Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  I put Jack’s card on the table. Smoothed out the envelope and put it away in my holdall. I stretched out on the bed – always plenty of room to stretch out when you’re shorter – feet facing the window, and looked at the flowers.

  I’d got a stray cat to come when I called, long as I had a pilchard with me. All week I’d managed the tube and crowds and talking to posh people. Done the right thing when I’d found Jack collapsed. Mum would never have believed I’d done a whole week working in London. ‘Pull the other one, Maggs,’ she’d have said, and lit another fag.

  I got up and ticked Friday off on the calendar. Gave it an extra big one because it was the end of a whole week.

  7

  Woman’s World, 17 January 2018

  Thanks for the Memories!

  After tea I watched some murder thing from the olden days with Big Shirl and Juicy Lucy. They were the only two girls I’d met so far. Big Shirl’s knitting needles clicked and clacked all the way through. Juicy Lucy kept asking what was happening. She said it was because she had weak eyes and the screen was too dark, but she couldn’t always follow what you were saying either.

  I tried some chat about Jack wanting me to visit him, and about the industrial dishwasher at work. The size of it and that. But they were glued to the screen, Juicy Lucy with a little frown on. Big Shirl got in about her grandson again. About his favourite football team. She wasn’t keen on me taking the limelight.

  There were two other girls on the first floor. Saturday, I met the one in the room next to mine. I’d already heard her bed creaking.

  When I came out of the bathroom she was looking through my door. Nosey cow. Didn’t jump back or anything, just carried on looking.

  ‘Had your eyeful, have you?’ I had to practically push past her to get into my room.

  ‘Just seen your flowers. I wondered what the smell was.’ She had a face like a walnut, brown and shrivelled. Old – sixty, if she was a day.

  ‘Well, now you know.’ I liked my own space. And people not poking their noses in.

  ‘Hoity-toity,’ she muttered, or some such, and went back to her room sharpish. Pity it was next door.

  Jack’s flowers were the first thing you saw coming into my room. You could smell the perfume even in the hallway. I’d bought some Blu-Tack and stuck his card up on the wall so you could see that as well. Long as you asked first.

  When his flowers were on their last legs I’d press one or two, like I’d heard you could, to keep. They’d remind me I’d done something right for once. Make it seem real.

  You could be in hospital for weeks with burns, Ruby said. So I was going to visit. Well, I was working up to it. Wasn’t looking forward to trying to find the hospital. Or to seeing the look on Jack’s face. He’d been unconscious before. Now he’d see me in all my glory.

  Ruby wrote down the name of the station nearest St George’s. Printed off another Google Map. I was in her very good books because of Jack. But that’s pressure, see, though you might not think it. Because then you can disappoint people.

  The tube was busy although it was Sunday. I folded my arms and stared straight ahead like the rest of them. My palms were sweating. What would I say to Jack? Whatever I said was likely to come out mangled. I looked down at my old trainers. I wasn’t nothing special. Anything but. Let’s face it, I didn’t look like the sort of person who rescued people. I brushed off my jeans. Tightened the elastic on my ponytail. Checked Nan’s earrings were done up. I only wore them when I needed an extra boost. But he wanted to see me. It wasn’t my idea. I could just scarper when his face fell.

  Hard finding your way round London when your reading’s not great. Puts you at a disadvantage. Makes you feel small, smaller than you actually are. But the hospital was so big, well, its chimney was, you could see it a mile off. It took longer to find the ward.

  Apart from being born I’d only been inside a hospital once before. That hadn’t exactly been a joyful experience. Well, it had been, for thirty-seven hours, and then it had been the complete ruddy opposite.

  My trainers squeaked on the polished floor. It was the loudest noise there was. It sounded like I shouldn’t be there. I felt like that in a lot of places, actually. Especially in London. The hospital TCP smell made my heart go thump, thump, thump.

  A nurse pointed out a side room. Jack’s bed was by the window. Buildings looming outside like there was all over London. He took up the whole length of it. He was a big lad. That’s why it had been so hard rolling him off those wires. He was propped up on one elbow, playing with an Xbox. Gave me goosebumps, seeing him awake. Seeing him alive.

  I marched up to the bed. Trust me, it’s the best way. Otherwise, your nerve can go, dithering.

  ‘Hiya.’ My hands were in my jacket pockets, all casual. Only they were clenched. ‘I’m Maggsie. From Scanda. It was me that, well, what helped you out last week.’

  The same chubby cheeks and short hair, shaved shorter at the sides. He dropped his Xbox and pulled himself up straight, wincing.

  ‘You wanted to see me. You put it on your card,’ I reminded him, seeing as he wasn’t saying anything. ‘Oh and thanks for the flowers, yeah. Really nice.’ Probably his mum’s idea, I thought.

  He was sitting up now. Had on a black Darth Vader T-shirt rucked up at the side. His face was pink. ‘Hi. I wasn’t sure . . .’

  ‘If it was a good idea seeing me?’ I filled in for him. And now you have, you wish you hadn’t, I thought.

  ‘No! I wanted to see you. I wasn’t sure if you’d come.’ He stopped. His face was pinker. ‘Sorry. This is weird. I didn’t expect you to be so s . . .’

  Scruffy, was he going to say? Stupid?

  ‘Small,’ he got out. ‘I mean, they said a woman, a lady, but . . . You’re really tiny. I don’t know how you did it.’

  I let tiny go seeing as he was in hospital and he’d said lady as well. Second time I’d been called that. He spread his hands, palms up. ‘I wanted to say thank you. Like, in person. My leg’s on the mend now. Could have lost it, though.’

  My eyes prickled. I held the Google Map in front of my mouth so he wouldn’t see my teeth. ‘Nah, you’re OK. I didn’t have time to think, really. Made me ever so popular at work, I can tell you.’ I stretched up on tiptoe. I wasn’t that tiny. ‘It was my first day, see. Me helping you out made a bloody good impression.’

  He smiled, sank back, adjusting his leg under the covers.

  And that was it really. He was a nice lad. Nice manners. I gave him an awkward sort of hug when I said goodbye. He was hard to reach, lying down.

  ‘There’s nothing to you.’ He shook his head. ‘Amazing you could shift me.’

  ‘Wonder Woman, that’s me. Hidden powers.’

  Soon as I was out in the corridor, the TCP smell hit me again. Made my eyes sting. I had to find a toilet and splash my face with cold water. Smells are a devil for bringing things up. Things I tried to keep in a box so I didn’t think about them. They hit me then like that cold water on my face.

  8

  Woman’s World, 17 January 2018

  Troublesome Teens

  ‘Out of ruddy control, you are!’ Mum shouted, reaching out to grab me with the hand that didn’t have a fag. She’d try and get me to stay in, half-hearted like. Dad didn’t. He was always shouting at me to get out. I stood up to him, see. Someone had to. Nella was never at home and Tiny was glued to Mum.

  Dad was around then. Ruling the roost from the sofa in his baggy boxers and manky Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. Drinking. Poncing about with his guitar. He played in a band, and once in a blue moon they got a gig. Only in a working men’s club, but enough for Dad to see himself as a rock god. I saw him more like something strutting on a dung heap. Having his neck wrung and all his Guns N’ Roses feathers plucked. Roasting in hot fat with only a pile of potatoes to show off to.

  That’s why I went down the park. Other kids there escaping stuff at home. One of them was Al, Alex. He was a quiet type. Lovely dark eyes. Gentle. He was the
complete opposite of Dad, actually.

  I put loads of mascara on, chatted fit to burst, but it still took him ages to twig I fancied him. I had to catch hold of his hand – it was a chilly evening, windy, and we were running, don’t know why – before he got the message. He put his arm round me then and, slowly, things moved on.

  He was a soppy sort of bloke, been bullied at school. After our first snog he bought me a box of After Eights from the 99p store. The others saw it. Gave him a hard time. I had to hand them round.

  A bit of the park was all rosebushes, in rows like soldiers. You could smell the roses a mile off. Old ladies, all neat white heads and pastel cardigans and clickety false teeth, sat there in the daytime. The bushes were planted in memory of their dead husbands or something.

  No one there evenings, though. The old ladies were watching TV or playing bingo or knitting. Or, if they were like my nan, before she was poorly, ballroom dancing or messing about with a face pack at home.

  So that’s where me and Alex arranged to meet up. I arranged it really. He turned up with a bottle and a silly smile. Nearly fell over following me between the bushes. The place smelt like the Turkish Delights in the boxes of chocolates Dad brought home sometimes. When he hadn’t come home the night before.

  Alex took off his leather jacket – it wasn’t real leather – and spread it out. Neither of us said much, in spite of the drink. In the end I thought, blow this for a game of soldiers. I sat up, pulled off my jumper and T-shirt and unzipped my jeans.

  From what I could see of Alex’s face he was nervous. Like I was going to bite. Very slowly, he undid his.

  ‘Alex.’ I pulled his jeans leg to hurry him up. ‘You’re not a bloody stripper. I ain’t here to be teased.’

  He fell back, giggling. Like I said, he was a limp sort of a bloke. I don’t mean, well, you know . . . more that he didn’t get on with things. He was worried he might hurt me, he said. Me! More like the other way round.

  Anyway, we got there in the end. I don’t think he’d done it before neither. He said he had, but all blokes are liars, aren’t they?

  Alex bent down to pick up a rose petal after. Put it in his jacket pocket. Told you he was too soft for his own good.

  We didn’t cuddle up, even after that, because of the others giving us grief, but Alex was always looking at me. That’s why I remember his lovely dark eyes.

  One evening the teasing got really bad. Alex was fed up. He’d been drinking. Had a can in his hand; said he was going to buy more booze.

  He headed straight across the road. Didn’t even look. There was a screech of brakes. I started running. Saw him waving at the driver with his can. I hadn’t realized he was so far gone.

  A car came the other way, too bloody fast. Another squeal of brakes. A horrible thud. I can still hear it when I’m feeling low.

  My arms were pumping, trainers slipping on the damp grass. The others followed. ‘No!’ one of the girls screamed. ‘This ain’t happening.’

  The driver had called an ambulance. Blood was coming out of Alex’s mouth. To be honest, I couldn’t look too close. I knew he was dead. I zipped up his jacket and kept squeezing his hand. My teeth were chattering.

  One of the other lads made a move on me not long after. Called me a spitfire when I hit him. I liked the sound of that, even after spitfires turned out to be old planes, not dragons. Still given people what for, though, hadn’t they?

  After that, drink went to my head really quickly, which was a good thing. Then it made me feel sick, which wasn’t.

  Didn’t notice the first missed period. The second one I put down to not eating much. Weird the waistband of my jeans was getting tighter, though. That’s when it finally clicked.

  I couldn’t think straight. Tried not to think. Only thing I did was stop drinking. Didn’t want the baby not knowing where it was or what it was doing. Didn’t tell anyone. Dad would have thrown me out. Mum would have made me get rid of it. No way would she want to be Nan. My own nan was ill. Tell a teacher? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?

  It was Nella who spotted it. She would. She was always a prissy little madam. Neat and tidy. All the buttons done up on her cardigans. Soon as she was thirteen she’d got herself a paper round. Bought a new school shirt with her wages and washed it herself. Bought tights, so no more sorting through our minging sock pile to find a pair that matched. Bought shampoo, with a lovely smell, that she kept hidden from Mum.

  It was when I was helping her cook Sunday dinner. Roast chicken pieces – not enough money for a whole one. Mum was still in bed and Dad had just come in. Nella passed me the potato peeler and a bag of spuds. She was good at stretching out a little bit of meat. Pity she was so brisk about it. Bet she’s got freezers full of chickens now, all neatly lined up in rows with a ‘use by’ label tied to each leg. Like the morgues you see on cop shows.

  Nella’s hand brushed my belly. She stopped, a bottle of corn oil in her hand. ‘You’re up the duff!’ She slammed the bottle down. The oil made a glooping sound. My innards did the same. ‘How could you be so bloody stupid? What’s Justin going to say? His mum? They already think I’m trash.’

  Justin was her boyfriend – sorry, fiancé. They’d only just got engaged. Another year and Justin would be ‘a qualified electrician’. Nella, and Mum, got that in whenever they could. Justin had a car and his shirts and jumpers had sharp creases in the sleeves where his mum had ironed them. Nella wouldn’t let him inside our house.

  Mum came downstairs. Dressing gown, unlit fag. Nella was giving a bowlful of Yorkshire pudding batter what for.

  Mum’s fag fell to the floor when Nella told her. She bent to pick it up. ‘If you think I’m going to look after it, you’ve got another think coming.’

  She got a social worker involved. There was a mother and baby unit in the next town, other girls there in the same boat. I could carry on with my education. Yeah, right. Once I’d thought things through I’d agree adoption was the best way forward. Families were crying out for newborns. Give my baby away? Yeah, double right.

  Mum had to pack for me. I wasn’t carried off kicking and screaming, but that was only because I was so tired. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  Some of the girls at the unit had already had their babies. Showed off about them. Which one had the most designer clothes and that. Gave me stick for not being able to read. So much for being in the same boat. The English teacher brought in a volunteer to help me. Didn’t ask me if I wanted help. Having her there made me stick out more. She wore a long frumpy skirt and peered out from a fringe that came down to her glasses. Tutted when I tried to read a sentence out loud. The unit was probably the only place where she got to feel superior.

  That was it as far as me learning to read, of course. They couldn’t make me do it.

  The doctor looked at me over the top of his glasses. Called my baby my difficulty. The midwife asked me a list of questions and ripped the blood pressure cuff off my arm. After the first one, about smoking, I just sat there, silent, wishing I could wrap it around her throat.

  And then it was the hospital. The polished floor. The TCP smell.

  Alastair, I called him. Same first two letters as Alex, plus it sounded posh. Nella wrote it out for me. It had the word stair in it. I already knew the word because it was on signs. Stairs meant going up in the world.

  He was small, just over five pounds, but perfect. All curled up like a little dormouse. Not much hair and the little bit he had was ginger, but you can’t have everything in this life.

  Hardly cried. I only put him down to change his nappy. I wasn’t going to let them take him. But I was worn out, weepy, couldn’t think straight, only fifteen. There were adoptive parents lined up already. I wasn’t a match for Nella and Mum and all the rest of them.

  I dressed him up in the yellow and white striped babygro I’d bought him and they took him off me. They had to pull him out of my arms. I wasn’t going to give him to nobody. The last I saw of him was the back of his little head sti
cking out of a baby blanket, one from the unit, like they’d wrap round any baby, going out the door.

  Back at home I didn’t want to eat or watch TV. Just wanted Alastair snuggled in the crook of my arm again.

  Mum and Nella were nice to me at first. They bought me a kitten. Gingernut. Like a cat would make up for not having a baby. Gingernut did worm his way in, mind. Purred on my chest. He had little ginger eyelashes like mine and Alastair’s.

  The two of them put towards a denim jacket. It’s the one I’ve still got now. That was when I started dyeing my hair black. With that and the jacket, and Nan’s earrings, I had a tough look going on. That was to stop people taking anything off me again.

  The being nice stopped. It was moving on. Making a fresh start. They wanted me to go back to school. Or college. Yeah, right. That would make me feel better, when I couldn’t hardly read. With people asking what I’d been doing this past year.

  I had one photo of Alastair. Nella had taken it. His eyes were open and he was frowning because the light was so bright. I kept it in a box I’d got from Nan’s display cabinet after she died. A little box with shells glued around the lid in a circle, and ‘A Present from Margate’ written in the middle. Don’t laugh, but for years I thought it said ‘A Present from Marguerite’. I knew I hadn’t given it to her, but I imagined it was from some other Marguerite. Someone tall, with flashing teeth, good at cooking, a book writer.

  For a while I dreamt of getting Alastair back. Then that faded. So did everything else. I just drifted, really. Drank too much. Sofa-surfed. Shoplifted. There was a hole inside me. Felt like when you lose your purse, only much, much worse.

  Once things started going pear-shaped I stopped opening the Present from Margate box. I didn’t want Alastair to know what I was doing.

  There were other men. They’d do anything for me, at first. But that would soon change and they’d want me to do everything for them. Got ratty, and worse, when I wouldn’t. Yeah, never met a good man yet. Alex had been just a boy, really.