Maggie's Boy

by Beryl Kingston

  If they can sell the stock, so can I, she thought. I’d get a better price for it and if it’s going anyway what’s to stop me? I’ll hawk it round all the local video shops and see what I’m bid. It’s the latest stuff. It ought to sell. Rigg would be furious but she couldn’t stop to think about that.

  There was nothing in her mind except a dreadful panic to pay the VAT man. Her Christmas preparations were forgotten, the kids’ presents unwrapped, no cards sent, the cake bereft of icing. She was short-tempered and clumsy, doing everything too quickly, making mistakes, shouting at the kids and, all the time, thinking and scheming – her thoughts raced – I’ll try the shop in the High Street tonight, and if that fails, the one in Derby Road, and if that’s no good, the one at the other end of the prom. I’ve got five evenings and I’ve got to do it. It’ll mean running up an awful phone bill, but I’ve just got to.

  Even when Norrie phoned to say that there were some men from a finance company come to take the car, she simply told her to get the key from the farriers and let it go. It meant nothing to her now. It was only another debt. It wasn’t worth money.

  But it wasn’t until Friday evening that she finally persuaded a local shopkeeper to take the videos, and then at such a reduced price that there was only just enough to cover the VAT bill and pay for all the phone calls she’d made. He and his partner came down with a van later that evening and cleared the shop, videos, posters, sweet-dispensing machine and all.

  ‘I’ll come back on Monday morning and pick up the returns,’ he said, as he gave her his cheque. And that was that.

  Now there was only the till left in the shop. Alison emptied it of the few notes and coins it contained, remembering Rigg’s excitement when she’d first visited the place. It had been full of paint pots and lengths of wood then. And promise. Now she’d closed it down and put all those young assistants out of work and ended Rigg’s dream. She felt racked by guilt, aching with it. But what else could she have done?

  She looked round at the marked walls, the dusty corners, the pile of dog-ends in the corner, the evidence of failure. If there’d been a broom she would have set to and cleaned it up, but as there wasn’t she walked home to Shore Street to relieve Brad who was baby-sitting for her. It had been a long, exhausting day.

  Brad was sitting by the fire, smoking and reading a magazine.

  ‘They been ever so good,’ she said. ‘How d’you get on?’

  ‘I got the money,’ Alison said wearily.

  ‘Knew you would,’ Brad said. ‘So that’s all right then. You can come to me party.’

  Alison wasn’t sure she’d have the energy for a party. ‘When?’

  ‘New Year’s Eve. Me an’ Martin at my place. I didn’t like to tell you before with all this goin’ on. Your Mum’ud look after the kids, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Go on,’ Brad urged. ‘Be a devil. Do you good.’

  ‘What if Rigg comes home for Christmas?’

  Brad had serious doubts as to the likelihood of that but she didn’t voice them. ‘Bring him along an’ all,’ she said.

  But there was no sign of Rigg, apart from a card that arrived on Christmas Eve. It was posted in Madrid and the message on it was traditional, wishing his ‘darling wife’ a happy holiday and saying how much he loved her. He didn’t tell her where he was, or whether he’d received her letters or when he was coming home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was late on New Year’s morning, and Alison was gradually recovering from Brad’s party. She was fragile with hangover and keeping as still and quiet as she could. She and the kids had just got home from her mother’s house and were sitting on the floor in front of the gas fire, playing with one of Jon’s Christmas presents, a game for two players called Downfall. The room was so peaceful that when the phone shrilled, it made them jump.

  Rigg! Alison thought. It had to be Rigg. At last! He hasn’t forgotten us. He’s ringing to wish us happy New Year. Despite his lies and all the trouble he’d made for her, he was still her husband.

  ‘That’ll be your Daddy,’ she said to the kids as she scrambled to her feet.

  But it wasn’t. It was Norrie.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry to bother you Mrs Toan,’ she said, ‘but do you want me to open the shop today?

  In the relief of getting that awful bill paid, Alison had forgotten about Rings and Things. Now she realised that with the video shop and its earnings gone, the jewellery store would have to pay its own way.

  ‘Is there any point in opening?’ she asked. And then, feeling she’d been rather blunt, ‘What I mean to say is what are sales like in January?’

  ‘Non-existent,’ Norrie said. ‘It’s only birthdays an’ things really from now till Easter. Mr Toan usually shuts down for a fortnight after Christmas.’

  ‘We might have to shut down for good,’ Alison warned. It was only fair to tell Norrie the truth as her job was at stake.

  She was relieved when the girl took it calmly. ‘Don’t surprise me,’ she said. ‘The video shop’s shut int it? Kevin came in yesterday. He told me.’

  ‘I had to sell the stock to pay the VAT bill.’

  Norrie took that calmly too. ‘Thought it was somethin’ like that,’ she said. ‘So now what?’

  ‘Meet me at the shop tomorrow morning about eleven,’ Alison told her. ‘And we’ll see. Bring the keys and your paying-in slips. I shall have to go and see the bank.’

  This time it was easier to take command. It was simply a job that had to be done and she was the only one to do it. This time she was prepared for bad news – which, inevitably, came.

  At the TSB the bank manager was polite and troubled. He was sorry to have to tell her that there was no spare capital in Mr Toan’s account. The reverse in fact. Despite reminders, Mr Toan had been seriously overdrawn since the middle of November. The Christmas takings had hardly made a dent into what was owing. Was he to understand that Mr Toan was no longer in the country?

  ‘He’s in Spain,’ Alison said.

  ‘Could you contact him?’

  ‘Not just at the moment,’ she had to admit. ‘But Mr Shearing – his insolvency consultant, you know – he’d be able to tell you what’s happening. I expect you’ve got his address, haven’t you?’

  ‘We have,’ the bank manager said, but his tone was lugubrious.

  The more I delve into this, Alison reflected, the more of a muddle it is. But at least she wasn’t being threatened. Mr Shearing could see to the overdraft at this bank and take over responsibility for the other VAT bill. That was what he’d been hired for. All she had to do was to give Norrie a week’s wages – the spare cash left over at the video shop would cover that – and then simply close the shop down. It was upsetting to have to shut yet another shop, but also a relief to have it all over and done with.

  ‘What shall we do with the stock?’ Norrie asked when she’d been given her last week’s wages. ‘We can’t leave it here, can we? Someone’ud nick it.’

  ‘We’ll pack it all up into boxes and I’ll get my brother to come over in his car and ferry it back to my house.’ It can go under the bed for the time being, she thought. Then it’ll be there for Rigg when he comes home and I can tell him everything isn’t lost. I owe him that at least, despite his lies.

  Alison and Norrie worked together for the rest of the morning, while the two children played among the wrapping paper. They packed all the rings and bracelets into boxes, wrapped up the charms and necklaces, and stacked the display trays one on top of the other, until everything was piled neatly in the storeroom and the shop was cleared of all its merchandise. All that remained for Alison to do was to return the keys to the landlord when the goods had been taken away.

  Now, she said to herself as she and the kids caught the bus back to Hampton, we can get back to normal and start living our lives again.

  ‘Theatre tomorrow, kids,’ she reminded them all.

  ‘With Morgan?’ Jon wanted to know.

 
‘With Morgan.’

  ‘Wicked!’

  Something to look forward to, Alison thought. Something light-hearted and entertaining. It’s just what we need. Thank God for Morgan. He’s been a real friend to us.

  But next afternoon when she came home from work, Alison found a letter from the building society waiting on the mat for her. It was so terrifying it put her into a state of shock for the next twenty four hours.

  Addressed to Mr and Mrs Rigby Toan, it advised that their mortgage repayments were now six months overdue, the total debt on the three mortgages they had taken out on the property now amounted to over £3,000 and that, unless repayment was received within the next three weeks after receipt of the letter, legal action would be taken to repossess the house.

  Dear God, she thought, as she began to shake. Repossessed. Her mind filled with visions of the homeless – out on the street, begging, huddled to sleep in doorways, shivering in cardboard city. Homeless.

  She wanted to scream that they couldn’t do it; they mustn’t do it; it wasn’t fair. But if she screamed, she would frighten the kids and that wouldn’t be fair either. In any case, she could scream all she liked but it wouldn’t stop them repossessing the house. They could do it and they would. If she’d learned nothing else in the last few weeks, she had learned that. They could and they would.

  She put the letter down on the table because her hands were shaking so much they were making the paper rustle and she was afraid Jon would notice. She wanted to rush out of the house and find Rigg and make him come back and pay this awful debt and sort it all out. She was full of terrible fury that he’d let this go on and not told her. Why hadn’t he paid the mortgage? He’d promised he would and he must have known he was putting the house at risk. This was even worse than all the lies he’d told.

  ‘I washed my hands,’ Jon announced at her elbow. ‘I’s ready.’

  Ready for what? she thought stupidly. Then she remembered the theatre trip. Morgan would be here at any minute. Oh God! A theatre trip! At a time like this.

  But she couldn’t disappoint them, poor kids. She had to go – didn’t she – no matter what she might be feeling.

  ‘Come on, Emma,’ she said, trying to be cheerful. ‘Let’s go and have our wash too. We’ve got to be ready when Morgan comes.’

  Worry weighed her down and made her shoulders ache and tightened the skin on her skull. She wanted to run away and hide, not face the world and his wife in a crowded theatre. Make-up, she thought, as she and Emma went upstairs to the bathroom. That’s what I need. If I can’t hide at least I can wear a disguise. Make-up and perfume. Where was that bottle of French stuff Rigg had given her?

  It was stronger than she expected but she used it lavishly. As she drifted down the stairs in a cloud of scented air to answer Morgan’s knock at the door, she kept on thinking; Dear God, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?

  Morgan had dressed with particular care that afternoon too and he’d made a point of driving to Hampton in his own car. It was a two-year-old Sierra and not as flashy as the company cars but it was clean and spruce for the occasion, and he wanted to be honest about everything that day, even the sort of car he drove. Not telling Alison that he knew about Rigg’s business affairs was beginning to prey on his mind. This afternoon he would find a moment to tell her.

  He’d come well prepared for this outing with dolly mixtures for Emma and Smarties for Jon, and enough cash to take them all out for supper afterwards. It was going to be an occasion.

  He was so happy to see Alison again that, at first, he didn’t notice any difference in her, but when they were on their way to the Worthing Road he became aware that she was wearing a lot of make-up which made her look hard, and perfume which was much too strong. It was rather off-putting to be sitting beside her and smelling someone else but he told himself that this was her way of marking a special occasion and that he ought to be glad of it.

  They drove along the promenade at Worthing where Christmas lights swung in their multicoloured glory, and turned in among the shops where the windows were hung with tinsel. There was a Christmas tree ablaze with light on the steps of the town hall, and a tangible sense of bustle and pleasure at the theatre; parents beaming and pleased with themselves, grandmas bulky and benevolent, and hordes of children in their best clothes and a high state of excitement. Alison seemed preoccupied but the children were thrilled by everything they saw.

  Morgan and the children enjoyed every moment of the pantomime and ate ice-creams in the interval and a hearty supper when the show was over. But Alison was so subdued there were moments when Morgan felt she wasn’t with them at all – even though he could smell that damned perfume everywhere they went. She clapped in all the right places but he noticed that she didn’t laugh. She praised the food but ate hardly any of it. She didn’t mention her husband, in fact she didn’t talk about anyone or anything, and, at the end of the evening, when they drew up in Shore Street, she didn’t invite him in. It was all slightly unnatural.

  ‘I got a job in Manchester tomorrow,’ he said, as she was easing the key into her front door.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said vaguely, busy with her thoughts.

  ‘I shall be away for several days, like.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ll write to you when I get back, shall I?’ Morgan said, feeling he was talking to a stranger. Why is she behaving like this? Is she cross with me for some reason? She didn’t seem cross, just distant and preoccupied.

  ‘What?’ she said as the door opened. ‘Oh yes. Yes. You write.’

  She’s not the slightest bit interested in me, he thought sadly, opening the car door. She’s got her own life and there’s something going on in it and I’m not part of it. Why should I be? She’s a married woman. I got no business chasing after a married woman, even if she never says a single word about her husband. I simply got no business.

  But then she looked across at him in the light of the single street lamp in the alley and smiled straight into his eyes.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said with more warmth in her voice.

  Hope and desire leapt up in him at once. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Very much.’ But she had looked away from him and the vague tone had returned.

  Hope so quickly dashed made Morgan’s disappointment more acute. I’m wasting my time, he thought, slipping the car into gear. The failure of the evening sat like a weight on his shoulders. She was odd at that tea party and I ignored it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. I can’t ignore the way she’s acting now. It’s a bit too obvious. I got to face facts. She’s not interested in me. She’s got other things on her mind and I’m wasting my time.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he said, as he put in the clutch.

  She switched on the living room light and prodded Jon and Emma into the house. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said sadly. But oh! how difficult it was going to be.

  Later that night, when the children were settled, Alison sat down in her empty living room and wrote two careful letters. The first was to the building society explaining that Rigg was in Spain and promising to do what she could to pay off part of the debt, ‘as soon as I can.’ The second was to Rigg, telling him what had happened and imploring him to write or to phone.

  ‘Have you put the money for the mortgage aside somewhere?’ she asked. ‘If you could tell me where it is, or send a cheque to the building society, I’m sure they would call off the court case. Please do something quickly. We’ve only got until the beginning of February and that isn’t long.’

  After she finally got to bed she lay awake for hours. Her mind went round and round like a mouse on a treadmill, covering the same useless ground over and over again. If Rigg didn’t write and she couldn’t find out where he was, she would have to find the money or be repossessed. Where could she find £3,000? The bank wouldn’t give it to her because she’d got no collateral except the home.

  She toyed with the idea of asking h
er mother to lend her the rest of her famous nest-egg and knew she couldn’t do it. That money was her mother’s insurance and she’d already spent far too much of it on their wedding. What Dad would have said about that if he’d known didn’t bear thinking about. He’d scrimped and saved for years to leave her ‘comfortable in her old age.’ Ali could remember him saying: ‘She’s a good woman, your Mum, she deserves to be comfortable.’ No, the nest-egg was inviolable. It belonged to Mum. Whatever happened she couldn’t ask to borrow that.

  But what else could she do? She’d got nothing to sell, no valuable paintings or furs or expensive jewellery. Rigg’s jewellery was cheap and cheerful and wouldn’t raise much money even if she could find someone willing to buy it, which was unlikely given the state of the recession. Now if she’d got a string of pearls like his mother, she could sell them. They’d raise a lot of money. But then Maggie Toan had always had plenty of money. She was rolling in it. Mink stole, real pearls, shopping at Harrods, taxis everywhere. It always exasperated Rigg to think how much money his mother had – he was always on about that will and how unfair it was.

  But of course! The will. That was the answer.

  Maggie Toan was none too pleased to see Alison and the children when they arrived on her doorstep. She had already drunk three gins and tonic that morning and was feeling decidedly woozy.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she said, when she’d allowed them into her elegant parlour. ‘Happy New Year to you too, I suppose. If such a thing is possible. Which I very much doubt with all this dreadful business going on in the Gulf. You won’t let the baby touch my china, will you?’

  ‘No, no,’ Alison said hastily. ‘They won’t touch anything, will you, kids?’

  In fact, they were both too awed to do anything in such an overpowering place, except lean against their mother’s knees and suck their thumbs.

  Now that they were in her mother-in-law’s house, Alison couldn’t think how to start the conversation. ‘You don’t happen to know where Rigg is, do you?’ she said at last.