Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  At A&E they shone a torch in my eyes and felt me all over. No young doc this time taking a personal interest. I got off with just a minor leg wound because of the airbag and wearing a seat belt.

  Stevey-boy, not wearing a seat belt, had had his ribs crushed. He was going to be very, very late at the depot. The other car was a write-off, they said, but nobody hurt.

  I was shook up, thanks to Stevey-boy. Tired. Thirsty. And still off my head with anger, of course. You name a bad feeling and I was feeling it. I’d have given anything for a Stella or four.

  Next stop was the police station. Sitting on a swivel chair and answering questions, seeing as I was a witness to the accident.

  A cop brought me an extra-large, extra-sweet mug of tea. And a sandwich from the canteen. Gave me a friendly wink. Chatted about it being his turn to pick up his daughter from school later. She’d test him on what she’d learnt in her lessons today, even though she was only six, going on sixty.

  I ate the sandwich and drank the tea. Felt less shaky. The cop didn’t bring up the painting. TJ must still be keeping schtum. I’d taken the knife out of my sock soon as I’d got in the ambulance and put it in the rucksack. I wasn’t daft. Reckon it was the knife that had cut my leg, come to think of it.

  I spun round on the chair like I had nothing to hide. Don’t expect I looked like someone gearing up for murder.

  The cop asked me to slow down answering his questions about Stevey-boy and his sat-nav. ‘My spelling’s not the greatest. The missus says I’m dyslexic.’

  ‘You and me both, mate.’ First time I’d ever called a copper ‘mate’. I brushed the sandwich crumbs off the desk. Cheese and pickle. Don’t think I’d had such a bog-standard sandwich since I’d been in London.

  I got my personal spelling dictionary out of my rucksack to show the cop. All that had gone for a burton, but I was still a show-off. He looked at it, then at me, not taking a note for a minute. Then, when we had a break, he brought me another mug of tea and a packet of fags and a KitKat and a woman’s magazine, not Woman’s World, unfortunately. This one had TV stars looking chubby and pissed off all over the front of it. He must have nipped out specially. Gruff-like, when he handed them over. I got out a thanks, mate, and took a hot gulp of tea so I didn’t weaken.

  When he asked what I was doing down here I nearly told him. Reckon the accident had fried my brain. Made me think we really were mates. I said I’d been visiting a friend. Made out I needed to get back to London. Said I couldn’t get my bearings. I knew me and Stevey-boy had been close to lousie’s gaff. Gone off course since, with the hospital and that.

  The cop was helpful. ‘Give me a map any day, rather than a notebook,’ he said. Spread a local one out on his desk.

  He pointed to the nearest railway station. Dorchester. I nodded like I was going to head straight there, but out of the corner of my eye I saw the capital M and W of Melbury Weston. Where lousie’s stately home was. It only looked a few miles off. I could walk it. Power-walk it. Walk over there and kill her.

  42

  Woman’s World, 5 December 2018

  Prevent Those Nasty Falls!

  A few miles is further than you think. My leg stung a bit. It was afternoon now, what with all the faffing around with forms and statements at the police station. The cop had filled them in. (Had to keep looking at a checklist at the back of his notebook.) Still only afternoon and a whole lot had happened. Getting dark, though, as it was December. I hadn’t given the cop my real name and address (wasn’t sure I even had an address any more). Yeah, he’d been OK but old habits die hard. Besides, TJ might have told someone what I’d done by now. Pretty soon the police might be looking for Marguerite McNaughton, known as Maggsie. It wasn’t that TJ was a snitch. But he was into all that confession stuff. Plus he worried about people. Even people like me. He used to, anyway.

  The road was narrow. No pavement or streetlamps. I had to keep flattening myself into the hedge as cars whizzed past. A big person would have found it more difficult. In between the noise of the cars there were creepy rustlings in the undergrowth.

  I was worn out. Head still thumping from the collision. Cold, tired. Close to giving up, actually. I smoked one of the cop’s fags, walking along. Dark now. Just the odd flash of headlights as a car roared by. The hedge got higher. I stubbed out my fag and stopped for a moment to breathe in the fresh air. Faint whiff of manure to it.

  There was a rustle of wings, something hooting. Cows mooing from a barn. A dog barking. Then another one answering. Stuffed with animals, the countryside. I stepped over a muddy patch. And then I remembered, with an awful jolt, worse than what I’d got in the crash, something lousie had said first time we met. She’d been showing off about her family welcoming her back. Yeah, right. Boasted about a family holiday, before the Christmas mayhem. Diving off some tropical island. We were pre-Christmas now. Bet she wasn’t even in her ruddy stately home! I stopped. Stamped my feet with the frustration of it. I even growled, seeing as there was no one around to hear me. That would be just my luck. Yeah, bet she was bulging out of a bikini somewhere hot. Ruddy hoped she drowned.

  So what was I doing scrambling about in the wilds and the cold and the dark if she’d already gone? It was hunting down lousie that had kept me going. What the hell was I going to do now? No way was she going to get away with ruining my life!

  I started walking again. All over the place in my head but still heading for Melbury ruddy Weston. Didn’t know what else to do. Fewer cars now so at least I could walk in the road. Pitch black, though. I switched my phone on for the light. Three texts from TJ. Probably telling me to come back and face the music. Having a go at me for being a criminal. Lucky he’d never know I’d planned on being a murderer as well. No good reading them. I had to get even with lousie somehow. And I didn’t want TJ putting me off, thank you very much. I deleted them. Really quick to save my battery.

  I stumbled in the dark. An idea struck me. Lousie might have wanted the painting so she could give it to her dad. Boost his art collection. Posh up his ruddy stately home. She’d gone on about him inside. Daddy’s girl, Enid had said. So lousie wouldn’t be there, but the painting might be. In a private bit of the house, probably, seeing as it was stolen. By me. Suddenly I knew in my water – as Enid would have said – that was where it was.

  So I carried on heading for her stately home. Only now it was to find the painting, not her. Getting it back would be putting things right. That was better, wasn’t it? Yeah, I saw the people I looked up to nodding their heads, even baby Alastair, whose head could only wobble. Killing lousie was the sort of thing that got you locked up for years and years, anyway. Look at what had happened to poor old Enid.

  I was good at rescuing things. I’d saved Jack from all that electric, rescued Audrey from starving to death up a tree. Now I was going to take a painting away from a lonely life shut up in some toffee-nosed crook’s stately home. Put it back where it had come from. (From where I’d stole it, but I glossed over that bit.) Wonder Woman, that was me. I had a sudden vision of a grown-up Alastair, arms wide, running towards me.

  No, too early yet to think about Alastair.

  I walked faster now I had a plan. A respectable one. The sort of plan you read about in the Metro, under a headline like PLUCKY MAGGSIE SAVES THE DAY. I swung my arms. A bit more traffic now. I had to walk close to the hedge again. Brambles seemed to have it in for my jacket. I ducked my head each time a car passed because a white face shows up in the dark and I was on my way to do a bit of trespassing. Annoying taking the painting back, putting something right, might be illegal.

  A sign: MELBURY WESTON. I walked past a straggly row of thatched cottages. At the end was a board for lousie’s house: FOXHOLES – SIXTEENTH-CENTURY HOUSE, OPEN FRIDAYS, SATURDAYS AND SUNDAYS, CREAM TEAS, REFRESHMENTS. A smaller sign underneath: CLOSED OCTOBER TO MARCH. I read it all easy-peasy.

  Then a long gravel drive. It was quieter, walking on the grass. A car park, empty. Just one car, a Land Rover,
close to the house.

  No lights at the front. Lousie had said ‘a family retainer’ lived in while they were away. Probably watching TV in some tiny back room full of spiders and cobwebs.

  As I got closer the security light came on, which was handy. The house was faded red brick, windows with diamond-shaped panes of glass, ivy, the lot. Like you see on biscuit tins at Christmas.

  I spotted a little window on the first floor that was half open at the top. A bathroom or toilet, then. You’d be amazed how often they’re left open.

  Bathrooms have drainpipes. Shinning up that would be my best way in. There was a concrete footpath underneath. My heart thumped. It might not hold my weight. Didn’t fancy smashing my head open. That’s when I had to give myself a talking-to. You’ve done a lot of climbing recently. And years of experience before, getting into places you shouldn’t. You’re small, Maggsie. And this is where being small really comes into its own.

  I nodded at myself. Got both arms around the drainpipe. Shook it. Firmly attached. So I just went for it. My fingers scrabbled for a grip on the smooth metal. All I could do was pray I didn’t fall. Didn’t have no time to actually pray. Even Primrose wouldn’t have. I just said God, God, God over and over again. Can’t remember if I said it out loud, or if it was in my head.

  One foot each side. Hand over hand like I’d done with the rope on Audrey’s tree. Ruddy tiring. I was out of breath time I got to the window. I hung on to the ledge for a minute. Not many people could do what I’d just done.

  Pushed the window wider and I was in. Inside lousie’s house.

  Yeah, it was a bathroom. A huge old bath, deepest I’d ever seen. I could lie flat out in the bottom of it if I needed to hide. I stood behind the door now, chest heaving. Switched on my phone for the light. More texts from TJ. No time to read them. What was I doing, flashed through my brain for a second. What would I do if that old servant heard me? I listened. No TV or nothing. Nobody moving around. Got my breath under control. Then I heard a bark. Oh, no. That was all I needed. A ruddy dog poking its nose, and jaws, in.

  I still had yesterday’s sandwiches in my rucksack, or was it the day before’s, I’d lost track of time. What with the policeman giving me grub, and that adren . . . adrian . . . something, firing me up, I hadn’t been hungry. I took off my rucksack and got them out now. Roast beef with something hot and peppery, and a vegetarian one. I could see a bit of green poking out. They’d keep a dog at bay. All dogs were dustbins, weren’t they? Not as bright as cats.

  Another bark, nearer. Panting. I drew back, holding out a sandwich. A dog shambled in. A big dog as far as I could see with just my phone. A black Labrador, like toffs have. Bit stiff-legged, grey round its face. Drooping jowls. It didn’t seem to see too well. Banged into the bathroom door on its way in. Smelt the sandwich, though. Four halves, I had in total. It wolfed one down in two snaps. Nothing wrong with its teeth. Snappy came to mind with the smell of vinegar that always seemed to be about him, because of the smashed gherkin jar. I’d seen him as a real person – well, reptile. Company, even, not just an anger management strategy.

  I tucked the knife back in my sock and stashed my rucksack in the bath. Kept the sandwiches and my phone on me, though. Tiptoed down a corridor. The dog followed me, its nose much too close to my bum.

  A big, big house. The painting could be anywhere. Anywhere not open to the public. Pity poor old lousie’s pa couldn’t show it off. Not without him or lousie getting caught. He must have known it was stolen. Must have. He was supposed to be a ruddy art expert, wasn’t he? Well, here I was, stealing it back. Not to keep for myself, like that pair of selfish gits, to return it to Scanda’s boardroom. Put her back with her other mates from Denmark. Looking out over the London skyline and getting on with her book.

  Most likely the painting was upstairs. Most likely not even on this floor. I hunted for the stairs. Lousie had been right about one thing: it was a very old house. Creaky floors, smell of musty wood and lavender polish everywhere. No carpets, just rugs. When I put my hand out to the walls they were covered with rough, bumpy old cloths.

  The dog made more noise than I did. It trailed after me, its nose still poking my backside. I stopped and gave it a little bit of sandwich, the vegetarian one, to get it off. A slobber and a swallow, then it was off again. Further along the corridor it gave off a loud series of farts. That’s the trouble with vegetarian food, well, vegetables full stop. Juice was always moaning about bloating. Will, Ruby’s boyfriend, being vegan, ate nothing but. He must be ruddy explosive in bed.

  Ruby. Jingle of earrings, swish of an ethnic skirt. I’d texted her earlier from the police station. Told her the truth. Well, a bit of it. Told her I’d been in an accident. I wasn’t hurt but I couldn’t get back tonight. That was against the rules. Let’s face it, everything I was doing was against the rules. I’d thought my text was a sort of goodbye to Ruby, seeing as I’d been on my way to give lousie what for. But now . . . I stopped. The dog bumped into me and I had to give it another bit of sandwich. It snuffled around the rug for crumbs. Could I even go back to the supported house? Would I be allowed? I pushed the dog away with my knee. If I brought the painting back, would I still have my job? Nah. No chance. I’d stolen from Scanda. No way would they have me back. That was a downer after I’d been so fired up at doing the right thing.

  The stairs were very steep. The dog struggled. Gave up and stood at the bottom. I could hear its tail wagging and another fart. It whined. Then barked. ‘Shh!’ I threw it down another piece of sandwich. Course it couldn’t see it, so there was a lot of sniffing and slobbering.

  I made my way along the upstairs corridor. I could see by the light of my phone that all the doors were closed. Like Russian roulette opening them. The first door was a cupboard full of bedding. Lots of white sheets, all folded up neat. Reminded me of the hotel I’d got sacked from on my first day for not being able to read the cleaning schedule.

  The next door was another bathroom. An old-fashioned bath again, but a modern shower over. A modern-looking toilet. The one on the first floor had had a wooden seat and a dangling chain. I had an urge to use this one. Opening all these doors with who knows what behind them turned your insides to water.

  I breathed out. Opened another door. Late-night horror films – Kasia had a weakness for them – sprang to mind. A four-poster bed like they had in the olden days. Its curtains drawn. Could be someone behind them. Could be a nest of rats. Could be a skeleton. I almost wished the dog was up here with me. Could be someone inside who’d been trapped there for hundreds of years.

  43

  Woman’s World, 5 December 2018

  Five Health Benefits of Walking!

  Marguerite McNaughton, echoed from school, from Mrs Connell, my horrible teacher, you can put that idea out of your head for a start. Funny – it pulled me up, although I’d hated her.

  I turned away from the bed. Flashed my phone round the walls. Wood panelling. Paintings. I moved close. Dogs with dead things hanging out their mouths. Bowls of ancient-looking fruit. Not half as good as the barmaid’s bowl of oranges in Ruby’s poster. Even though it was a photocopy. A hot wave of shame flashed through me, remembering I’d thought photocopies were as good as the real thing. No Woman Reading here. Perhaps lousie had sold it. Perhaps it had paid for her family’s diving holiday. I was thinking negative like they went on about on the Woman’s World agony page. I didn’t know she’d sold it. Keep going, Maggs.

  How many more rooms? How many people lived here usually? Who did the cleaning? I tiptoed on. Opened the next door a crack. Listened for sounds of breathing. Pointed my phone inside, covering the torch bit with my hand because it was so bright. Twin beds. A wardrobe with its doors wide open. An old-fashioned alarm clock on a bedside table. More pictures. I shone my phone in a slow circle. A couple of red-faced men in wigs. Another man in tights and a hat with a curly feather. A bad-tempered-looking woman, in black, with a black hat clamped to her head. I wanted to turn her to face the wall,
only TJ said that paintings in galleries had alarms behind them that screamed if you touched them. I flashed my phone above the beds. And there she was. The Woman Reading. Glowing in the darkness in the light from my phone. My legs trembled.

  I moved close. She looked OK. Dull colours, but deep; drew you in, like. Not shiny. Blushed again at TJ being right. Lousie’s pa had stuck her in a heavy carved frame. Show-offy. Didn’t suit her. I climbed onto the bed. Tweedy cover pulled up. Bet this was where he slept. Bet he lay there, looking up the woman’s skirt. When he wasn’t wheeling and dealing, or diving, or showing off his posh house and his art collection.

  I reached out to touch the frame. I didn’t want an uproar. Even though the whole house seemed to be deserted. An alarm would be linked to the police station. Probably the one I’d been in earlier. As I leant towards the painting someone shoved the back of my knees. I heard heavy breathing as they gave way.

  The ruddy dog had somehow hobbled up the stairs. It sat down by the bed, whining, slobber dripping from its jowls.

  I sat up. My heart was still going. Funny I wasn’t angry. I was almost pleased to see the dog. It was the relief. Made me realize how much I didn’t want to get caught. OK, I’d strayed off the straight and narrow, but there was still a faint chance Alastair might be at the end of it. ‘They ought to retire you, mate.’ I tossed the dog the third half-sandwich, the roast beef. ‘You’re more of a ruddy receptionist than a guard dog.’ Then I stood back up and checked there were no wires behind the painting. Gently unhooked the lady. Spoke soothing and stuffed her inside my jacket like she was Audrey.