Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  Then we were off to another train station. Practically next door, but still. Saint Pancras. I’d never heard of it. Sounded like something Dad had had once, pancr . . . something.

  It was a nice building, I’ll grant you that, like a brick palace. Wasted on trains. There was loads of them inside, waiting for TJ to come over and get excited about. They all looked the same to me, but each one was supposed to be slightly different. I’m talking different-sized wheels type of thing, nothing exciting. I was losing the will to live. Not allowed to have a fag of course, like everywhere in London.

  TJ wanted to get a look at the Eurostar train, which went under the sea to France. I thought he was having me on, but it turned out to be true. He showed me the poster. It went at over a hundred and fifty miles an hour. But I mean, it was just a train at the end of the day, wasn’t it, even if it did go under the sea.

  I sat down, stuck out my aching feet. They didn’t go far – another advantage, see, of being short. I wasn’t a tripping hazard, like Primrose nagged about in the kitchen. Only it turned out I was.

  Lots of posh people about. Going on their holidays. They had poncy suitcases on wheels, some of them bigger than the toffs wheeling them about. There was probably more in one of them great big suitcases than I owned in the whole world.

  A woman had the cheek to wheel one right over my feet. Too busy talking to a dumpy mate with a smaller suitcase to know what she was doing. Making swooping movements with her free hand, wristful of gold bangles kicking up a stink.

  My breath came quicker. Who did she think she was, treating me like I wasn’t there? My toe throbbed. I got up. Heard ‘friends’ from my past life shout, Go on, Maggsie, do her! I had to grip the cold metal of the bench to stop myself racing after her.

  A crying baby in a pushchair came past. Red screwed-up face. The dad wheeling it was on his phone. Only me taking any notice. That was how I felt. Ignored. Not worth nothing. That’s why I was angry.

  I power-walked after the woman. She was still chatting. Her suitcase swerved about, doing its own thing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw TJ coming, a takeaway cup in each hand. He looked nervous, which was annoying. I walked faster, in spite of my sore toe.

  I tapped the woman’s shoulder. She was wearing a leopard-skin jacket. I could tell it wasn’t real fur, although she looked just the type to wear a dead cat slung over her shoulders.

  A couple of blokes in football shirts darted glances. A woman in a beige mac stopped to have a good stare. At school, kids had formed a circle around me when I was scrapping with someone.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I pointed to her suitcase. (Don’t think I’d ever said excuse me before without it being sarcastic.) My palms were sweating. I felt like I was taking an exam. ‘You just wheeled that over my foot.’ What I wanted to add was without bloody looking. I stopped, though, breathed o-u-t. ‘Please be more careful with your suitcase in future.’ It was the complete opposite of what I’d normally have said. Felt like marbles in my mouth.

  She looked at me. Jabbered to her friend in a foreign language, her bracelets sliding and rattling like handcuffs. OK, she might not have understood what I’d said but I’d still said it. I turned round, chin high, and went off down the platform. Pity Ruby wasn’t there to see me using all that psychology.

  TJ was sitting on a bench with the tea. ‘Everything is alright?’ His eyes were creased and worried. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘She ran over my feet with her case.’ TJ bit his lip. That was also aggravating. Like he was expecting an explosion. I bent down and rubbed my toe. Another breath o-u-t. ‘But’ – I straightened up – ‘I sorted it out. There wasn’t no shouting.’

  I stared after the leopard-skin woman and her mate. Would have been nice to get a Sorry! out of her. There was still a pounding in my head. Snappy was squirming inside the top pocket of my jacket. He crawled out. I gave him a little stroke like I would Audrey. Saw his eyes close and him roll over to have his pale belly tickled. The leopard-skin woman and her suitcase were a couple of specks weaving about in the distance. Snappy was down my jeans leg and slithering after them, only a tiny thing now. A little lizard about the size of one of Kasia’s gherkins. I imagined him on the end of an extension lead, like you see dogs with in parks, so he didn’t get out of control. Then I lost sight of him altogether.

  I turned back to TJ. Finally got my tea off him.

  Nice and sweet. He’d put four sugars in. ‘You did good thing, Maggsie,’ he said. Better than the breathing out, the crocodile, the psychology, the asking not demanding, was a bit of praise. That could stop you losing it before you’d even started.

  I had a little daydream about TJ smuggling me away on holiday, somewhere hot, in a suitcase the size of the leopard-skin woman’s. Free travel because I’d be in the suitcase. Bound to be illegal, though, so TJ would never do it.

  The bus back to Waterloo was quiet, nearly empty. TJ started talking about the future. It came out of the blue. About my future, rather than his. Because of me being on a temporary contract.

  ‘If no job at Scanda after year is up you can work for friend in café.’

  ‘Hang on. Your friend, you mean?’ TJ often left out important words. Small, but important, ones.

  ‘Yes, my friend. Polish friend. Pavel is name.’ TJ’s legs stuck out into the gangway. ‘I work Saturday nights there.’

  ‘I can’t cook, TJ.’

  ‘Pavel does cooking. He need washer-up. Have machine, like Scanda, but smaller. Maybe you chop vegetable too.’

  I hadn’t thought beyond the year. Only about Alastair. The Pizza Hut thing. What he’d look like. Been too busy concentrating on getting through it without slipping up. Scanda might keep me on. Primrose said I was the best one they’d ever had on the dishwasher. It was why she’d called me very efficient. That and because I’d re-organized the crockery cupboards.

  I’d have to find somewhere else to live, though. I’d already told TJ the ‘hostel’ was only a temporary place. Once I’d served my sentence I could live where I liked. Yeah right.

  There wasn’t much room on the seat. TJ had his arm along the back of it. It reached the window. The light caught a few pale bristles on his chin that he’d missed, shaving. ‘That’s all very well, TJ, but where am I going to live? You know what London rents are like.’

  TJ had another idea. He was quite different now from earlier. ‘Flat above restaurant has three bedrooms. One for storage.’ I suddenly cottoned on this was his flat he was talking about. ‘If Pavel not mind, I put boxes and crates in garage. I fix up hooks for clothes. We would be flat mates, Maggsie, I think. Is right word? Is not disrespectful?’

  I shook my head. ‘Thanks, TJ.’ I turned to look out of the window. That was a turn-up for the books. Ruby’s face flashed into my mind, winking. I could feel myself blushing. Ridiculous.

  Later, I got another text from Louise. It was only me that could save Enid’s life. On and on. Well, that bigs you up and it wears you down. Louise was clever, see, where I wasn’t. I learnt that the hard way.

  Six days I spent, humming and hawing. Then I’d had enough. I gave in, just like that. Gave in because of Enid and because I was Wonder Woman. Not losing it with the leopard-skin woman had been another star on my headband.

  OK, I texted.

  33

  Woman’s World, 24 October 2018

  What Would You Do for a Friend? A Reader’s Story

  No time to think about things anyway because, blow me down, there was Louise waiting for me after work the day after. My heart sank when I saw that helmet of streaked blonde hair.

  ‘Hello, sweetie! Mwah.’ Suffocating smell of perfume and suede. Rich bint’s smell. She pushed a rolled-up newspaper into my hand. Made sure I had tight hold of it because of the photocopy inside. ‘Sunday’s Observer. It’s got that article you were after. Remember?’ She looked into my eyes, overdoing the smiling like she was on stage or something. ‘You can hang on to it. Text me when you’ve got things together and we’ll meet u
p.’

  No need to give me a meaningful nod, but she did anyway. And then she was off with a little wave and a too-white smile.

  Looking back, I must have had tunnel vision. All I saw was Enid groaning in pain on a hospital trolley, clutching a postcard of a pine forest in Romania. And me never getting caught because of Louise’s gigantic brain. My Wonder Woman headband sparkling.

  Yeah, I’ve had friends do the dirty on me before. Stop letting me kip on their sofa unless I climbed through windows I shouldn’t. That dog flap I told you about. I’ve had friends laugh at me for not being able to read stuff. Call me Midge. Sometimes add a ‘t’ to the end. Lean over me, nudge each other at my shoes. You try getting size one adult shoes. Have a go at me because I couldn’t take their poxy jokes.

  In spite of Louise’s money, her ruddy stately home, those were the sorts of things she’d do. Written all over her. Not Enid, though. She never would.

  I’d thought Louise had time for Enid. Was sorry she was ill and that. You’re thrown together in prison and Enid was the only one who’d shown an interest in her postcards. But no, it turned out to be all about her. Some people are like that, in spite of having advantages in life.

  I should have asked questions. Humming and hawing for a week isn’t long-term thinking. I was gullible. (I know what the word means now.) I should have gone with my gut instinct: Louise was a stuck-up cow. Should have remembered she’d just finished a twelve-year stretch through a plan not working.

  Things didn’t start off well. The Observer stuck out of my jacket pocket like a tent pole.

  ‘Maggsie, you have bought same newspaper like me! I could have borrowed. Is last week’s?’ TJ reached out his hand.

  ‘No!’ I barked. His hand shot back. ‘I want to keep it nice.’ There was a pause. ‘Sorry, TJ. Didn’t mean to snap.’

  I didn’t often say sorry. He should count himself lucky. He did look surprised. Then he smiled. No one could call him handsome. His face was too round. And his nose had a squashy tip to it. He did have a nice smile, though, especially with his new improved teeth. And when he wasn’t mooning over old Sofa. I wondered, for a second, what she’d think about a woman, me, moving into his flat.

  At lunchtime I tucked the Observer into the waistband of my trousers. Good job my overall swamped me. Upstairs I took deep drags on my rollie and tried to concentrate on what TJ was going on about. E-cigs. Soon as he’d used up his stock of Polish cigarettes, he was going to start vaping. Better for your health, he said. Cheaper.

  Seems crazy, looking back, that I was chatting about fags just before I stole something worth half a million pounds. Right under the noses of people I worked with. In broad daylight, bold as brass. My heart was going so much it was amazing I could chat about anything.

  Louise said I should brazen things out. If I looked nervy people would be suspicious.

  ‘Strut around like normal,’ she said. No way did I strut. It was Louise, with her loud voice and designer clothes and stately home, who was the ruddy show-off.

  ‘Time to go back.’ TJ stubbed out his fag.

  ‘Yeah. Be down in a few minutes. Got to pay a visit.’ I headed for the ladies. Dead posh the toilets were at Scanda. Glass soap dispensers, scented hand cream. I loved those toilets.

  Soon as TJ was out of sight, though, I turned right instead, into the boardroom. There were no dinners planned for today, else TJ would have said. No meetings neither, seeing as there was no notice on the door.

  I had a Stanley knife in my overall pocket. Last night, once Juice had finished preparing her veg, I’d shut the door and practised slicing up a Woman’s World on the chopping board in the kitchen. I’d bought two copies. The other one was to read and keep nice.

  I’d had a chance to look at the photocopy up close too. Might seem weird, someone like me appreciating art, but I really liked the painting. The Woman Reading looked small. I felt like I knew her.

  I had to be quick. I pushed the door shut but it would only take someone passing by, glancing in, to ruin everything. It was a real stretch to reach the painting. I hadn’t thought about that. I didn’t always think about being short. (Petite, Primrose said, which sounded better, but was still only a posh word for short.) Petite Marguerite McNaughton, I thought when she first said it. TJ said it would be better if everyone was my size. Better for the planet, he said. We wouldn’t use up so much of things. Only he said it bending down.

  My hands were shaking. Hard to line the Stanley knife up straight. I breathed out. Cut downwards. Felt I was slashing the woman in the picture. Dragging her out somewhere she didn’t want to go to. She looked the kind who’d want to keep herself to herself.

  Quick slice along the top. My heart was racing; difficult keeping the blade steady. No time to look behind me. A cut along the bottom and she was out.

  It looked awful, that empty space.

  I pulled out the Observer. Unrolled the photocopy. It was a good one, I’ll say that for Louise – she did get that right. Rolled the poor slashed painting up in the paper. Stiffer than the photocopy had been. Fastened it with two elastic bands that the postman had dropped outside our place. Looked like a giant Swiss roll.

  I whipped out a can of Spray Mount from my other pocket. My overall had flapped round my ankles all morning with the weight of my equipment.

  I’d practised with the Spray Mount and all. Stuck the bits I’d cut out from Woman’s World on my bedroom door. Inside the door. I’d asked Ruby, first, if it would be OK. That’s how law-abiding I was these days. Ironic, really.

  I sprayed inside the empty frame. It made a terrible stink. That could give the game away. Another thing I hadn’t thought of. Nor Louise. I speeded up. Unrolled the photocopy onto the glue, smoothing it down as I went. Otherwise you got air bubbles. One of my Woman’s World ladies was a bit lumpy because of that. My arms were practically pulled out their sockets by now.

  I stepped back to have a look. Very slightly skew-whiff, and the wall showed through a tiny bit at the top where my cutting line was jagged. But, pretty good. Shinier than the original, yeah, but then that was a bonus.

  The rolled-up paper was too big to fit into my waistband now. I just had to hold it and hope I didn’t bump into anybody.

  Downstairs the kitchen was empty. Two o’clock. Sometimes Primrose let me go early but I still had at least a couple more hours at work. Hours with the cut-out painting around, loose. Hidden in a newspaper, yeah, but not in my jacket pocket. Another fault in Louise’s plan.

  I rushed into the store cupboard. Looked around. Giant tins of tomatoes, beans, bags of sugar and flour everywhere. Couldn’t think straight. Primrose or TJ could come in any moment. I scanned the shelves. On the top was stuff that was hardly used. Candlesticks, red and white Christmas china, an old food mixer and a funny-looking dish, long, with a lid. Fish-shaped. Looked about the right size. I thought about Jordan’s fishing magazine, God knows why. He’d asked me what a word was last week – tench, I’d thought it was, not that I’d ever heard of it. I prayed I could get up to the top without the shelves crashing down. I put my foot on the lowest one. Good job, again, I was small. And wiry. And wore trainers. And I’d had practice climbing a tree only a few weeks back. Audrey had been stranded higher, which gave me a bit of confidence.

  I climbed up three shelves. Awkward holding the newspaper bundle. Like a giant rollie, with the Woman Reading as the baccy. I had to keep putting it down to get a better grip. At the top now. I hung onto the edge of the shelf, lifted the dish lid. Pushed the painting in. The lid fell back with a clatter that nearly made me topple. I clambered down and jumped off the bottom shelf just as TJ came in to put a stockpot away.

  ‘Hey, Maggsie. What you are doing? You are at gym?’ Big smile like always. Nearly always.

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’ My face was on fire. My heart was hammering like it was going to burst out my chest. I couldn’t look at TJ. ‘Yeah. Ha ha. Keeping fit.’

  He bent to put the stockpot on the bottom shelf. ‘No more f
ags then. E-cigarettes for you.’

  Second time he’d mentioned vaping. It was getting on my wick.

  I glanced up at the top shelf. The painting was completely hidden. Would have been better for everyone if it had stayed there. (Even better if it had stayed on the wall, but that’s what happens when you don’t do long-term thinking.)

  34

  Woman’s World, 24 October 2018

  Five Top Tips for Keeping Calm

  TJ left dead on four thirty because it was one of the nights he washed out test tubes at a college. Primrose was sorting through the sandwiches. I only took one. Not much room in my pockets with my equipment. Didn’t feel like eating, anyway.

  ‘You do not need to lose weight, Maggsie.’ Primrose unfolded a shopping bag to put the rest in. ‘You could do with more flesh on your bones.’

  Like her, she meant. ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Like to see someone her size climbing trees and shelves. But she meant well. She swayed off to fetch her coat.

  Soon as she’d gone, I grabbed my jacket and dashed into the store cupboard. Texted Louise. I was just supposed to say OK. Then meet her at five fifteen in the same coffee shop as before.

  Climbing up the shelves was easier with two free hands. I reached into the dish and dropped the rolled-up painting on the floor.

  Poor lady, all calm and quiet in her long dress. Bet she never dreamt she’d be thrown about. I gave her a little pat and tucked her under my arm. Headed out the kitchen door.

  Or tried to. It was locked. I couldn’t get out.

  My heart hammered. Security must have done their rounds early. Say if they’d already got as far as the boardroom. My stomach dropped. They could be up there now, staring at the painting, thinking it didn’t look right. My hands clenched. I was dying for a fag. And a drink, to be honest. I could murder those guards.

  My phone beeped. That was all I needed, Louise checking up on me.