Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  TJ knew all about the Queen’s dead relations and her art collection and her state ruddy rooms. He knew everything. Enid would have lapped all this up, I thought, with a pang. Oh I say, she’d have said, looking up at TJ, her face all eager. Well, I never knew that, dear. She’d have reached out and patted TJ like she did me.

  I bought her a postcard, a big one. Buckingham Palace in the middle and the Royals, the most important ones, in little circles all around the outside. Nice bright colours to cheer her up.

  There were crowds of gawping tourists, snapping away with cameras and mobile phones. Someone banged into me. See, that was London for you. People got too close. I whipped round. He had a big belly, shorts that needed pulling up. And the cheek to bark out something foreign. My chest started going, I was getting hotter, my mouth opened to swear. I clamped it shut. Saw Snappy racing up his shorts leg. Crushing his camera with one snap of his jaws. No. Moved on from a crocodile, hadn’t I? Moved onto psy-chol-o-gy. Why I was angry. Well, barging into someone was treating them like they didn’t matter. But I wasn’t frightened, like Ruby had said. Only, not mattering was frightening, I supposed.

  TJ hung back, frowning. He’d have just let himself be knocked over. He’d have probably said sorry as he fell. Too soft, see. Or maybe he didn’t worry about not mattering. He was tall. Knew a lot of stuff. Maybe that stopped you worrying.

  He said the flag on the palace roof meant the Queen was at home. I peered through the gates. ‘Why don’t she invite us in for a cup of tea then, seeing as we’re showing an interest, admiring her house and that?’ She had all that space. Even had other palaces, TJ said.

  He smiled. ‘You are socialist, Maggsie.’ It meant I’d vote Labour in an election. I’d never voted. Too many forms, and prisoners don’t get a vote anyway.

  Juice was peeling the plastic film off a Co-op ready meal. Vegetable Stew with Dumplings – healthy, but not like her to just warm up something in the microwave.

  She said it was just one of them days. I finished my sandwich – salmon and cucumber. Dark bread from Scandinavia that I’d got used to now. More or less. Audrey was going mad under the table, miaowing, dodging about for another scrap.

  ‘There ain’t no more, Aud.’ I got up to wash the smell of fish off my hands. ‘Want a tea, Juice?’ It was seeing her ready meal, a tiny portion, not enough for Juice really, and only a little bit of carrot showing that made me offer.

  ‘Yeah. No. Ain’t got no milk.’

  ‘Don’t matter. I’ll treat you.’

  It was her that usually made me a cup of tea. That was to do with her looking up to me.

  I got a Danish pastry out of the fridge. It was Friday’s, from work, but I’d wrapped it up in two plastic bags. I cut it in half. ‘Here. I’m more of a savoury person. Can’t manage a whole one.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Her eyes were shiny behind her glasses.

  ‘That was supposed to cheer you up, Juice, not set you off.’

  A tear rolled down. I shifted on the chair. Issues were going to come up again and I hadn’t even got a fag in my hand.

  She sniffed. ‘You got kids, Maggsie?’

  Didn’t see that coming. I paused. Shook my head.

  ‘It’s the sixth of September today. My kid’s birthday.’

  ‘Oh.’ I didn’t even know she had a kid. Never said before. Blimey. Seemed like we all had secrets here. Turned out Juice’s little girl was four years old today. Been taken off her because Juice had put drugs and the boyfriend first. Left her alone nights. But, soon as Juice was caught, the boyfriend scarpered. ‘That’s harsh, Juice. She live with you, outside?’ That was a mistake. Never ask questions. It only sets people off. Then they tell you more than you want to know. This was one of them times.

  Turned out Juice’s mum, her adoptive mum, had Juice’s kid, Shania. (Funny, Juice was so against her birth mum, for giving her up, but she’d done practically the same herself. Deluded about that, if you asked me.) Juice was going to live with her and do a parenting course after she’d finished here. To see if she could cope on her own.

  Now Juice was off drugs, and the boyfriend, she was thinking straight. Could see all the bad things she’d done while she was out of it. It was the same with me and drink.

  Shania called Juice Mummy, sent her drawings and that, but it was still Juice’s mum that was bringing her up. I could see that would be hard. ‘You’re putting too much salt in that stew,’ I said, meaning Juice’s crying. But at least she saw her kid. Knew she was doing OK. Juice had had a chance and blown it. She was lucky. Her mum – adoptive mum – was helping her out. My mum would never have stood for that. She’d have hated anyone calling her Nan. Making her sound old. Nella had two kids now, girls, and they both called Mum Susan.

  I hadn’t told anyone here, apart from Ruby, about Alastair. Funny, me and Juice were both trying to improve ourselves for our kids. Hers was through cooking healthy. Impressing social workers with the amount of veg she got through. She read magazines about being a good parent as well, only it was upsetting reading about what she hadn’t done.

  At least Juice was trying. Plus it’s hard not to like someone who looks up to you.

  She started on her half of pastry. She could do with putting dark eyeshadow on her eyelids, play them down a bit. And a dot of light-reflecting stuff (there was a proper word, illum . . . something) in the inside corners to make her look more lively.

  I put some clean washing away upstairs. Audrey followed me in, miaowing. She sounded husky, like she’d given herself a sore throat, talking. When I didn’t stroke her straight away she stuck out a back leg and washed it like it was really urgent. Like she didn’t want to look too desperate in case it gave me an advantage.

  Soon as I sat down at the rickety table she was up there. Didn’t get off till I’d paid her some attention. Getting to be a cocky little madam. Then she jumped onto her beanbag and tucked her paws under. Watched me go through Woman’s World with the dictionary and a notebook, one pound forty-nine pence from the Co-op. Just sat there staring, looking stern, like she was in charge of my reading.

  I got Enid’s postcard out of its paper bag. Buckingham Palace wasn’t in the dictionary. I put where the Queen lives instead. Then when I turned the postcard over it was written on the ruddy front. I couldn’t truthfully say I hadn’t had a drink, though it was more than a week ago now, but I said it was only the once and I’d thrown it up straight away: I had 1 drink but then I was sik Never no mor Enid. I said one day we’d go to Buckingham Palace together and have a cup of tea in one of them posh London stores. I didn’t mention seeing Louise. I didn’t know how to spell her name and I’d screwed up her letter.

  27

  Woman’s World, 12 September 2018

  Five Ways to Be a Better Neighbour!

  Trudie still left her door open. So my cat could come in. In her dreams. She had a toy cat now at the bottom of her bed. A black one, all curled up. Made me jump, first time I saw it. Reckon it was to lure Audrey in.

  Funny Trudie hadn’t tried to make a pet of Audrey herself. Big Shirl said she had put scraps down a couple of times when she first came. Didn’t keep it up, though. And scraps, not pilchards. Shirl said Trudie didn’t like hanging round outside longer than it took to smoke a fag because of the cold. On account of her ruddy years in Greece. So I’d done the hard work with Audrey and Trudie was muscling in.

  Twice I found Audrey’s beanbag moved to the edge of my bed and no sign of Audrey. Trudie didn’t even deny she’d been in my room. Looked up from tapping at her screen. Showing off she had a tablet. Showing off she was good at computer stuff. Not that good, though, seeing as they’d landed her inside. Said she’d thought Audrey might like a bit of company. Might want to sleep on her bed. Yeah, with that manky hippie shawl draped over it, and the creepy toy cat. And no comfy beanbag specially for cats. Yeah, right.

  Audrey was miaowing on the landing, Saturday. I was working my way through this week’s Woman’s World, fashion tips for the smaller
woman, so I didn’t get up to call her in. I had my finger on a line. Then Puss, puss, puss, I heard. Miaowing from the other side of the wall. Audrey was in Trudie’s room. I threw down the Woman’s World. She was my cat! Then I sat back down. For one, fetching her back would stress Audrey out, for two, I was supposed to drag in poxy psychology. I folded my arms. Audrey strolling into someone else’s room, an old bag’s room, was like I didn’t matter, I suppose. Yeah. Wished I’d never got her tame enough to do it, though you might think that was petty.

  At home our cat, Gingernut, Nutty, had liked me best. Tiny never sat still because of his ADHD, and Nella was always out. As for Mum, well, Mum preferred men. So Nutty sat on my lap. Always.

  I went downstairs for a fag and a brew. While I was there I opened a new tin of pilchards. Pilchards have got a very strong smell. I was just getting Audrey’s dinner ready. Didn’t know she’d come racing down the stairs, did I?

  After she’d ate the pilchard she followed me back upstairs. Into my room, tail with its white tip stuck up. Didn’t bother going back into Trudie’s. Looked like she’d never even heard of Trudie. I got her back without even raising my voice. That was psychology for you, if you asked me.

  A few days later I headed straight upstairs after work for a wash and a lie-down. It was only just five, too early to eat my sandwiches. Audrey followed me, licking her whiskers clean like she was chewing Nicorette gum.

  The door of my room was wide open. I kept it pulled to, just enough for Audrey to come in and out. Didn’t want the whole world seeing my school dictionary and confidence and positive stuck up on the wall.

  Once you’ve been in prison, if something doesn’t look right, you take your time going in. Don’t know what you’re going to find.

  What I found was my pyjamas flung on the floor. Pink brushed cotton ones with white poodles. (Don’t laugh, I didn’t choose them, they were a Christmas present from Mum, three years ago.) I always folded them up. I wasn’t a slovenly person, in spite of my background.

  Audrey’s beanbag was on the floor too. Upside down. I looked around. Nothing else touched. Trudie. Who else would have mucked up my bed? Always been jealous of me when it came to Audrey.

  Sweat prickled in my armpits. I should be breathing out, power-walking, dragging Snappy out from my holdall, trying to read my own mind, but hang on a second, how would you feel if it was your stuff, your home, that had been messed with? You’d have been irritated. Plus I was tired after a day’s work, and there was Enid, ill, at the back of my mind.

  Audrey stared at her beanbag. I put it back on the bed but she stayed on the carpet. Reckon she knew there was trouble coming.

  She put her ears back when I slapped Trudie’s wall. Soon as I shouted she shot through the window. It was open at the bottom for fresh air. (Not that the air is fresh in London. Too many cars and too many people swallowing it up.)

  Trudie shouted back. We went at it like a pair of fishwives. Surprising the colourful language I can come up with even though I’m no good at English. I stopped, hearing myself. Alastair wouldn’t want a fishwife for a mum. I sat back down. Call me stupid, but I was still so worked up I didn’t even think about my room being on the first floor, and Audrey going out the window.

  Trudie disturbing my stuff felt like being burgled. Been on the other side of that more than once. Always someone else who’d put me up to it, though. Got me to do it because I was small enough to get into places other people couldn’t. Once someone had expected me to squeeze through a dog flap. Had his eye on doing over a big house with two French bulldogs and a swimming pool. A burglar was worse than a fishwife.

  That had been part of the drinking to forget. A vicious circle, a probation officer had said. (What’s round and got teeth? I remembered from the puzzle page in Woman’s World. I’d had to turn the page upside down for the answer. Had to look up vicious before I got it. And circle.)

  I fetched a cloth and some bleach from the bathroom. Wiped down everything that could be wiped. Tried to wipe away Trudie swearing at me. Had that feeling of being small again, like you sometimes get in London, like I’d felt a lot when I first came. I am small, as you know, like I just said, but I don’t usually dwell on it.

  One day I’d have my own place. Then Audrey would know exactly who she belonged to. I shook out the beanbag and straightened the bedspread. Two rooms and a bathroom. I wouldn’t hardly need a kitchen. A cat flap. A little garden for Audrey with a little cat-sized shed she could watch birds from in comfort. And no poxy cat freaks with wrinkly walnut faces living next door.

  I put the cleaning things back and rolled down my sleeves. Sat at my desk to do a bit of reading. Alastair would want me to finish the story I’d started in this week’s Woman’s World. He’d have forgotten about me shouting, wouldn’t he?

  I couldn’t concentrate. Then it struck me: Audrey had made a swift exit from the first floor. She hadn’t even looked. I ran to the window. No furry corpse on the path underneath. Big Shirl’s window had an overhang at the top. Audrey must have jumped onto that and then down.

  She wasn’t in her box in the kitchen or on any of the chairs. Not in the TV lounge or out on the front step. My heart sank. Hadn’t gone back under the shed, had she? I bent down and peered, but no.

  I left a pilchard in the open kitchen doorway. After a couple of hours it hadn’t been touched. I began to get really worried. Saw Audrey trapped somewhere, or run over, lying on her back, all four paws stuck up in the air.

  I called her from the yard, went up and down the street. It was me that had frightened her away. My fault. (Trudie’s as well, but she hadn’t done so much shouting.) I spent ages calling but there was no sign. Audrey had vanished, off face of world, as TJ would say. Probably lost her faith in human nature. Hadn’t done her any favours, taming her, softening her up, getting her indoors, had I? Now she was back where she’d started, living rough somewhere. Living feral. And that was if she’d survived.

  I had a dragging feeling in my guts. Same as I’d had giving up Alastair. The sort of feeling that made you think about drinking. If I couldn’t even look after a cat, what did it say about me as a parent? Didn’t show I was fit to even contact Alastair, did it? He wouldn’t like me making an innocent cat homeless.

  The following day, coming home from work, I peered under the cars in our road. Spotted Trudie on the other side, doing the same. She’s being helpful, I told myself, not muscling in.

  The others girls went out the front to call Audrey. Big Shirl put a bit of corned beef on the front step. Got excited when it vanished. But it must have been a pigeon or a fox or a rat that ate it, because there wasn’t no sign of Audrey.

  When I said, Big Shirl put her hands on her hips. ‘You’re too precious over Audrey, Maggs. You should let this be a lesson. I mean, no one don’t own a cat, do they?’

  Juice joined in. Juice, that looked up to me. ‘Yeah, I could hear that ding-dong with Trudie from downstairs, Maggsie. Aud’s only a little cat. You frightened her.’

  I glared at them both. ‘Skin and bone she was before I came here. Living under a shed.’ I didn’t bring up brothels, or drugs, though, which shows you how far I’d come.

  Kasia didn’t say anything because she wasn’t there. She was out with a client. A rich Russian one. We weren’t allowed to say client. It was boyfriend. He was free with his money. Drove a BMW. A sugar daddy she called him, showing off a ring he’d given her. ‘He not want me to see anyone else. Just him.’ She wasn’t that keen, though. He was fat and bald with bad breath.

  Trudie stood there in the kitchen listening to Juice and Big Shirl having a go. Loving it, probably. She popped one of her olives into her mouth every few seconds. Tried to give me advice because of her ‘cat expertise’ in Greece. ‘She won’t have gone far, you know. Cats don’t.’

  I turned on my heel and went upstairs. I didn’t slam my door. I left it slightly open for Audrey to come through.

  Juice brought me up a cup of tea later on. Not enough sugar. �
�You have been ever so good to Audrey, Maggsie. It was only that once.’ Her glasses were like fishbowls, the lenses were so thick. Sometimes it didn’t look as if there was any fish at home.

  28

  Woman’s World, 19 September 2018

  A Daring Rescue – One Reader Tells All!

  In the midst of all the worry about Audrey I got a text message from Louise. I’d hardly given her another thought since we’d had that coffee. Clenched my teeth when I saw her name. Never a good idea, not when they’re like mine. We need to chat about Enid, she said. I didn’t reply because what good would a chat with her do?

  I had another night of dragging in my gut. It was because Big Shirl and Juice were right. And Ruby, when she’d said, Angry people make other people angry.

  Trudie had messed with my stuff because I’d treated her like she was nothing. Easy to spot when someone does it to you. Harder when you’re the one doing it. Audrey was the only person here – well, creature – who liked Trudie. I felt guilty about that now, as well as over Audrey. Ruddy psychology makes you feel like a little black beetle. If Audrey was ever found I’d let Trudie have her in her room sometimes, long as she kept the door open. Even let her have Audrey on her lap in the kitchen.

  Next morning, early, I made Trudie a cup of black tea. She took it. Then she came out to the yard with me and called. Still in her nightdress. I think it was a nightdress but it might have been a kaftan. She called for a long time. Not just for five minutes like Big Shirl and Juice. Not that Audrey would bother coming to her.

  I searched after work, and before. Kept the window in my room open. Kept leaning out, craning my neck. Audrey had been missing three days now.

  The third day, Saturday, I went right round the shed, checking. I squeezed round the back of it where it was close to the wall. Scrambled up and peered in the garden next door. You couldn’t call it a garden. More like a tip. Yellow plastic sofa lying on its side. A couple of rusty bikes, a heap of rubble. The weeds were the best bit. Them and a big old tree that leant over the sofa. A sort of fir tree, one of those that were still green in winter. Audrey used to bolt over there back in her shed days. No sign of her now, though.