Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  Frances Maynard

  Maggsie McNaughton’s Second Chance

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  Acknowledgements

  In memory of David J. Westhead 1946–2016.

  Artist, teacher, friend.

  1

  Woman’s World, 10 January 2018

  Look What’s Inside!

  My name is Marguerite. Marguerite McNaughton. It’s a poncy name, too fancy. My brother’s called Timothy and my older sister’s Petronella. That’s because Dad’s name was Peter and Mum was all gooey-eyed over him then. Plus she’s got these posh airs and graces. Nothing behind them, that’s the trouble.

  There’s nothing posh about me, you can trust me on that one. Or fancy. Marguerite means something to do with flowers and flowers aren’t the first thing you think of when you see me. Not with my denim jacket and studded trainers. They’re kids’ ones, boys’ – from Mothercare – and second-hand, but there’s no way you’d know that.

  Fancy names are the devil to spell. Trust Mum not to think about that. I can’t actually write Marguerite. Can’t always even say it right. Which doesn’t create a good impression. People either think you’re lying, or you’re thick. Them in charge aren’t allowed to call you thick nowadays, are they? It’s learning difficulties. Dyslexia.

  OK, dyslexic is better than thick. Still a label stuck on your forehead that says you’ll never be up to much, though. As for spelling it . . . it’s about as much use to me as a rubber bottle opener. Poxy word for anybody struggling with reading and writing, if you ask me.

  So what I call myself is Maggsie M. That’s what I put on forms. If the pen-pusher that’s asking for it looks disapproving, I just give them a go-fry-yourself stare. I don’t say I can’t read because then their eyebrows go up and there’s a pause. Take my word for it. They don’t say anything, but they always give you that look.

  The Job Centre wanted me to come right out and say I was dyslexic in job interviews. But even if I could say the ruddy word, you’re having a laugh, aren’t you, if you think I’m going to. Not something you boast about, is it? Admit to any kind of weakness and you’re done for, in my experience.

  You’re probably good at all that Job Centre stuff, forms and that – wouldn’t be reading a book otherwise, would you? Bet you’re not as good as me at looking out for yourself, though. That’s something I am OK with. Well, more than OK. Had to be with my background. Nobody else likely to do it for me, is there?

  Shouting down pillocks that make remarks about my size is the sort of thing I mean. ‘Poison dwarf’ I’ve had to put a stop to more than once.

  I call it being firm but other people say different. I had to do an anger management course, last stretch, and the one before. They learnt us to breathe out slower and not to use actual violence. I’ve pretty much got it sorted now. Got both the anger management certificates in my holdall.

  That’s the way things were. But just when I was getting on with it, same as always, something unexpected turned up.

  An opportunity, they said. A door opening.

  Didn’t expect it to be an actual door, or to be plunged head first into an emergency situation, but there you go.

  Rattling, a ding, a voice droning, doors opening. The lift doors slammed back. I smelt scorching and barbecues. Breathed in so sharp my Nicorette chewing gum slid down my throat. Curled up tight on the metal floor, not moving, was a man in blue overalls. He looked young. His eyes were shut and he was holding a screwdriver. For a second I thought it was someone homeless kipping, but who in their right mind would choose a lift to sleep in? Security would turf you out before you’d even unrolled your sleeping bag.

  A slot machine I’d seen in Skeggy – Skegness – flashed through my mind. A little doll’s-house room behind glass. Red curtains and a tiny man, reading. I’d put my coin in, nose pressed up close. Darkness. Then a spotlight. And there was the little man slumped over his desk, his hair wild and a dagger in his back. Gave me the creeps even though he was only about six inches tall. Yeah, he was small, but I am small. It doesn’t mean you can’t have a presence. Keep people on their toes.

  I couldn’t see blood on this lad, and his hair was short, but he looked just as dead. And he was real!

  My thumb jabbed at the lift button. The bloody doors wouldn’t keep still.

  I couldn’t just run off and leave him. He might still be alive.

  Doors closing. The robot voice butted in again, like a Dalek’s. Made me jump, only I pretended I was just shifting my position. I glanced about. Nobody around to see me anyway – I was too ruddy early, that was why. My heart was going like the clappers. I was panicking, to be honest. Anyone would have been. I hadn’t hardly slept last night. Been dreading today. Hard enough finding my way here. A lot ruddy harder finding a body and no one else around. What could I do? I was supposed to be a kitchen assistant, for God’s sake, not a fireman, or a medic.

  Then it struck me: say if someone thought I done it to him? Punched him or something. I had a record, I’d been inside. That was why I was here; because I’d been inside. ‘A lucky chance,’ the probation officer said. Kept on about it like I’d won something. Wasn’t turning out like that, was it?

  I was early because it was my first day at work. I hadn’t had many of those. Even fewer second days. In fact, none. That was why I hadn’t slept. Ruby, the support worker from the housing place, had come in not long after six. She’d knocked first and brought me a cup of tea. Soon as she’d gone, I pulled the covers back over. Only she came in again. All bright and breezy she was. Rosy cheeks because she’d cycled in. What time had she got up?

  She’d hustled me out the house before seven. Big beaming smile, thumbs-up sign, the sort of person who makes you feel your legs don’t hardly touch the ground.

  She’d gone through the route to Scandinavian Solutions, where I was supposed to be starting work, on Google Maps. On the Friday, that was. Practically soon as I walked through the door. She printed out the way from the tube station. Inked it in red. Didn’t leave nothing to chance. I did, but then I wasn’t any good at long-term thinking, people said. That was why I’d been inside.

  Scan-din-av-i-an Sol-u-tions. I’d looked at the road names and the tube station names on Ruby’s map. The shapes of them. Counted the number of stops between where I was living and this posh part of London. It was all writ out and the address of the supported house because there’d be bound to be a form.

  Alright? Ruby kept asking, red pen hovering. She said alright? but then she’d start on something else, before I’d even opened my mouth. If she’d given me the chance I’d have said, no, I ruddy ain’t. How’s someone like me going to manage all that? I’ve just come out of prison. Never been to London before. Never worked somewhere posh. Never even wor
ked in a kitchen. Never hardly worked.

  On my way out the door Ruby said not to frown. ‘Smiling makes people look approachable, Maggsie. Alright?’ Yeah, but say you don’t want them to approach you? I wasn’t a friendly person. And not much point anyway, seeing as they were going to kick me out after two minutes.

  It was alright for Ruby to smile. She had a posh voice and a fresh complexion and tiny white teeth and nothing to hide. She smiled all the time. My teeth weren’t white. They were tiny but that was because there was a couple of chips off the bottom front ones. I spoke out the side of my mouth because of it.

  When I won the lottery I was going to get them fixed. When I did the lottery. Never been outside long enough to do it regular. Living a disorganized life, people in charge called it.

  I was crushed up against a metal pole on the tube. Couldn’t see a thing with all them bodies stood above me. Couldn’t see out the window. Nothing to see, I know, seeing as we were underground. I was used to being shut up, inside, but not like that. A joke expecting me to cope with it all.

  I heard my stop and pushed my way out. Elbowed a briefcase out the way. I’d have to go through it all again, going back tonight. Blow that for a game of soldiers. I’d stick it for one day. Just to show willing. That’s if they didn’t show me the door first. Then that would be it. I’d find my way back to the supported house for my holdall and hitch back up north. If I could ever find my way out of London. Not that Dougie, Mum’s horrible boyfriend, would let her take me in. Not without me working.

  I came up the tube steps with a crowd of people behind, pushing. Made me feel small. Made me feel I could be stepped on. Stepped over. Actually, I’d felt small ever since I’d been in London. Only three days but it felt longer. I am small but I don’t make an issue of it. Don’t let no one else make an issue of it, neither. I keep my chin up and stride out. Mind you, they all walk like that in London. That must be why they’re all thin.

  My heart was going. I clapped my hand over it to slow it down. My zip-up purse with embroidery on it, fifty pence from Oxfam, was inside my bra. It was my red satin bra, my best, except the lace was unravelling from one of the straps. The purse had all my money in it. Forty-one pounds. No way was I leaving that in a supported house with girls I hardly knew around.

  I spotted the name of the road where I was supposed to be working. Fernette Street, number forty-one. Ruby had underlined it in red. I knew ‘street’ because of the two ‘e’s together. And Fernette had more ‘e’s, three of them, and a great big ‘F’.

  It didn’t seem real, to be honest. None of it. Me, in London, trotting off to a job. I did the special calming breathing they’d learnt us in anger management, but it made me double up coughing. I needed a fag. Best find Scan-din-av-i-an Sol-u-tions first, though. Get it over with. I chewed the Nicorette gum but it only took the edge off.

  I looked around. Distracting yourself was another tip they’d learnt us in anger management – it was supposed to make your heart slow down. Useful, knowing how to distract yourself. Might work for you and all. Everyone’s got something they don’t want to think about.

  It was a big wide road, not like the streets I was used to. Great tall houses each side, white, with no flaky bits of paint peeling off. Didn’t look like somewhere someone like me was supposed to be. People in smart coats. High heels tapping. Shiny hair, like they’d just come out the hairdressers. Even the men.

  On the other side was a man sitting on the pavement. That was more the sort of thing I was used to. He had a cardboard notice made out of a Kellogg’s Cornflakes packet. I recognized the red chicken. I could make out the word UNWANTED on his sign because I’d seen it in the food bank, above a basket of battered-looking packets.

  I was unwanted, same as him. This lucky chance, I was getting was just them in charge box-ticking. Pressure more like, teetering on a tightrope. Toppling off straight away, probably. Showing myself up while I done it. Tonight I’d be back the same as he was.

  I breathed out slow like they tell you to. Must be nearly there, surely? Right at the end of the street was a big modern building. Forty-one in huge metal numbers and two great big snakey ‘S’s, for Scandinavian Solutions, above the door. Nothing but windows as far as you looked up. (I spend a lot of my life looking up. Puts you at a disadvantage.)

  My heart was jumping about. I nearly got tangled up in the revolving door. The only one I’d seen before was in a big hotel the Job Centre had sent me to. This one would be handy for spitting me out too, later on.

  The entrance had shiny floors and a big mirror right up to the ceiling. What was the point of that? Only a spider could look at itself up there. Not the sort of place a spider would fancy anyway – too clean and empty. I caught a glimpse of myself, my head and shoulders. A wisp of black hair was already escaping from my ponytail. My shoulders were hunched. I pulled them back. Breathed out.

  I really, really wanted a fag. You may not have noticed but smokers get pushed into scruffy places. Next to dustbins, out the back, in car parks. Anywhere cold where there’s nowhere to sit down. I already knew the kitchen was in the basement, because Ruby had said. There was no P car park sign, so most likely smokers were shunted up to the top here. I shot a glance at the reception desk. The receptionist, all swept-up blonde hair and dark eyebrows, was smiling into her phone. Ignoring me. People did. It was one of the things that made me angry. Not angry – firm.

  I stuck my chin up again and made for the lift. I could see the word LIFT lit up in yellow beyond RECEPTION. I knew both those words. Knew Reception had a funny ending, the same as station. One of those endings that set out to trip up people like me.

  I pressed the button.

  Strange how your life can change in an instant, like that. Because of somebody you don’t even know. Someone said, later on, the lad had been a catalyst, which means what I just said, only squeezed up into one word. And nothing to do with cats, which is a pity because I like cats.

  2

  Woman’s World, 10 January 2018

  Safety Tips for the Workplace

  So there I was with a body on the floor and the lift doors opening and closing soon as I took my thumb off the button. Panicking. On my own. I mean, come on, even I knew that wasn’t normal for a first day.

  ‘Help!’ I shouted. My voice bounced off the marble walls. The stuck-up receptionist must still have been on her phone. I couldn’t see her desk from the lift. ‘Emergency!’ I tried, but it didn’t sound right.

  Just my luck to be landed with this. Him. Him just lying there, his face all white and doughy-looking. That awful smell. I struggled with working, for God’s sake, let alone ruddy emergencies. My heart hadn’t had a second off since I’d woken up this morning. I couldn’t think, hardly. I darted a glance over my shoulder. Still ruddy nobody.

  To the other side was an open cupboard. I spotted a broom, a wooden one, and some torn-up cardboard. The sort of thing you kept your eyes open for when you were sleeping rough. Insulated you against the cold. Insulate! That’s what wires had to be: all wrapped up in plastic in case they killed you. He might have been electrocuted! I’d done a course inside – Health and Safety in the Workplace. (Practical, see, no writing.) Never thought I’d use it. Never thought I’d be in a ruddy workplace.

  I threw some cardboard down each side of him. Grabbed the broom. Good girl, Maggsie, I told myself, for remembering metal things, what was it, conducted, electricity. You got to give yourself credit, because no one else is likely to.

  Soon as I stopped leaning on the button, the lift doors started opening and shutting again, like they had a mind of their own. I dodged in. Gave the lad a shove with the broom. He didn’t move. Electricity might be leaking out all over the place. Any minute it could stop my heart stone dead.

  He was big and heavy, really heavy, and, like I said, I am small (Scrawny, Dad used to say, but what did he know?) I wasn’t that into fitness neither. If I was I’d have taken the stairs and someone else would have found the poor sod. But t
hen, if I wanted to be healthy I wouldn’t be looking for a smoking area, would I? I’d have given up the fags.

  I had another go. Ran at him with the broom. Used every ounce of strength. Shouted as I did it, ‘Get off!’ – something I was used to shouting. This time he rolled over, right onto his back. There was a tangle of wires where he’d been lying. And a Tupperware box with sandwiches inside, two white-bread triangles, and a KitKat. His mum had probably made him those this morning. I swallowed. He only looked about eighteen. Soft chubby cheeks. Something written on his jacket. Something with the word LIFT on it. That burnt smell again. And one trouser leg melted. He still wasn’t moving.

  The doors opened and I shouted again. I mean, I’m used to people ignoring me, but this was beyond a joke. The lad could be dying. Be just my luck to get landed with a dead body.

  I ran back to the entrance. Screamed. ‘Turn the bloody lift off! Phone an ambulance!’ You had to do that first, I remembered. Even if the person was dead. The stuck-up slag’s eyebrows vanished into her hair-do. She pressed buttons on her phone. Rushed over, high heels clicking, then shrank back at the lad all white and stretched out and not moving. Clapped her hands to her face. Long silver fingernails. Still managed to ask me who I was, though.

  My name came out strangled but what do you expect in an emergency? I knelt on the cardboard. Got close to the lad now he wasn’t touching any wires. He looked peaceful in spite of all the electric that had gone through him. His hair wasn’t standing on end or anything. I braced myself and lifted his hand. Warm. Huge. Mine wouldn’t stretch around it. His nails were cut straight across. I felt his wrist for a pulse. I’d done that once before, way back. It wasn’t the sort of thing I thought I’d be doing again, especially in a work situation.

  Was there a bit of a flutter? I wasn’t a doctor. I was the complete opposite of anything like that. I told him the ambulance was coming. Kept hold of his hand, seeing as there was no one else to do it.

  3

  Woman’s World, Christmas 2017