Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  Louise was a daddy’s girl. She’d gone on about him, inside. What car he drove, what paintings he liked. All the stuff he knew. Like an overgrown kid. Enid reckoned all Louise’s studying and art malarkey was just to impress him. Make him forget she was a jailbird. Enid. It was her I wanted to talk about. Not sit through Louise’s boasting.

  She picked up her cup. ‘Yes, my family won’t know what’s hit them, now I’m back in circulation! I’ve never been conventional.’ She stopped laughing. ‘Whereas you, you’ve gone the other way, haven’t you? You look . . . different.’ She made it sound like a bad thing. ‘Still skinny, but you’ve lost your swagger.’ A too-long look over her coffee cup.

  What did she mean, swagger? Stuck-up bitch. ‘I am working now,’ I said frostily. ‘I’ve been working at Scanda Solutions for more than six months.’ I got a kick out of telling people that, even Louise, who had a stately home to fall back on.

  She arched her eyebrows like she was amazed. I noticed some straggly hairs that needed plucking. ‘Well done, you! Cutting edge in modern furniture design, aren’t they? Pa’s invested in a couple of their chairs.’

  I nodded like I knew what she was talking about. Scanda’s spiky black furniture wasn’t my cup of tea. Cheap-looking, if you asked me. Basic. Mind you, you’d think they’d added another nought on the end of everything by mistake.

  Louise was still on about Scanda. ‘Pa says they’re great ambassadors for Denmark. In fact’ – she put down her cup – ‘they’ve got quite a collection of modern Danish art, haven’t they?’

  Had they? First I’d heard of it. I shrugged. ‘Where are their paintings then?’

  ‘Well, in their boardroom, I expect.’

  Oh. Yeah. Right up there. Come to think of it I had seen some splodges of colour through the glass of the boardroom door. I passed it on the way to the roof garden. TJ would know, seeing as he worked up there sometimes. He’d know the names of the artists better than what Louise would.

  Once she’d started it was difficult to get Louise off the subject of art. She was like TJ that way. They’d have things in common. No, I tapped the little spoon on my saucer. No, they wouldn’t. I let the spoon drop.

  ‘Heard how Enid’s doing?’ I got in at last.

  ‘Well,’ Louise flicked her hair off her face, but it settled back in exactly the same place. Swear I could hear the clunk. ‘She came back after the mastectomy. She’s waiting for radiotherapy now.’

  I winced. Enid liked it in hospital, I reminded myself. Nice change from prison.

  ‘If that doesn’t work then there’s chemo.’ Louise sounded like she was reading out a menu. ‘But, after all that, well . . .’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  My armpits prickled. If it was anyone in her family Louise wouldn’t be so casual. There was a heaviness in my chest. All those travel pictures in Enid’s cell. Romania that was keeping her going.

  When I looked up, Louise was asking more questions about Scanda. Seemed ever so interested in what it was like and what I did there. Still looked at me like she couldn’t believe I was working there, mind. Caught her staring at my teeth more than once. Swear I saw her lip curl. Like I said, I’d never warmed to her.

  She asked for my mobile number in case she got more news of Enid. Gave me hers. Not that I’d ever text her.

  The only person I texted was TJ. He didn’t mind my garbled messages. His weren’t right neither because of being Polish.

  Then, outside, blow me down if Louise didn’t suggest us meeting up again. For dinner. For old times’ sake. God knows why. ‘It’s been fascinating, Maggsie.’ Waved goodbye like she was the Queen.

  No, it hadn’t.

  23

  Woman’s World, 15 August 2018

  Quick Fixes for Defusing Conflict in the Workplace

  I was sitting at my desk, reading a story in Woman’s World. A made-up one. Two and a half pages long. Struggling over the names of the people in it, to be honest. Thinking of Enid, leaning forward, arms folded under her boobs that weren’t there any more, smiling at me having a go at something so long. That set me off on a downer. I wanted to rip the whole ruddy thing in half. Smash something, Have a drink. Scream at the poxy stinking unfairness of it all.

  Trudie poking her head round the door didn’t make me feel any better. She took it being open as an invitation. It was – for Audrey. And if Audrey was on my bed it meant she was asleep. Cats needed their rest. Peace and quiet. They didn’t want visitors.

  I’d bought her a little beanbag bed with a fleecy pattern of mice and fish bones. Put it at the bottom of my bed, next to the wall. Audrey kneaded the furry cover, purring, eyes half closed. In a sort of trance. Preferred it to Trudie’s jumper. She was on it now.

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked Trudie, narkily, because she wasn’t Enid. ‘Never heard of knocking?’ I wasn’t keen on her seeing me reading a woman’s magazine with a school dictionary alongside either. My heart was going thump, thump, thump. I didn’t raise my voice because I didn’t want to wake Audrey.

  Get out the crocodile, I thought. I sent him crawling across the carpet on his stumpy legs. Imagined him chasing Trudie out the door. She did give a little jump, like he was real. But it was because she’d spotted Audrey all curled up, one paw over her eye. Probably trying to blot out Trudie’s leathery face.

  ‘I had one just like her in Greece.’ Trudie went right over to my bed. She had a tie-dyed top on. Lime green. Reliving her youth. ‘Used to put sunscreen on her ears. They can get burnt. The tips, you know?’

  Pity you didn’t use some, I wanted to say. Snappy headed for her ankle.

  Trudie stepped away from the bed, I’ll give Snappy that. ‘We don’t never hardly see her downstairs, Maggsie. Cos of you enticing her up here.’

  ‘She follows me upstairs. Can’t help it if she prefers my company.’

  ‘Don’t own her, though, do you?’ Trudie said. Muttered something I won’t repeat on her way out the door.

  I slammed the dictionary shut. Gave up on the story. Trudie had rubbed me up the wrong way. Couldn’t concentrate anyway. Hard not being able to do something for someone who’s been good to you, like Enid had.

  Then, just to cheer me up, things kicked off at work. I told you that would happen sooner or later.

  It was the following Thursday, half oneish. TJ was poncing about in the boardroom upstairs, waiting on the bigwigs at one of Scanda’s posh dinners. He had a black bow tie on and a white shirt. Made a change from his apron. He’d looked up the Danish paintings Louise had gone on about. Hadn’t known they were valuable before. First time I’d been able to tell him anything about art. First time I’d been able to tell him anything, apart from slang.

  I had to fill in for TJ downstairs. I wasn’t cut out to be a waitress, out there in the canteen, on show. It was quite like a prison one, actually – no carpet, cutlery banging – but the people eating were all smartly dressed, with teeth they didn’t have to cover up. None of them was wearing an overall.

  I took some mushroom omelettes out to a couple of grumpy gits. One had black-framed glasses and a cardigan, which was something you saw a lot of in London, and the other one was in a suit. Reckon they’d been left out of the special boardroom dinner. I already had a down on them because, earlier, old Cardigan had snapped his fingers at me to clear their table. I did it with Snappy by the side of me, his tail lashing and both our eyes narrowed into slits, though Cardigan didn’t notice.

  Neither of them looked up when I put down their dinners. Didn’t say thank you, even with me stood there, waiting. Just carried on chatting. It was like I wasn’t there. Like I didn’t matter. Because I’m small, smaller, I haven’t got much physical presence. Taking up less space makes people think I’m less important. Throw in being poor, ginger and dyslexic, and people pretended they didn’t even see me.

  Not easy to remember anger management strategies when that happens. The red mist came over. I power-walked back to the kitchen, my thumbs white on the rim of the tray
.

  I did try. Slammed myself into the storeroom. Stayed there for a minute, breathing o-u-t. Relaxed my shoulders.

  Back in the kitchen Primrose was tetchy because TJ wasn’t there to help out. Wiping sweat from her forehead with her overall sleeve. I had a good view of her giant backside lifting a casserole dish out the oven. One of her Ghanaian specials – something red and spicy with peanuts in it. By the time she’d dished out portions for me to take out, my heart had slowed down. I was cooler than Primrose. Pretty much had anger management sorted.

  I served the meals OK, cleared some dirty crockery. The two ignorant pillocks had their heads together, laughing. Didn’t like not knowing what they were laughing at. Then, blow me down if old Cardigan didn’t snap his fingers at me again. I turned my back. Who did he think he was, treating me like the dirt on his shoe?

  Snappy was scrabbling about under my overall, eager to get out, his claws tearing at the material. He was small and dangerous. You can be both. Easily.

  I did know it was only me that could see Snappy. I did know using him as an anger management strategy was weird. But don’t knock anything that helps you keep a hold of yourself.

  ‘Miss!’ old Suit called out. Pointed to their dirty plates, like I was slacking. I gave him a death stare. So did Snappy.

  I sent him slithering through the tables, his scales rippling, his claws clicking on the laminate floor. He sat next to Cardigan, his teeth showing in an evil little smile.

  I marched after him. Snatched up their plates. Made so much noise they stopped whispering. If you don’t show people you’re tough they’ll take you for a ride. But Cardigan ordered more coffees. They were supposed to fetch them themselves from the machine. No please, no smile, no looking at me, even. No treating me like I was a human being.

  I brought them out through the swing doors like a cowboy in a saloon. Guns blazing. Snappy darting ahead. The more worked up I was the more vivid I could see his open jaws and pointed teeth. I slammed the cups down with a bang that toppled them in their saucers. Half splashed into old Suit’s lap. Scalding hot. He leapt up, swearing and mopping himself. Ran off to the gents.

  I went back to the kitchen. Couldn’t stop a little smile coming. Stacked the dishwasher, got the backlog cleared, floated on air. Wiped down every surface in the kitchen. Put the clean dishes away. Did it all smooth and efficient and careful. Did it all like a human being.

  When Primrose shouted a lasagne needed taking out, and a jacket potato, I came back down to earth with a bang. Where was TJ? Them upstairs must have finished their dinners by now, surely?

  I dragged my feet going through the swing doors. Those poxy twats had gone. Their coffees were on the table, left there, not touched. My stomach turned over. But at least I’d made them think twice about being disrespectful in the future, I kept telling myself. And I hadn’t hit them. Hadn’t even shouted.

  Should have remembered I never got away with nothing in this life. Never have, never will.

  TJ came back down all fired up about the boardroom paintings. Undid his bow tie. Clattered out into the canteen with his trolley. Primrose sat down for five minutes. I did some tidying in the storeroom. Forgot about the two men, except for a bit of burning in my stomach. Then, mid-afternoon, I got a message: I was wanted up at HR.

  TJ and Primrose looked at me. What have you done now, Maggsie? I heard, without them even saying anything.

  It was times like those I wished I was taller. I stuck out my chest, such as it was. Took my baccy tin and walked up to the fifth floor. I’d never got the lift, not since that first day. More burning in my belly remembering Jack lying there unconscious, and me on my own. My feet were heavy. I knew what was coming. Each step I climbed was taking me further away from Alastair.

  I passed the empty boardroom. Past the sploshy paintings Louise, and now TJ, had gone on about. That brought back Enid, her being ill. I went out into the roof garden and smoked a rollie. The skyscrapers leant towards me like they had me cornered.

  Knocking on HR’s door was like I was back in the headmaster’s office. Worse, because now I had stuff to lose.

  I waited for the tube, arms folded tight, only having to keep blinking took away the effect. The doors closed behind me. I’d never felt trapped on the tube before, for all it was underground. Doors closing. Jack again. Months and months ago now. My eyes watered. I felt in my jacket pocket for a tissue. No sandwich there. Hadn’t had a chance to take one. Hadn’t even been allowed back in the kitchen. Some HR trainee, all glossy hair and lipstick, had gone downstairs to fetch my jacket.

  The HR woman, her that had asked if I was alright on my first day, said there’d been a complaint. I’d been surly. I’d deliberately scalded a senior manager. Ruined his suit. ‘No excuse,’ she’d said, when I said they’d been rude. People like her always say putting up with rudeness is part of the job. That us lesser mortals should learn to live with it. Them in charge wear smart clothes, though, and have a posh way of talking. Nobody’s likely to be rude to them.

  People got me wrong, thought I was worse than what I was. The HR woman hadn’t listened to me. People didn’t. I’ve told you that before but I don’t expect you believed me. People didn’t do that either.

  Snappy was staring up at the HR woman with his toothy smile, but he lost heart when she handed me a form. Seemed to fade into the carpet. I’d need the form for my next employment. Yeah, right.

  The revolving door in the front spat me out onto the street. I walked to the tube just like it was a normal day, except I was an hour early, and it was my last one.

  My stomach griped all the way home. Home. Supported housing wasn’t my home. It was one step up from a bail hostel. Not an address you could give anyone. Jack or Alastair. Even TJ. Not that it mattered now. No chance of me giving anyone any kind of address now.

  I headed up the hill. Didn’t have any money with me – never carried any with me if I could help it, only a pound coin for emergencies. I kept it in the little embroidered purse with the zip. That was so I couldn’t buy a drink.

  OK, OK. You already know about that. Yeah, I used to have a problem with drink. Lots of people do. No need to go on about it. I wouldn’t sneer if I were you. For all you know, one of your friends, someone from your family might have a bottle stashed under their bed now.

  I really, really wanted a drink. Quickest painkiller I knew. Might as well give in to it. No point in ticking off the calendar any more. No point in anything.

  I went up to my room. Looked out of the window. Audrey was outside, on the front step, where it caught the sun, chasing a bit of Twix wrapper. If cats weren’t two a penny people would pay good money to see them playing about. In zoos and that. She didn’t look up. More interested in the Twix wrapper than in me.

  I fetched a tenner from my holdall and went downstairs. Ignored Big Shirl’s Ain’t you supposed to be at work? and headed for the Co-op.

  24

  Woman’s World, 15 August 2018

  Here to Help – Could You Be Drinking Too Much?

  I bought a four-pack of Stella and headed for the little park next to the kiddies’ playground in the next road. It was where the winos went.

  The cans sloshed and gurgled in the carrier bag. Ages since I’d heard that sound. My belly, liver, whatever, did the same. If my brain could have gurgled it would have. A whole crowd of people flashed through it, looking disappointed. Enid, with her chest stitched up; that blue-eyed doctor who’d been nice to me. Jack and TJ. Alastair, screaming his head off in a hospital cot.

  But what was the point of not drinking now? I’d already lost everything.

  The lager was melted sunshine going down my throat. I drained half a can in one gulp. It set me off coughing. Forgotten how strong it was. Slowed down a bit with the other half. Felt my veins singing and a sort of shrinking under my rib-cage. Probably my liver. So much for it being enlarged, like that doc had said.

  No one around, only a mum pushing a little boy with ginger hair on a swing.
I felt a pang, seeing him, because of Alastair. I opened a second can, then a third. Couldn’t finish the fourth.

  Well and truly out of it now. Inside a warm and fuzzy cocoon. Except I needed a wee. I staggered to my feet. The ground rose up to meet me. I had to hang on to the bench to stop myself falling. I stumbled behind a bush, giggling. After, I couldn’t get my knickers up, not without toppling over. Lay there like an upturned woodlouse.

  Getting up was like being on a roundabout. I tried to stand still. But it wasn’t any good. I threw it all up. All three and a half cans of it and the remains of the jacket potato I’d had for lunch, before all that to-do. You could still see the sweetcorn kernels.

  So there I was. I told you at the start I couldn’t do it. Knew I didn’t have it in me to stay on the straight and narrow.

  I’d always liked a drink. Right from that first drop of cherry brandy in a tiny glass that Nan let us have Sunday afternoons and Christmas. That warm feeling going down. The way it made you forget things. The way you could just give yourself up to it. The way it filled up your time.

  Your best friend and your worst enemy.

  Before, I’d serve half my sentence and get let out. Then came the hard bit: finding somewhere to live. Never mind finding a job.

  I’d kipped at Nan’s sometimes, until she died. She didn’t like me drinking. Sat up nights until I came home. Plus she kept on at me to come ballroom dancing with her. Can you see me, denim jacket and jeans, trainers, sailing round a dance floor? Some leathery pensioner mate of Nan’s, with a bristly moustache, doing his back in, twirling me round?

  I sofa-surfed until all my mates seemed to have kids and settle down. Then I kipped in a mate’s old Honda, one where you could let the seats down. Quite comfy for someone my size. Hectic, though, with all the street noise going on. And cold.

  Even colder in a multi-storey car park. Concrete chills your bones no matter how much cardboard you put down. And they’re lonely places, nights, especially when some tosser thinks you might like a bit of company. You have to sleep right under the CCTV camera. One eye open because you don’t know what people could do to you. Well, you do know, that’s the trouble.