d get my letter soon. She’d be pleased with me.

  I remembered a doctor’s nice words to me once, said them out loud now: keep trying and I know you’ll get there. (I haven’t even told you about him yet. He was the one that helped me put things behind me. Lovely blue eyes.)

  I did up the button on my jeans, wiped my face with a bit of toilet paper and went downstairs. I’d have a fag, give Audrey her pilchard – keep her special tin for a celebration, not something I was in the mood for now – and nip down the Co-op. Buy a loaf of ruddy Hovis to get Big Shirl off my back. Then I’d find out who’d pinched my butter.

  I asked Juicy Lucy when I got back from the shop. She swore it wasn’t her, margarine was healthier. The foreign girl, Kasia, was in the kitchen. Could have been her. She was thin with dark eyes and a short skirt and too many gold chains. Brassy blonde hair that didn’t match her olive skin. A read of Woman’s World’s beauty pages would have told her that.

  I’d seen her outside shooing away a great hulking bloke in a long dark coat and a woolly hat pulled down low. Tapping her watch. He hung about the entrance to the block of flats over the road. Funny the residents hadn’t complained, but then this was London. Once he’d followed Kasia right up to our door and she’d shouted something and gone down the steps to give him a shove.