Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  I folded the paper serviette where I’d written Hammershøi, over and over until it was just a tight strip. Enid. All those months of her nodding and smiling while I mangled words. Tucking her arms under her chest, certain I’d get there in the end. Thing was, Enid had been more mumsy than my own mum. Mum was always patting her hair, looking in mirrors, sucking in her belly. Enid had been interested in me.

  Me and TJ had gone into a little church in Greenwich a few weeks back. Greenwich was handy for TJ. He had a room in the flat above his mate’s Polish restaurant in Lewisham. TJ wanted to light a candle for his daughter, Sabina. She was taking exams back in Poland.

  Catholics light candles all the time, TJ said, not just at Christmas, or when the electric went off. Sabina would need all the help she could get, I thought, remembering what a torture exams had been. I’d just sat there while the other kids scribbled away. There’d been a clock ticking really loud. Just that and their pens scratching. I’d handed in an empty paper and the teacher had frowned at me over her glasses.

  I had a nosey round the church while TJ was on his knees. There was a stained-glass window of Jesus’s mother, wearing a blue scarf and holding baby Jesus. I knew who it was because Mum had made us go to Sunday school. I’d never seen her go near a church. Reckon she just wanted an afternoon upstairs with Dad. Or Dougie.

  Don’t laugh but Jesus’s mother was the spitting image of Enid. Younger, obviously, smaller chest, but, still, a dead spit. If you took off the scarf and gripped back the hair, stuck a mug of tea and a Woman’s World in Jesus’s place, it could have been Enid. (It wasn’t wrong to think that because Enid’s a good person, good as any church saint if you ask me.)

  The candle on the restaurant table was making my eyes water. I saw Enid saying you naughty girl at me stealing something for her, but being grateful for saving her life. Like I’d done Jack’s and Audrey’s. Both times I’d got treated like someone special. Got that giant bunch of flowers. Got a cup of tea off Juice soon as I stepped through the door after work. (I’d finally trained her to put in the four sugars. I bought the sugar.) Reckon all that must have gone to my head. I stayed and listened because I was Wonder Woman. I folded my arms, frowned at Louise, but I didn’t get up and walk away.

  She was leaning too close. Going on about how only I could save Enid’s life. How ‘able’ I was these days. How every posh company had insurance and Scanda could always go out and buy another painting. She had hold of the sleeve of my denim jacket and I didn’t even snatch my arm away. That’s how stupid I was. Looking back, Louise had me sussed, alright.

  ‘Listen, Maggsie,’ she whispered. ‘No one will know the painting’s even missing.’

  I frowned. How did she figure that out?

  She had it all off pat. Seemed to have the whole thing planned. Before she’d even discussed it with me. Before I’d even agreed to anything.

  It must have sunk in I wasn’t happy. ‘I just wanted to sort things out quickly.’ Her hand was still on my sleeve. ‘For Enid’s sake. There’s no time to lose.’

  So I carried on listening. She could get a good photocopy printed to exactly the same size as the painting. It could be rolled up, hidden in a newspaper. A big one. Like the one TJ read on Sundays now. (Yeah, like I would read it every week. Cover to cover. You seen the size of the print? How few pictures there are?)

  The painting could be smuggled out the same way.

  ‘It’s in a frame. How the hell would I – how would anyone,’ I corrected, ‘roll that up?’

  She laughed.

  Take my word for it, people laughing at you is always disrespectful. Making you out as less than them. No matter how they dress it up. It’s not just a joke, all mates together. And if you think it is, then that’s because you haven’t never been laughed at.

  My hands balled into fists. I didn’t think about breathing, Snappy, psychology, nothing. I pushed my chair back from the table. I was out of there.

  Louise caught hold of my sleeve again. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, Maggsie. I wasn’t dissing you. You’re a pretty bright spark, actually. No, sit down!’ She darted a glance around, gabbled, ‘They do a fabulous chocolate torte here, chocolate tart. With clotted cream and raspberry compote. To die for, honestly.’

  I stood there for a second, giving her evils, and then I sat down. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have stormed out. I should have let rip. Like I told you, sometimes anger is a good thing. Sometimes being angry is the right thing to do. If people had kicked up a stink about Hitler earlier, there wouldn’t have been a war. Granda always said that.

  We had the tart. It was pretty good. By the size of her Louise ate a lot of that kind of thing – posh cakes, patty . . . something. She wiped a bit of cream from her chin. One of them. Then it was back to stealing the painting. Me stealing it. I’d have to cut it out of its frame with a Stanley knife.

  I sat back. No way. I’d been done for vandalism in the past. Drink had been behind it. I wasn’t going to slash a valuable painting. Specially one I liked.

  Louise waved her hand about. The painting had a border so it wouldn’t matter. Then I’d stick the photocopy inside the frame and roll the original up in the newspaper.

  It didn’t sound that bad when she said it. To be honest, I couldn’t see why there was so much fuss about the actual painting. If a good photocopy looked exactly the same, what was the difference?

  Still stealing, though. Breaking the law. Risking not seeing my son one day. Risking my job. If I kept on the straight and narrow, kept doing the work OK, Scanda might keep me on after I’d done the year. Give me a bit more responsibility. A bit more money. I’d get hold of the rest of my wages then too. They saved them for you. Supposed to be for a deposit on a flat, or to start a business, or to get educated. Stuff that was beyond me. But still . . .

  I’d be crazy to risk all that, but there I was, being crazy. It was Enid, see, floating around the higher part of my mind. And, to be honest, I was showing off to Louise, a posh bint with education. Trying to prove I was better than her.

  I thought of her cell, her university degree stuck on the wall, all her arty postcards. I heard her loud, posh voice now. She was rich, she knew stuff . . . This scheme she’d come up with wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment, smash-and-grab thing. I wouldn’t get caught, would I?

  I saw Enid, frolicking, flat-chested, through a pine forest in Romania. Saw her gazing at the sparkling water of a lake, stroking a tame wolf, being serenaded by a gypsy violinist with a rose between his teeth. She’d had pictures like those plastered all over the walls of her cell. And her hair would be shiny, skin glowing. She’d be completely cured.

  I put my palms flat on the table. ‘I’ll think about it. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. Do that.’ Louise nodded, ever so polite and considerate. ‘You take your time. It’s just that Enid’s condition can’t wait, remember. I’ll be in touch very soon.’

  It was a pity I’d given her my mobile number. I regretted it even more later.

  She paid for the meal. With a gold card, I noticed. Then we were outside and it was all, mwah, mwah, that London kissing again that I always got wrong. We were ex-cons, for God’s sake, not TV stars. Then Louise sailed off in a taxi and I got the tube.

  I ticked off my calendar. Came practically automatic now. And I hadn’t had a drink, even though I’d been in a restaurant where they were all drinking. Hadn’t even been tempted. Been too flabbergasted. Could have done with one now, though.

  Audrey wasn’t in her beanbag. She’d be in her box in the kitchen or on the lounge sofa with Juice. Juice watched a lot of TV. Did a bit of knitting for her little girl – dolls’ clothes, I think they were – only she couldn’t always follow the pattern.

  Enid’s positive and confidence were on the wall above my bed. I’d stuck up efficient now as well. (Primrose had actually said very efficient. I’d put a very in front of it last week.) Jack’s card and the little card from his flowers were both up there. And a
text TJ had sent me once, which I’d written out: Tonight teacher ask where I learn colourful language and I say you. All that was stuff I’d achieved. Stuff I could lose.

  I lay on the bed, arms folded behind my head. Couldn’t settle. I paced about a bit. If I’d been allowed out late I’d have gone for a walk. Only I might have ended up in the wrong aisle of a supermarket.

  There was no one I could talk to about Louise’s plan. The girls here wouldn’t snitch, I knew, but they didn’t know Enid. They’d just think I was crazy. TJ? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? He was a moral person. And a Catholic. Ruby was a moral person too. And a support worker.

  What I should have done was write to Enid. Ask her the name of the drugs she needed. Ask her straight out how her treatment was going.

  Bet you a pound to a penny that if I had, she’d have stopped me.

  32

  Woman’s World, 24 October 2018

  Move Forward After Divorce – We Show You How!

  TJ went down ahead of me after morning break. I peered through the boardroom door. It was empty. Scanda didn’t often have bigwig meetings. They were more of a we’re all equal here type of place.

  Funny, seeing the Woman Reading up there, now that Louise was planning on me pinching it. It was a very small painting. Easy to hide. Easy to steal. A quiet painting, dull colours. You’d hardly notice it was there. Or wasn’t there. Amazing someone would pay half a million for it. The woman in the picture was really concentrating on her book. Maybe she wasn’t a good reader, neither. And she had a cup of tea on the table. But her table had a cloth, and she had a long dress on, not a denim jacket. Plus she looked a calm sort of a person.

  I tried the handle of the boardroom. It wasn’t locked. Almost like the painting was asking to be took. Scanda weren’t very wordly wise, if you asked me. All their spindly lamps and slippery sofas. I mean, thinking people would actually like that sort of stuff, buy it. A nice company, though. Nice to work for.

  Louise had texted me at breakfast-time. Given me indigestion even though I didn’t eat breakfast. I’d only seen her the night before for God’s sake. Had I decided to: help save Enid’s life? she asked. It’s only you that can do it. Kisses at the end. Pass the sick bag. Stil Thinking, I texted back. No kisses.

  Horrible being in two minds, not knowing what to do for the best. Easier when you’ve made a decision. Then you can just go for it, good or bad.

  Ruby asked me to sign an appraisal form. It was about me. She read it out in the office and then I read it. It was like a school report except it was a good one. I’d have stuck the whole thing – two typed pages – up on my wall, only the girls would have given me stick. I signed Maggsie M at the bottom, like always. I twiddled the pen. I should be trying to write my full name by now. Marguerite McNaughton, in case you’ve forgotten. I leant over and added a tiny little ‘c’ after the ‘M’. Maggsie Mc. It was a start.

  Above Ruby’s desk was the barmaid poster. It was a picture of a proper painting, she said. Another thing about London is that there are paintings everywhere. Paintings and posters. The barmaid looked straight out at you with a fed-up expression like she was trying to stay sober. Old-fashioned clothes, but tight-fitting. Low-cut. Crowds of people in the mirror behind her. Bottles and glasses on the bar, and a bowl of oranges, tangerines, whatever. First time I’d seen fruit in a pub. The barmaid had a bit of a look of Juice, come to think of it. Take off the glasses, add a few stone, and a blue streak of hair at the front, and she would have been very like her. It was a pretty good painting. And it was only a poster in a frame. A frame made a lot of difference.

  I still hadn’t made up my mind. It was hard to concentrate on what TJ was saying, Sunday, because of it. He wasn’t too cheerful neither, which was unusual.

  We walked along the South Bank. Enough sunshine to have the sleeves of my jacket rolled up. Too many people, though, like always, jostling, pushing, treading on your heels. Can’t ever walk in a straight line in London. Aggravating. I had to stop myself from whipping round a couple of times. A woman in a T-shirt with flamingos on pointed at us and laughed with her fat mate. I’ve seen that before. People think the height difference between me and TJ is funny. They should take a look at themselves first if you ask me.

  We turned onto the pedestrian bridge. It had a special name, a word like million. TJ looked into the distance, not at the lovers’ padlocks. He wasn’t smiling. Maybe old Sofa was giving him grief.

  He never said much about her. Just spoke about his two kids, Sabina and Rudolf. Sabina’s exams had gone OK. Expect she was clever, like her dad. Rudolf, like the reindeer. (I’d asked TJ if he had a red nose but he didn’t know the song.) The reason TJ did his long hours was so they’d have an easier life than what he’d had. Sod’s law, though, because it meant he didn’t hardly ever see them. Only on Skype. That was hard, but not as hard as giving up your child altogether.

  TJ carried on not being cheerful. He was so quiet I asked him if he was OK. Then it all came out. Could have come straight off the agony page in Woman’s World. For a while I forgot all about Enid and the painting.

  Sofa, Sofia, his wife, who looked down on TJ because she worked in a bank, not a kitchen, had been playing away. With a teacher from his kids’ school.

  Rudolf hadn’t been doing his homework. Spent all his time designing clothes apparently. His chemistry teacher had wanted a word with Sofa. She’d taken a fancy to him and now things had gone long past words.

  I pictured them together: I imagined him with thick glasses and wild hair. They’d spend their evenings mixing stuff up in test tubes. Stuff that exploded. I saw it blowing old Sofa up in the air. Onto her feet at last, in spite of her size. Saw her pink rolls of fat quivering with the vibrations. Saw the chemistry teacher’s hair, even his eyebrows, all frizzled.

  TJ was walking faster and faster, telling me this. Latest was the chemistry teacher moving in. Into TJ’s house. Rudolf and Sabina were pissed off about a teacher living with them. Anyone would be. I felt for TJ, seeing his kids unhappy. I’d have felt the same if it was Alastair.

  I had to run to keep up with TJ. I looked up at him, wanting him to stop. Got neck-ache doing it. Nearly took hold of his elbow only it would have been awkward, reaching. I offered to go over to Poland one day, when I’d served my full sentence I meant, to give Sofa a piece of my mind, but TJ was definite he didn’t want that. He was seeing some Polish lawyer about getting a divorce.

  That made him slow down a bit. Him and old Sofa had been childhood sweethearts. I stopped listening so close. Drifted back to the problem of Enid and the painting. Been together more than twenty years. Pass the sick bucket. He was better off without her, I said. Bound to have grown apart, weren’t they, seeing as he’d been in England the last five years? There’d been a problem page letter about something similar. Who’d want to be married to a big fat woman who never got off her backside, anyway? Who looked down on him. Who didn’t appreciate how hard he worked. Or how patient he was. Or how good he was at protecting you in crowds and traffic. Another thing I didn’t say was that there were plenty more fish in the sea.

  ‘Is end to old life,’ TJ said, still glum, slouching. I made him stop so we could have a proper look over the Thames. All that water stretching ahead. All those new buildings going up. Great tall things, funny shapes, windows catching the light. They made me feel small but in a good way. Like all my worries – taking the painting, if Alastair would be OK with me – were small as well. Like, not important.

  TJ must have felt the same, even though he was over six foot, because he cheered up a bit. Stood up straighter and took my elbow in the crowds.

  We caught a number 59 bus to King’s Cross from Waterloo. TJ’s suggestion. He was interested in trains, don’t ask me why, and, apparently, that was a good place to see them. Waterloo was swarming with them, but he’d seen those already. With old Sofa giving him gip, I hadn’t got the heart to say no.

  TJ pointed out sights like the British Museum from t
he bus. He was like one of them tourist guides. My own private one.

  We sat on a stone bench in a big square at King’s Cross. TJ got a flask of tea out his rucksack and a packet of Polish biscuits. He’d remembered to pack us a snack in spite of Sofa giving him the runaround. We sat by a sort of square concrete pond and drank his tea. Had a fag, after. Looked at the kids splashing about. Last chance they’d get, probably, before winter. TJ talked about his kids, when they were small. How he missed them snuggling up, now they were older. How he hadn’t been able to give them stuff, like laptops, until he came over here.

  I ground out my fag. Imagined it was Sofa’s throat. Why had TJ had to do that, do four jobs? Why hadn’t she coughed up for stuff, seeing as she was working? I didn’t say any of that, just listened to him going on about his kids. Then I thought, if TJ hadn’t come over here, I’d never have met him.

  It was a relief when we got into King’s Cross station and he started talking about trains. ‘Is one of most famous stations in world. Home of Harry Potter.’

  Well, obviously I hadn’t read any of the books, but I’d seen a couple of the films on TV Christmas-times.

  There was a crowd waiting to go on a tour at Platform 9 ¾. Hordes of kids but adults as well. Didn’t they know it was made up? TJ couldn’t afford the tour. He mooched around for a bit. Not much for me to see, not without paying. Even a wee cost thirty pence. When I got back from the ladies he was looking at the proper trains. Didn’t have a ticket so he couldn’t get beyond the barrier. He chatted to a guard. Nodded, smiled. Probably discussing engine sizes, speeds and that. I peered over a barrier in case I was missing something. I wasn’t. It was just the front of the ruddy trains. And they were covered in dead squashed flies. I mean, is that interesting? I folded my arms and looked around. At people and what they was wearing and that, not at the trains.