Now to get out. I pushed past the dog, still hunting crumbs on the carpet. Crept down to the first floor. Paused. Silence, only a faint whimper from the dog at the top of the stairs. I heard it retch. That would be the peppery sauce hitting the back of its throat. Best to go out the same way I’d come in, via the drainpipe. The ‘old family retainer’ had probably dozed off in front of the TV. Probably exhausted by all the work lousie’s family made her do. Bet they kept her chained up.
I threw the last sandwich up to the dog and headed for the bathroom. Slung on my rucksack and pushed open the window, far as it would go. Climbed out onto the sill. My fingers scrabbled on the bricks. The surface took a bit of skin off.
I crouched, clung to the window frame. Couldn’t see much in the dark. No spare hand for my phone. Eased my legs off. They swung free for a second, like I was a ruddy trapeze artist. Then one foot banged against the drainpipe.
I shifted my grip along. Got one arm around it. Then both. Slid down in a rush. Landed in a heap at the bottom. Took too much weight on one ankle. Nice to have my feet on the ground, though. Nice to have the painting. Rescuing it was putting things right and getting one over on lousie. Didn’t even mind the bits of me throbbing. They were war wounds. I dusted off my hands and headed for the empty car park and the road. The Woman Reading banged against my chest each step I took like she wanted to get out.
Midnight now. No one around. The air was cold and damp, fresh-smelling. You could see the stars really clear as well, because there were hardly any lights.
I remembered there’d been road signs in the village. DORCHESTER: HISTORIC COUNTY TOWN, one said. (See, eighteen months ago, inside, I wouldn’t have been able to read that. I’d have been completely lost.)
The cop had told me Dorchester had a train station. I could get a train back to London. Didn’t know how late they ran. Might have to hang about. If the police caught up with me I’d have some explaining to do. They’d never believe I was taking the painting back. I’d only missed a day at work, so far. Didn’t want it to be any more. Hang on. I’d probably already lost my job even though I’d risked my life saving the painting.
A painting you stole, I heard someone who tried to keep me on the straight and narrow say. How could you have been so stupid? My sister, Nella, putting her oar in.
Another long walk. No cars, so I could walk in the road. Easier than wading through brambles and long grass. No light, though. I couldn’t use my phone too much because of the battery going. I saw a couple of foxes, chasing each other. Gave me a fright hearing them crashing about. I imagined it was the old retainer coming after me, or, worse, whatever had been behind the curtains of the four-poster bed. An owl swooped overhead like a police helicopter. Made me jump, that did, but it didn’t matter because there was no one around to see me do it.
Another olde-worlde village. Grey stone houses huddled together, a village pond with ducks. Heads under their wings. Curled up like Audrey. Even the pub had a thatched roof.
I was tired. Must have walked near on ten miles in all. I’d been in a crash, been in a police station, been thieving – sort of – in a stately home. Been in the country. Hadn’t slept. Hadn’t hardly slept for days before. Blimey, how much more can you pack in, Maggsie, I asked myself. I flicked out my hair like I’d seen lousie do, only mine was under an imaginary Wonder Woman headband.
DORCHESTER ½ MILE, a sign said. Thank God for that. Then I’d have to find the station. Avoid the police, avoid anyone asking awkward questions and avoid anyone staring at my rigid chest. Lucky I had all those T-shirts on. I’d have to get on the right train. Have to buy a ticket, now I was back on the straight and narrow. I still had most of the money I’d taken with me yesterday morning. It felt like weeks ago.
Dorchester wasn’t as big as it made itself out to be. Old-fashioned place. No skyscrapers. Some of the shops looked like they’d been there hundreds of years. Bristling with museums. I peered in at one, marching past. Not free, though, not like in London.
Found a signpost on the next corner. Spotted the railway logo. Two train stations, though! Only a little place, but with ideas above its station. Hah! Funny I was cracking jokes when I was on the run. It was because I was on the run back. Not that the police would see the difference.
44
Woman’s World, 5 December 2018
The Romance of the Train!
Dithering over the two stations pulled me up. Made me doubt myself for a minute. I had done the right thing, hadn’t I, getting the painting back? The right thing, but the wrong way, I could hear Ruby saying. I wasn’t going to stand there and listen to her.
South then. Dorchester South.
TRAINS TO LONDON THIS SIDE. Phew, I’d been right then. Saved me a bit of walking. I was getting so tired I couldn’t hardly put one foot in front of the other.
Never thought I’d be relieved to see the word London. That it would give me a thrill, even.
I was glad no one was around. Till I realized it was because there were no ruddy trains. The lit-up sign said the next one wasn’t until 3:33. No drinks machine neither. I would have killed for a hot, sweet tea. Would have been almost better than a Stella. Nowhere to buy a ticket. There was a widdling little machine but if you think I was going to faff about pressing buttons, trying to select poxy options late at night, you’re more stupid than I am. There was a windswept sort of shelter. I lay on a bench for some shut-eye. Too ruddy cold, though, plus I didn’t want to be out of it when the train came. I huddled up, sitting, and dozed, my chin resting on the Woman Reading tucked inside my T-shirts.
I was the only one getting on the train. The guard was red-faced and chubby. Cheerful. Too cheerful. Said he’d been up since two a.m. and how it was the best time of the day. Only if you were an owl.
When he said how much a ticket to London cost, I nearly passed out. ‘Child’s ticket?’ he’d asked first and I wished I’d nodded, instead of giving him a frosty stare. ‘Peak time, see,’ the guard said, when I gaped at him. How can minging three thirty a.m. be peak time? Not exactly rush hour, is it? But he meant the time we got into Waterloo. Even six thirty is rush hour in London, seeing as people go to work all hours of the day or night. So bang went half my savings. But not buying a ticket was a kind of stealing. And I’d stopped all that. Alastair wouldn’t want a fare-dodger for a mum.
A jolt of electric went through me hearing Waterloo. Brought home I’d be facing a lot of angry people back in London.
I had a good wash in the toilet. Not much room and the hot-air dryer hardly worked. But nice to have no one queuing outside. Three of us squabbling over the upstairs bathroom back at the house sometimes. Kasia spent hours shaving her legs and God knows what else in there. I pushed away the thought that I might never use that bathroom again.
I propped the Woman Reading on the floor and put on fresh clothes. Best chance I’d had of taking off the extra pair of jeans. I looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. I had, more or less, but at least it had been me doing the dragging. I cleaned my teeth. Combed my hair. It didn’t look too bad, considering I’d been in a crash and up and down a drainpipe. Kasia had done a good job there. My ginger roots were only just showing through. Another packet of brown dye to fork out on. I fastened the lady back into my jacket and went back to the carriage. Lay down on a row of three seats. I took my shoes off first, so I could curl up. Reckon you can only sleep proper on a train if you’re small.
The train took its time. Seemed to stop at every station in Britain. When I woke up it was five fourteen on my phone. Still dark outside. I didn’t know where I was. There were other people in the carriage now. I could hear papers rustling, someone chatting on their mobile.
I was stiff all over, especially my right ankle where I’d slid down the drainpipe too sudden. The top of my chest was sore from where the Woman Reading’s frame had rubbed. Like lousie’s pa was getting his revenge. I sat up and stretched; well, as much as you could when you’ve got a half-million-pound paintin
g down your jacket.
I peered around the seat. All the rest were full now. People with earphones, reading papers, frowning at laptops. They’d given me a wide berth. Maybe they’d thought I was a tramp because I was sleeping on a train. Showed how much they knew. I had a job and a home. At least, I hoped I did.
A voice came over the tannoy. The next station was Winchester. There was a map of the train route by the window. I could read it OK. That was one of the best things, maybe the best thing, that had ever happened to me, being able to read. Win-chester, I found on the route map, like Dor-chester.
I texted TJ. Just to let him know I was still alive. He was a worrier. And too late now for him to stop me doing bad thing. I said I was on the train ‘with her’. Hoped he’d realize I meant the painting.
I hauled up my rucksack and headed for the toilet again. Had to wait this time. Smartly dressed people staring. I smoothed down my hair. Stared back.
Hard to keep my balance, putting on eyebrow pencil and mascara. So much for people thinking I was a tramp. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Nan used to say when she gave us sugar sandwiches Sunday teatimes. I’d never been a beggar but I’d come close. Used to think I’d end up as one, seeing as I was too thick to do anything else. There was a thump on the door. Cheek. I gave the door-thumper, a woman in a suit jacket and too much lipstick, a frosty stare when I came out.
No more texts from TJ. He’d probably lost interest. If he’d snitched, the police might be waiting for me at Scanda. I might be walking straight into their arms. Might not even get past Reception. Might get locked up. Nah, my imagination was going into overdrive. Not enough sleep. Not as if lousie and her pa could press charges, was it? But Scanda could. I mean, I had stolen Woman Reading. Giving it back might not change that.
I went round and round like that for ages. In the end I was so tired I dozed off.
I woke up near London. Knew we were near there because of all the high-rises, lit up. Began to feel jittery.
Hordes at Waterloo. Worse than Sundays. I got through the ticket barrier without being crushed. Looked around for the tube sign.
‘Maggsie!’ I heard. ‘I am here.’
I stopped. Looked up, heart pounding, heat rising in my face. A bearded man behind, with a briefcase, didn’t stop when I did. Carried on striding. Practically pushed me into TJ’s arms.
His eyes were so screwed up with smiling, you couldn’t hardly see them. His fair eyelashes were damp. Always been too soft for his own good. Good job he was a law-abiding citizen. Wouldn’t last five minutes banged up.
He took my hands. Pumped them up and down. That was the kind of thing that showed he was foreign. The kind of thing that made people look at him. That and his height. And his shoes.
‘What you doing here, TJ? How did you know what train I’d be on?’
He shouldered my rucksack and took my elbow through the crowd. It was a relief when he took it. And not just through having nothing to carry. Amazing he wasn’t angry. Amazing he was here.
‘I google timetable. Work out time from Winchester.’ He looked down at me, his eyes creasing into grooves, like the ones Primrose forked onto her shepherd’s pies. ‘We go back to Scanda together, yes?’
‘Yeah.’ What would Scanda do with me? I saw them all in Reception, waiting: the HR woman; Mike and Darren, the security officers; Mr H, in his jeans. None of them smiling and clapping. A police car lurking outside.
We had an hour before we needed to leave. It was still only six thirty, for Heaven’s sake. Good of TJ to get up so early. Good of him to come. ‘We’ve got time for a cuppa first, ain’t we, TJ? I’ve been dying for one all night.’
We had one upstairs near Waterloo East where TJ got his Lewisham train from. A bit quieter up there. Nice to look at all the people dashing about and not be down there with them. TJ had brought me some fags even though he’d given up smoking. I couldn’t smoke here, but I turned the packet over and over in my pocket. Tapped my rigid chest to check the Woman Reading was still OK. It – she – gave off a hollow sound.
When I hadn’t turned up for work yesterday, TJ had told them I was out of sorts. Which was true. He hadn’t told them anything else, not about the painting or me going off to hunt someone down. He was too dizzy, he said. Dazed, I think he meant, only I was too tired to correct him. He hadn’t understood all my note. And I’d spent ages over it, trying to word it right. My handwriting wasn’t that bad. ‘But I trust you to sort things out. Only I worry because you not answer texts.’
I nearly told him I was busy roaming the wilds of Dorset. Recovering from an accident. But, like I said, he was a worrier. He didn’t have to know all the details. And, blimey, he’d trusted me to sort things out. He was the first, then.
Just as well we did have an hour. I poured everything else out. It was the lack of sleep. Plus still being in shock from the accident, plus months of reading and writing agony letters, where people poured out stuff all the time. In the end, well, before the end, TJ had to go off and buy us another cuppa, my throat got so dry talking. I told him everything. Even about prison. Even about Alastair. I wanted him to know everything. First time in my life I wanted to tell someone something I was ashamed of.
He didn’t say much. Nodded. Touched my hand a couple of times. Blinked when it came to me trying to stay a year on the straight and narrow for Alastair. He’d just thought I wanted to get on in life. He sat there with his tea. Didn’t walk away or nothing.
He was amazed I’d taken the Woman Reading without him even noticing. Amazed she’d spent nearly three hours in a big old serving dish at the top of our store cupboard. He slapped his thigh. Even more amazed I’d stolen it back. He hadn’t understood my text from the train either. What was it with him? He’d thought with her meant I was sharing my train seat with that skanky rat-arse lousie. I’d rather wrestle a pig than go anywhere with her. Made my skin crawl the painting still linking us together. And that I was going back to a rollicking, and she was going to get off scot-free. Only her pa that was going to be pissed off with her.
‘You climb up drainpipe?’ TJ’s eyes were like saucers.
‘Yeah. And down.’
He shook his head. ‘I would not have courage.’
I took a nice deep breath in; my chest, behind the painting, puffing up. No need to tell him my original plan had been to kill lousie. That I still had Juice’s vegetable knife tucked down my sock. Next to the bandage. Nice being Wonder Woman again. Even if it was only for an hour. Weird he saw that in me even after I’d told him about prison and giving up Alastair.
He reached over and took my hand.
There was something else to tell him. ‘TJ, if I lose my job at Scanda . . .’
He nodded. ‘My friend Pavel give job at restaurant. I have already told hard worker.’
‘Yeah. Thanks. Thing is . . .’ TJ didn’t know I had a problem with drink. He was dead against alcohol because of his dad. Pity it hadn’t affected me the same way. ‘I’ve got a weakness, TJ. I don’t want to work with booze.’
Even that didn’t put him off. ‘But restaurant not have licence. Is no booze.’ He spread out his free arm, nearly knocking over his cup.
‘Yeah?’ I took another swig of tea. Hours since that cuppa in the police station. ‘Don’t know if I’d be up to it, though, TJ. Scanda’s the first job I’ve had.’
‘You will be fine. You hard worker. Quick.’ He still had hold of my hand.
My eyes were sore and tired. Made it hard to look at him. ‘I been reckless, TJ. Gullible. This year thing hasn’t gone to plan. Don’t even know about contacting my son now. Don’t know if I’m good enough.’
TJ didn’t let go of my hand. ‘You have had hard life, Maggsie. But now you do well. More important is you try to do things. You should be proud. Your son would be proud. The year does not matter.’
I had to fumble for a tissue so my mascara didn’t run before I faced them at Scanda. Like I already told you, TJ was too soft for his own good. Just as well he got
someone like me to look out for him.
My old headmaster had told me I’d never amount to anything. But TJ said as long as you tried to do stuff, kept trying, you were OK. On your way to being something. It was like he’d undone a curse.
He looked at his watch. ‘Is nearly seven thirty. We go now to Scanda? I will be with.’
‘With you. I mean, with me.’ My insides turned over. I stood up. ‘Got to pay a visit first.’
That was thirty pence like at King’s Cross. I was running through my savings. Lucky I had my Oyster card. I half expected TJ to have done a runner, after the things I’d told him, but no, there he was, outside the toilet, smiling. Waiting for an ex-con, ex-alkie, with a stolen painting down her T-shirt, and smiling.
45
Woman’s World, 5 December 2018
Here’s How to Move Forward!
Coming up the tube steps near Scanda I had the same nerves as on my first day. Only now it was because I had a half-million-pound painting down my top.
Say if Mr H got the police involved when he’d heard the whole story? Wanted me punished for damaging his painting, abusing his trust? Even though I was bringing it back. Even though I’d rescued it. Risked my life.
TJ kept looking down at me. I was still there. He didn’t have to keep checking.
‘I wish I could do for you. Stand in shoes.’
I nearly fainted with shock when the blonde receptionist gave us a friendly smile. Never seen it before. Then I saw the grin on TJ’s big round face. He was always smiling. That was the trouble. I drew myself up straight – having a chest like a ramrod helped – and jabbed him with my elbow. No time for socializing.
He went with me as far as the stairs. Then I went up the five flights on my own. Walking up I thought about my first day at Scanda. Finding Jack. How he’d sort of started things off. Then it had been the calendar. Later, that reference from Primrose. Audrey. My practice letters. All that could still go for a burton.
Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance Page 24