Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  I went back to the library, on my own, when TJ was working. Spun the Quick Reads stand round to look at the covers. Thought which one I’d get out next. Onwards and upwards. On the way out I picked up a leaflet about evening classes. English and Maths. I needed to learn stuff properly. After lousie, no one was never going to make a fool of me again. That’s another upwards thing.

  It’s half past eight in the morning. TJ’s borrowed Pavel’s car to move the last of my stuff. Not that I’ve got much, but I’ve had to buy another holdall for all my Woman’s Worlds, my dictionary, library books, all that.

  If things go OK and I don’t mess up in the kitchen, Pavel will let Aud move in, surely? She’s a small cat. Been used to not having much. Plenty of food scraps in a restaurant. With her name and her airs and graces she’d add a bit of class, if you ask me.

  I stop myself. Don’t count your chickens, Maggsie. One day at a time.

  I’ll have to get used to sharing with a man. TJ. A man who’s stopped smoking. Who won’t hardly be there because of his other jobs. A man who reads long books and big old Sunday newspapers. Seizes opportunities left, right and centre. Who’s going to train to be a teacher one day. A man who needs help understanding English slang. Needs listening to, looking out for sometimes. Specially when his wife has a go at him. She’d asked him for money when he went over at Christmas. Ruddy cheek. What about the poxy chemistry teacher’s wages? She’d just have to cut down a bit, wouldn’t she? Eat less.

  But you can’t have everything in this life.

  I smooth down my hair. I’ve grown out a couple of inches of the black now. Looking at me you’d almost think I was a brunette. I run my tongue over my teeth. TJ’s made an appointment for me to meet his dentist mate. Just meet. I’m not going to commit myself. You see he is nice man. Then you feel better lying in chair. I could use some of my Scanda money, the lump sum, to pay for my treatment. Fund myself without cleaning. I’ll be working in the restaurant Friday nights and Saturdays. (No way am I going to take on a third job. I’m not TJ.) I swallow. Blimey, I’m going so far on and up I’m going to end up in outer space.

  I can see TJ outside now. He’s wearing a hat. Why is he poncing about in one of those? It’s one of those hats you see in black and white films. With a brim. It’s tipped to the side. He bends down to stroke Audrey. Then he looks up and sees me at the window. Something in my belly, heart, liver, some part of my innards, anyway, turns over.

  He’ll carry my holdalls to the car. Hold my elbow and guide me across. Even though I’m perfectly capable of crossing a road. Eight thirty on a Sunday morning. He’s driven halfway across London. Worked in the restaurant the night before.

  I go downstairs, a holdall in each hand. The girls are in the kitchen. Amazing they’re all up. Only Trudie dressed, but still. Quiet for them. Hugs all round. I show Trudie the row of pilchard tins I’ve got in for Audrey. Fifteen should see her through till I’ve persuaded Pavel. Aud’s just come in from out the front. I scratch the top of her head and she makes her prook noise. I don’t hang about. Don’t do to weaken.

  He’s a bit of alright, Maggs.

  Be good, and if you can’t be good, be careful.

  Bye, Maggs.

  Good luck, girl.

  This is the last time I have anything to do with supported housing, probation officers, prison. When TJ said, You should be proud. Your son would be proud, I’d felt all the bad stuff – thicko, and worse – floating away. Backwards and downwards. Him and Enid and Ruby, even that young doc, seeing the good bits inside me, not the rubbish, made them real.

  It’s like I’ve been through the dishwasher at work. Like I’ve come out the other side scrubbed clean and pure and shiny.

  I close the front door behind me and walk towards the car. TJ’s waiting.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my agent Juliet Mushens for her energy, hard work and for the incisive suggestions that transformed this book. To my editor, Sam Humphreys, for her encouragement, tact and kindness, to desk editor Natalie Young, to Amber Burlinson for her sharp-eyed copy-editing, and to all at Mantle books.

  Thanks to Dave, who gave me access to his library and guidance on Hammershøi, and who suppressed his horror to discuss how you would slash a painting out of its frame.

  Thanks to Tamasin Perkins for her expert legal advice – any mistakes my own.

  Thanks again to Eileen, Monique and Celia for getting me started and to Jenny E for opening the door.

  And thanks to Ed for his patience, support and for all the many cups of tea.

  Unfortunately, the 3.33 train from Dorchester South to Waterloo is imaginary.

  Also by Frances Maynard

  THE SEVEN IMPERFECT RULES OF ELVIRA CARR

  First published 2019 by Mantle

  This electronic edition first published 2019 by Mantle

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5290-1416-7

  Copyright © Frances Maynard 2019

  Cover design by Mel Four / Pan Macmillan Art Department.

  Photographs © Shutterstock.

  The right of Frances Maynard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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