Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  The building had a painted ceiling. Crowds of chubby people in fancy wigs floating around on clouds. Got a crick in the neck looking up at them. TJ knew who’d done the painting. Even knew who the people were. Pointed to a fat bloke with hair like a pop star from the olden days. Some British king or other, though he’d come from Germany.

  I tapped his arm. It felt hard and muscly through his donkey jacket. ‘You put me to shame, TJ, you do.’

  ‘You are ashamed of me?’ He looked down, his forehead creased. Another thing about TJ was he took life too serious. In spite of the smiling. Wore his brain out, thinking.

  ‘Nah!’ I prodded his arm again. If you were talking about actual shame it would be the other way round.

  I had to explain put me to shame. Not easy explaining things you said every day without thinking. TJ was lucky he had me teaching him.

  We wandered around. It was getting warmer. I was thirsty and my feet ached. TJ whipped a bottle of water out of his pocket. He was good at long-term thinking. Then he said he was going to treat me to something nice.

  He headed off down a side street, too narrow for him to hold my elbow. It looked straight out of one of them classic serials the BBC did on Sundays. The ones Big Shirl and Juice went misty-eyed over.

  Something nice. Bound to be some kind of book. Or maybe a special Polish food. Not a sausage, though. Please. We joined the end of a queue. TJ wouldn’t tell me what we were queuing for. Put his finger to his lips, smiling. ‘Wait few minutes.’ He had a childish streak sometimes.

  I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets. The good thing about denim was you could wear it summer or winter. People came in behind us so we had to shuffle up close. ‘What does your wife think about you spending money on me, then?’ I asked him, just to pass the time waiting. I was trying to speak more proper. I could have said your missus, but I didn’t. I didn’t want TJ picking up mistakes.

  ‘Mm?’ he turned to me, his smile vanishing. ‘Oh. I tell wife . . .’

  ‘What’s her name, again?’ I knew her name but I didn’t want to give him an advantage. Or her, come to that.

  ‘Sofia.’

  ‘Sofia.’ I nodded. Sofa. I saw a big woman, stuffed into clothes loads of sizes too small. ‘What you tell her then, Sofia?’

  ‘I tell her you are my English teacher.’ TJ moved forward in the queue. ‘I learn formal English from textbook, from my class. I learn how people speak from you.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘So, these trips out, they’re English lessons, are they?’

  TJ nodded. ‘I learn much from you, Maggsie. I write down words you have said.’

  Sounded like a cop taking a statement. I tried to move away, get a bit more space, only we were too squashed together. I turned back to ask another question: ‘Your wife work, does she?’

  ‘Part-time, yes. In bank. She not like to say to friends I clear tables over here.’ He stared straight ahead. He was tall enough to look over the queue. ‘Sofia very independent woman. She have routine. When I go home Christmas, Easter, I disturb routine.’

  My eyebrows went up. Where was all this coming from? TJ had never said much about his home life before. I remembered his Polish phone calls when he’d stopped smiling. Saw a sneer on his wife, old Sofa’s, fat face. We moved forwards a bit. ‘You’re not working part-time, TJ. You work every blood . . . blimmin’ hour God sends.’ As well as his Scanda job, he did two evenings a week at a college, washing out test tubes. Plus he helped a Polish mate out in his shop on a Saturday, and worked in another Polish mate’s restaurant, Saturday nights.

  TJ nodded, not smiling. ‘I make most of opportunities. Is not much work in Poland.’

  ‘What does she look like? Sofia, your wife,’ I asked. It was just to make conversation. It wasn’t that I was interested or anything.

  ‘Blonde hair. Tall. Big. Twice size of you. Big since working in bank.’

  ‘Bigger,’ I corrected. ‘much bigger.’

  We were inside the shop now. I’d forgotten we were queuing for something. A group of girls in front got served, then TJ and me were at the counter. It was glass with metal containers. Different colours inside. Cold steam coming up. Ice cream – ice creams. Never seen so many flavours. I’d only had vanilla or chocolate before, Mr Whippy. His treat, TJ said. Two scoops. I asked for chocolate and coffee because I couldn’t read the fancy writing on the labels. TJ had pink grapefruit and piss . . . something green.

  We sat on a bench in Greenwich Park and ate them. Never tasted anything so good. Even TJ’s weird flavours and colours were nice. I stretched my legs out in the sunshine and shut my eyes.

  ‘You are happy, Maggsie?’ TJ asked. Full of the joys of spring, he was again now. Soon as he’d stopped talking about his wife.

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose.’ Never a good idea to commit yourself. I wondered if I should tell him about Alastair. My year plan. Maybe counting chickens, though. I’d lost it – well, got too firm – only last week. No, I had lost it. Another step out of line and my life here would go back to being what I’d thought it was on that first day: a fairy tale. I’d be back where I started. Doing something I shouldn’t just to get sent back to prison. All hope of contacting Alastair gone up in smoke.

  TJ dozed off. No wonder he was tired with all his jobs. Bet his wife, old Sofa, wasn’t wearing herself out like he was. Sitting on your backside in a bank for a few hours a day wasn’t exactly slave labour. I imagined rolls of flesh like pink sausage-meat poking out over the top of her skirt. Imagined Snappy’s jaws closing on one. TJ had said they ate a lot of sausage in Poland. I let him have ten minutes then I tapped his hand to wake him.

  After a fag – well, a rollie, but still a fag, which I gave him – we walked up a steep hill. Got out of breath. But from the top you could see the whole of London. You could see more of it than you could from the roof garden at Scanda.

  TJ said people used to look at stars from up here because it was so high. They’d worked out the different times it would be around the world from here too. Alastair would want me to know stuff so I didn’t mind TJ telling me things, only not all the time.

  We walked a bit further. Saw a herd of deer, and squirrels and birds, and kids, posh ones, feeding them. I bought us a cup of tea from a café. The girl behind the till was eating a baguette out of a paper bag, holding it like she was hiding a bottle. I was just about to say something because she didn’t give me any change from my fiver. Then I read ‘TEA’ on the price list, £2.50, and nearly fainted. It did come in a big cardboard cup, though, and it took a long time to drink.

  21

  Woman’s World, 6 June 2018

  How a Letter Changed My Life!

  Things were going OK. Too peaceful, maybe. What did Nan used to say? Plans is what God spoils when he hears you making them. Something like that.

  It was like being under a nice hot shower, posh soap and all that, and then someone turning on the cold.

  That someone was Louise.

  It was only Enid that had sent me letters before, personal ones I mean. Then I got two more in one week. One good, one bad. The good letter was from Jack. Six lines. He was back at work. After the summer he’d be playing football again. And all thanks to me, he said. His letter was easier to read than his card had been all those months ago. Keep in touch, he said, at the end. Gave his address. I might. Might send him a Christmas card, written out all neat, end of this year.

  The second letter, the bad one, was waiting for me at home. I knew it wasn’t from Enid. Enid had round blue biro writing. This one was in black with loops and slopes.

  I went upstairs to open it. Turned to the signature. Best wishes from . . .? Couldn’t make out the name. A real scrawl. A big L, then o-u-i-s-e. Louse? Oh, Louise. Louise. I sat down on the bed. Why was she writing?

  Louise had been banged up the same time as me. Airs and graces, and no mates, far as I could recall. I reckon she only stuck all her arty postcards up because she didn’t have any proper cards or photos to show off. Neither did
I, mind. Enid used to chat to her, but Enid talked to everyone.

  Louise had been sent down for smuggling drugs. Travelling. In South America, I think it was. On her ‘gap year’, like poshos call it. She’d hooked up with a boyfriend and he’d got her passing off cocaine in bars done up as chocolate. She’d got caught with loads of them in her rucksack. Got twelve years for it. A ruddy long gap year. Her family disowned her but came round a bit after she ditched the boyfriend.

  The reason Louise knew about pictures was because she got a degree or something in Art History while she was inside. A twelve-year stretch gives you plenty of time to faff around.

  She’d had a job in the prison library. Thought it put her a rung above us lesser mortals. Said she was going to get a job in an art gallery when she got out. How was that going to work, I’d thought, with your record? Yawned to show I wasn’t impressed. That was why I was surprised she was writing to me now.

  I turned back to the first page. Hiya Maggsie, she wrote, like we were best mates. I didn’t even like the girl. Apart from her droning on, I’d never liked the way she looked at me too long, like she was weighing me up. The way she turned away with a little smile, like I wasn’t up to scratch. Just reading something she’d wrote set my teeth on edge.

  I worked through her letter, saying the words out loud, going ahead when I got stuck, like Enid had said. A choked-up feeling rose in my chest. Louise’s writing was big, easy enough to read. It was what she said that was difficult.

  Enid was ill. A lump in her breast. (Must have been a big one, I thought, for Enid to find anything in her massive boobs.) Louise’s writing got a bit blurry then, but it seemed Enid’s whole boob had needed taking away.

  I’d written to Enid, week before last, my third letter. Told her I’d got ‘the cat here’ to sleep on my bed. Didn’t have the spelling of Audrey to hand, and I couldn’t be bothered to go down and copy it off the pilchard tin.

  Enid hadn’t replied. I hadn’t heard from her for a few weeks, come to think of it. So this was why.

  The good thing about a letter was that you could read it again. Not Louise’s, Enid’s. I got her last one out of my holdall:

  It gave me a real lift to get your letter, dear. Said you’d do well this time, didn’t I? I felt it in my water when you stuck to your reading.

  Wear undies and tights under your jeans when you go out with that Polish fellow. Men are all the same whatever country they come from.

  I could see her nodding. Putting her hand to her cheek. Hear the click of her plastic beads. She was wrong about TJ, though. He’d only ever gone for my elbow.

  I been doing my crocheting and I’ve got my holiday in Romania to look forward to when I get out beginning of October. It’s that what keeps me going. And knowing you’re doing so well.

  Write again, dear, and tell me how you’re getting on. Seen the Queen yet?

  Love from your old friend Enid

  I looked at the date. More than a month ago. Had she known about the lump then? Not wanted to worry me? I folded her letter up and put it back in the envelope. Thought about her writing it, leaning over the paper, boobs resting on her knees.

  Like I said before, there’s no justice in this world. Enid hadn’t had long to go. Another few weeks and she’d have been out of prison and off to that pine forest in Roman . . . Romania. My eyes stung, thinking about it.

  Louise said the hospital had been going to order an extra-large fake boob for Enid to put in her bra, after, but Enid had said no, she’d always wanted to get rid of them. Gave her backache something chronic. So they’d taken them both off.

  I winced and felt my own chest, even though all I’d got was two fried eggs, no matter how much I ponced them up with the lacy bras I’d bought from Enid’s catalogue. You could choose from loads of pictures and you didn’t have to pay straight away.

  Enid, flat-chested. I couldn’t imagine it. Louise said she’d been in hospital two weeks recovering, which she’d th . . . thor . . . something enjoyed. I swallowed. That was good then. Good old Enid.

  I added a bit to the letter I’d started a couple of weeks back: Sorry u r ill Enid get well sooNe. No mor back ake. Sometimes I put capital letters in the middle of words, without realizing. That’s the sort of thing that makes people think you’re thick. I made the ‘N’ smaller. What I really wanted to say was: Don’t die, Enid. You can’t die.

  I posted the letter in the box outside the Co-op. It was all I could do. When you were finishing off a prison sentence, which I was, only I forgot it sometimes, you weren’t allowed to travel.

  I thought about Louise’s letter. She’d said Enid had told her I was ‘working in Central London’. Like I was a managing director or something, not a ruddy kitchen assistant. Louise would be out herself next week. Her family had a flat in London. Perhaps we could meet up for a coffee? That best mate thing again. I didn’t know about that. Like I said, I never liked the girl. I didn’t reply. But then, in spite of London being the biggest city in Britain – eight million people living here, TJ said – I bumped into her.

  22

  Woman’s World, 6 June 2018

  What’s It Worth? With Our Antiques Expert

  It was half four, when I was coming out of work. She was walking towards me. Did a poncy sort of jump when our eyes met. Squealed.

  ‘Oh my goodness. I don’t believe it!’ Same posh voice.

  (It was only a lot later I thought, hang on . . . I don’t believe it.)

  ‘Maggsie, is it you?’ She gave me a fancy kiss on both cheeks, like people do in London. Stood back and looked me up and down, cheeky cow. Seeing her was worse than reading her letter.

  I had black trousers on, not jeans, and I’d stopped wearing my ponytail scraped up so high. It had always given me a headache anyway. There’d been a page in Woman’s World: ‘Seven Styles for Mid-length Hair’. Wearing it lower toned down Nan’s earrings when I wore them. Bless her, they were on the flashy side. Mostly I stuck to my silver studs.

  And I’d been using tinted moisturizer. The beauty page said it gave your skin a subt . . . something glow. Kept meaning to ask Ruby or TJ what it was. Alastair would want me to look smart, wouldn’t he? Any son would. Primping a bit didn’t mean I wasn’t still as tough as old boots underneath, though, because I was.

  Louise was still looking at me that few seconds too long like she used to, inside. Like she was in charge. She’d changed more than I had. Well, appearance-wise she had. Put on weight since I’d last seen her – which was in prison, in spite of her airs and graces. Had her hair highlighted all different shades of blonde, and cut in fancy layers. Chin-length so didn’t do nothing for her round face. She had a suede jacket on and a white shirt and a heavy gold pendant, like she was a mayor or something. And she was clutching one of those posh dangly carrier bags with a designer name on it.

  ‘Fancy a coffee, Maggsie?’ she said, all matey. ‘On me.’

  I hesitated. I didn’t like her. All we had in common was we’d been inside. The coffee would be half foam and leave a moustache. But she might have news about Enid.

  That is an important lesson in life: always go with your gut instinct. Because I should have just said thanks, but no thanks, I was putting my old life behind me. That would have put her in her place. But I didn’t. I did find out something about Enid – well, she told me something. But it was something that led to all sorts of trouble.

  Louise’s loud voice didn’t stand out so much in the café because they were all braying. The whole chat was about her. I didn’t want to hear what she was doing. It was only Enid I was interested in. I went through all my anger management strategies listening. And that was before other stuff kicked off.

  ‘Busy, busy, busy. Family stuff, you know? Pa’s organized a family trip for later this year. Just before Christmas. Diving. The whole lot of us in one of those floating hotel boats. Luxury or what? It’ll be a hoot. A real celebration. Give us a chance to get to know each other again.’ She laughed. Only it wasn’t
funny, seeing as it was her being in jail that had kept them apart.

  ‘Your family OK with you now, then?’ I spooned up foam from my poncy coffee. You could get a cup of tea here but it came in a glass mug with a teabag dangling on a string. You had to fish it out and then find somewhere to put it. Blow that for a game of soldiers.

  ‘Oh yes. They say I add colour. Even though I’ve always been the black sheep!’ Louise’s was the sort of laugh that makes you want to stick your fingers in your ears. Or down your throat . . . ‘All the rest of them are medics or accountants. Very dull.’ There was a pause.

  I added five teaspoons of brown sugar (they didn’t have white) to the coffee. Too bitter, otherwise.

  ‘Of course, my family have gone up in the world now, you know.’ Half the café must have heard that. ‘Yah, Pa inherited when I was . . .’ she dropped her voice for the first time, ‘well, you know. Away.’

  Yeah. And prison was definitely going down in the world.

  She went on about the house, ‘stately home’ she called it, her dad had got off his dad. Down south somewhere. Somewhere there was more sheep than people. This house was so old it was in guidebooks. So posh someone slept there to guard it when they were away. They opened it up three days a week in the summer. To the riff-raff, she said, laughing. To people, she meant. ‘And, of course, it makes a wonderful backdrop for Pa’s art collection. All that dark wood sets the paintings off beautifully.’

  Of course it does. I thought of Nan’s display cabinet, in the lounge, the fish and seaweed patterned wallpaper behind it. Meant for a bathroom, really. Her A Present from Margate box that I had in my holdall back at the house. The photo.