Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  I’d learnt more than just useful words, reading all those problem pages. They’d got me thinking different. Nella was a pain, yeah, but she hadn’t had it easy neither. Not when she was young, anyway. She was the oldest girl, see, so she got landed with things. It was always Nella who’d had to take over when Mum was out with a bloke or wrapped up in one at home. There’d been other men, besides Dad and Dougie. Fly-by-nights, who didn’t stick around.

  And when they didn’t, Mum got low. Reckon that was why she let Dougie and Dad get away with murder. She’d take to her bed, and Nella would have to go to the chippy. Stretch out the little bit of cash left in Mum’s purse. Take cups of tea up to her like she was an invalid. I slopped the tea in the saucer or scalded my hand, so it was mostly Nella that did it.

  I thought about all that but I didn’t know how to write it. At the end of the letter I said, perhaps we could meet up for a coffee in Greenwich sometime? Like I hung out there all the time. I put love from and xxx at the end because she was my sister.

  47

  Woman’s World, 9 January 2019

  Start Here to Nurture Your Dreams!

  I finished the calendar. A whole year of ticks. It was scruffy now with the furniture pictures at the top torn off and all the pages worn and creased. I put it away in my holdall anyway because it was still a record. A good one.

  Now I’d done the year I could contact Alastair. I’d bought a new notepad from the Co-op. Had a first-class stamp stuck on an envelope ready. I’d copied out the adoption agency’s address. I was all set. Only a jolt of electric seemed to go through me each time I picked up the pen. Almost as if I was nervous about it.

  ‘Giving up your baby’s for the best,’ them in charge had said. Like I’d had nothing to give Alastair. Like I wasn’t good enough to be his mum. A horrible feeling. One that stayed with you. One that added to the aching hole without him. ‘Now you’ll have a chance to make something of your life,’ was another thing they’d said. Like, soon as I was shot of Alastair, I’d be buzzing off to university, or to a job on TV or something. When all I’d made of my life after was a mess.

  Sometimes I thought, if I’d been able to keep him, I’d have pulled my socks up. Bettered myself. Tried to get some education. I’d have read him little books. Made him clean his teeth three times a day. Wouldn’t have wanted him to have the struggles I did.

  I put my pen down. There’d been some chat in the kitchen yesterday. About New Year’s resolutions. ‘Most things don’t come out right first time,’ Ruby had said. She meant giving up smoking, but you could say it about a lot of things. Everything, really. My life certainly hadn’t.

  My resolution, of course, was to contact Alastair. I mean, that’s what this whole year had been about.

  ‘But that’s about you, isn’t it?’ said Big Shirl. ‘What you want. It’s Alastair this, Alastair that, Alastair wouldn’t want me to . . . when you don’t even know him.’

  Big Shirl liked keeping people in line. It was what she’d done managing a brothel. Only that had involved whips. As for going on about Alastair – well, she never stopped talking about Jordan. How well he was doing with his fishing magazines. (My idea, in case she’d forgotten.) How he’d learnt what bait different types of fish liked. How he was actually fishing now. On and on. Ruddy boring. I saw poor little Jordan crouched over a seedy canal somewhere. Somewhere where he could get away from Big Shirl. Dangling a fishing rod and his pink nose going when he felt something on the line. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, putting the kettle down firmly. ‘What is wrong with bettering myself for my son?’

  ‘Good to better yourself, yeah, Maggs. Not a baby now, though, is he? He’s a grown man, practically. You tracking him down sounds a bit heavy to me. Two-handkerchief sort of job. TV show.’

  ‘It is like he is adult. And you are child,’ put in Kasia. She was munching a slice of her dark bread. Same colour as my hair was now. Smelt like the yogurt Ruby was so keen on. She’d just come in from cleaning for the lady who worked in the Co-op. Kept looking at her nails and frowning.

  My shoulders were hunched, heart thumping. I breathed o-u-t. They’re not deliberately riling me, I told myself.

  ‘Bit of a burden for him, if you ask me.’ Big Shirl slathered some of her healthy spread on two slices of Hovis toast. Then spoilt it by covering it with strawberry jam. She looked up. ‘Must be difficult, Maggs. Difficult decision to make. I’m not saying it isn’t.’

  If you ask me, Big Shirl didn’t have enough to do. That was why she was always ready to sort other people out. She only had another couple of months to go here. Then she was off to a job as relief manageress of a bar in Soho. Cackled each time she said the word relief. Looking forward to it so long as she could sit down. Dispensing advice to lonely men over the counter. Good luck to them, I say.

  Ruby stirred her organic teabag round her mug. She’d won it coming 160th in her triathlon. I’d thought she was joking, but no, she said there were over five hundred competing and it was an achievement. Stirred other stuff up as well as her teabag. Put her fourpenny-worth in. ‘Sounds like you want him to forgive you. But you were fifteen, Maggsie. A child. You couldn’t keep him. He’s not going to blame you. He probably would be proud of what you’ve achieved. But that’s not the point. You should be proud of yourself. How you’ve turned your life around.’ A bit like what TJ had said. Why did everyone have to have an opinion on me? And ruddy give it?

  ‘But I’ve done all that for Alastair.’ She didn’t get it. None of them did. It was the thought of seeing him that had kept me focused this past year!

  ‘And that’s great. But now keep going for yourself.’

  ‘You saying I shouldn’t never see him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m just saying don’t rush things. You don’t know anything about his life now. How his adoptive parents are going to feel, for a start—’

  ‘But they’ve had him to theirselves all this time.’

  ‘Exactly. It could be a minefield.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve always said,’ put in Juice. Alright, alright.

  I gave a long breath out. It was a sigh, really. Saw Snappy, upstairs in my holdall, open one eye and close it again.

  Ruby got out her soya milk. It had never seen a cow. Bet she only drank it because of Will. A lot of writing on the carton. Which I didn’t fancy reading. ‘Why not write that letter to the adoption agency? Once you’ve sent in your details the rest will be up to him.’

  ‘Then is about him, not you.’ Kasia adjusted her sparkly top. She’d probably had to wear an overall earlier. And maybe even an apron over that.

  ‘You look after number one.’ Big Shirl chewed her toast.

  Juice blinked at me. ‘You deserve a good life, Maggsie.’

  They all nodded. Even Trudie, coming in from her volunteering. Ruby had sorted that for her. Got her into a cat charity shop, selling bric-a-brac in aid of cats. Made for her. Now they’d offered her a trial in a cat adoption centre, stroking cats. Socializing them, they called it. That was going to make her think she was even more of an expert. I could see it coming. But I wouldn’t be here to see it. I’d be moving into TJ’s flat. Just as ruddy well.

  I put some bread in the toaster. I’d only be standing there scowling at the lot of them otherwise. Took it upstairs. Ate it looking out of the window. Funny not having a calendar to tick. Usually the high spot of my day, doing that. Bit scary not having a focus. Scary not having Alastair to aim for.

  Maybe they were right. Hard to admit it. Hard to do stuff just for yourself. I leant against the glass. I could just see the tree in next door’s garden. The one that had been Audrey’s downfall. Only it hadn’t, thanks to me. It was still green. Nice to see a bit of green in London. I’d see more of it in Lewisham, with it being near Greenwich.

  I wrote to Alastair – well, the adoption agency – later on that evening, when the house was quiet. It had to be perfect even though he might never see the letter.

  I am writing to you because
I want to trace my son. His name is [. . . is or was, I wondered] Alastair McNaughton. He was born on 22 June 2000 at Chesterbrooke Hospital, Nottingham. He is eighteen now. He was adopted. I would be grateful if you could add my details to his file. Ruby had wrote that last bit out for me to copy.

  I gave the restaurant’s address. Didn’t want the adoption agency to know I was in supported housing. Exactly the impression I didn’t want to give. Anyway, in two weeks’ time I wouldn’t be.

  I signed the letter with my full name: Marguerite McNaughton. First time I’d done that. Don’t laugh but I showed it to Audrey. I was dead proud I’d written it straight out. She had her paws folded underneath. She looked at it, eyes half closed, gave it a sniff and then turned away like she was going to vomit. It did look a bit stark, just my name and address. Maybe I could add one sentence. Something personal. I’d ask TJ.

  ‘Write something like what you have told me.’

  ‘I won’t be able to spell what I want to say.’

  ‘You have go. Then we look at together.’

  I only had you for thirty-six hours and three minutes but I loved you for every second of them, I wrote, with TJ checking the spelling. So between us we got it right.

  Ruby called me into her office Saturday morning. Uh-oh. But it was to signpost me to future goals, a bit like she’d done with Trudie. (I wasn’t sure if Ruby had fixed up that Soho bar job for Big Shirl. It was more the sort of thing you’d find for yourself. If you were an in-charge sort of person. With Shirl’s background.)

  I’d done something along the same lines myself, I supposed. Or TJ had. And I’d done something for Kasia. Unofficial, obviously. Someone in the canteen, a girl, had asked TJ to ask me where I’d got my hair cut. I’d peered at her through the swing doors. One of those big glasses, slash of red lipstick, types.

  I passed on her number to Kasia. She’d been rubbing hand cream in from a tube in her bag. Perked up straight away. She went round to the Scanda girl’s flat to cut her hair. Then she told her friend and Kasia got some regular clients. The right sort of clients.

  ‘What about some proper classes for you now, Maggsie?’ Ruby asked. ‘An English qualification? Not like school these days.’

  Go to college. Like TJ. He’d always said his classes were OK. Other people there with dyslexia. Chubby Sandra with her personal spelling dictionary, I remembered.

  ‘Possibly.’ I wasn’t going to commit myself. My heart had started going just at the word English.

  ‘And, maybe, after that’ – Ruby leant forwards. I could see the little damp curls of hair around her face, from where she’d been sweating, cycling – ‘some training? You enjoy reading the beauty pages, don’t you? In your women’s magazines?’

  ‘Woman’s World.’ It wasn’t any old magazine. It was what Enid had taught me to read with. I was going to read it for the rest of my life. ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘Well, is that something you’ve ever thought of pursuing?’

  I pointed to my chest. ‘Me? You having a laugh?’ I wanted to look behind me, like I had that first day at Scanda when they’d clapped me. There’d be a willowy blonde with flashing teeth, towering behind me. Probably making a rude gesture. I almost turned round to tell her to piss off.

  ‘Why not you? You’ve got an interest.’ Ruby tilted her head, looking at me. She had beady eyes, like a bird’s, that didn’t miss nothing. ‘You’re bright, you work hard, you’re willing to learn.’

  I wasn’t exactly an advert for beauty treatments. I reminded her about my sub-standard teeth, in case she hadn’t noticed, my smoking. Plus I was an ex-con and an ex-alcoholic (if you ever could be an ex-alcoholic). And then there was my dyslexia.

  But beauty therapist.

  This is my birth mum. She’s a beauty therapist, I heard Alastair say.

  My youngest daughter, Mum chipped in, primping her Titian hair. She’s a beauty therapist. Yes, up in London, you know.

  This is my good English friend. She is beauty therapist.

  A beauty therapist.

  What nail varnish would you recommend, Maggsie? (That was Nella.)

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I muttered. ‘Anyway, I can’t do exams.’ I had a horrible flashback to school. Sitting there, like I’d been beamed down from another planet, with all the other kids writing as fast as they could.

  Ruby said I’d get extra time because of my dyslexia. Help with reading the questions. ‘You’re a bright girl,’ she said. ‘You’ll be fine.’ She said I was bright because of my dyslexia. It had made me more intelligent because I’d had to problem-solve.

  I wasn’t so sure. But, bright. Second time she’d said it. Intelligent. Blimey.

  ‘Better at keeping your cool now, too.’ Ruby brushed some hair out of her eyes. A bit of wax would separate those curls nicely, I thought. There’d been a bit in Woman’s World on curl management. ‘I should think you’d need anger strategies for beauty therapy!’ Her earrings swayed when she smiled. ‘Lose your temper with a client and you wouldn’t have any left.’

  I imagined throwing melted wax at someone stretched out on a couch. Someone who’d just said, ‘Hey, Shorty, you’re doing that all wrong.’ Swallowed. No. That was going to be tricky. But beauty therapist, I thought. A little white coat with my name on the pocket.

  A beauty therapist would be like Wonder Woman. They both put things right.

  48

  Woman’s World, 9 January 2019

  A New Life in Our Dream Home!

  Today’s the day I move the last of my stuff to the flat above Pavel’s restaurant. He’s cleared out the storeroom. TJ’s put in two rows of coat hooks. Hung up proper heavy curtains with stripes and flowers on. Got them from a charity shop. Found a futon from somewhere. (I had to look up the word. A poncy foreign word for a poncy foreign mattress.)

  I went over there last weekend. Saw the yard at the back. The bins are out there and a few things growing in pots. It’s where I’ll have to go to smoke. Wouldn’t you know it? Next to a dustbin like always.

  I’ve hung up the new calendar Enid sent me. Cats. Loads of them. Kittens on every page: in baskets, scrabbling up trees, sleeping in slippers. Ah, love them, the pretty dears, I can hear her saying. I’m not going to tick off the days this year. I don’t need to.

  I’ve re-organized the bits of furniture. Good at seeing the big picture, see. Blu-Tacked Enid’s postcards from Romania on the wall above a little rickety table that’ll do as a desk. I wasn’t copying lousie. Mine are real postcards. Ones that have actually been posted. With stamps. From a friend. A real friend. Enid. Lousie didn’t have any of those. Never likely to either, the way she carries on.

  The cops had found loads of dodgy stuff down in stately old Foxholes. Stashed on the second floor where the public weren’t allowed. Paintings that had been reported missing. Some of them from years and years ago. Lousie’s this-is-outrageous pa had been charged with theft and harbouring stolen goods. Lousie with being an accessory. Both of them were awaiting trial.

  Even the crockery in the café where they served cream teas in the summer had been stolen from a posh hotel somewhere. Yeah, her getting me to take the Woman Reading had opened a whole can of worms for Lousie.

  Satisfying, that.

  The only fly in the ointment now is leaving Audrey behind. TJ’s not sure if Pavel will allow a cat. I’m going to work on him. I’ve moved in Aud’s beanbag already. Meanwhile Audrey’s fine staying here at the house, Ruby says. She’s planning on making her a new bed out of a crisp box that’s got a round hole in the front. Just right for a cat, she says. Don’t know about that. Sounds cramped. And there’s always the worry that Will might get Ruby to stop Aud’s pilchards. Put her on tofu or some such.

  TJ took me to Lewisham Library, end of last year. It’s only five minutes from the flat. I’d never been to a library before. It looked a bit like a Job Centre, only stuffed with books. There were two floors of them and miles and miles of shelves. Took your breath away, looking at them. All tho
se words.

  I had to fill in a form to join, wouldn’t you believe it. Anyway, I did it – TJ only helped with ethnic origin – and signed my name at the bottom. Marguerite McNaughton.

  TJ had started on another of his big books. Four hundred and seventy-six pages. Small print. Gave me the willies just looking at it. ‘But four years ago I begin with Quick Reads. Short books.’ He beckoned. Showed me a stand with paperback books. I’d never read any kind of book before. They scared the shit out of me, after school.

  ‘Quick Reads shorter books but good stories.’ Nothing wrong with being shorter. I picked one up. On the front was a picture of a dead body washed up on a beach. That’ll cheer me up, I thought. Not that it would be a ruddy ‘quick read’ for me. Not with thousands of words inside. A hundred and thirteen pages.

  We’d – well, they’d – read books at school. Round the class. Walkabout, one was called. Funny thing was, I’d liked the story. I’d had a week’s exclusion before they got to the end but, later, I saw the film on TV. Wished I hadn’t in a way because it was sad.

  My hands would be slippery with sweat waiting for my turn to read. Because teachers can do things easy they forget other people can’t. And that’s being, what do you call it? Char-it-able. Soon as I stumbled old Mrs Connell would go, ‘For goodness’ sake, Marguerite! It’s a simple word! A child of six could read it.’ I’d sit there, face burning, words swimming and dancing all over the place. It was throwing the book at her that got me the week’s exclusion.

  Now I’m reading a book at home on my own. Plenty of white space on the pages, thank God. If there’s no white space in a piece of writing I’m done for. Mind you, the first couple of pages took me ages. I kept losing track of what had happened. But some of the words were the same. I kept going. Never thought I’d read a book.