The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 1
CLAIRE McGLASSON
The Misadventures of Margaret Finch
For Dot and G.G.H. – Blackpool sweethearts
All perceiving is also thinking, all reasoning is also intuition, all observation is also invention.
– Rudolf Arnheim
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
Epilogue
Author’s note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by the Author
Copyright
Prologue
He wears a solemn expression: lips parted, as if he intends to bestow some wisdom; his skin so pale where it meets the white crest of his hairline that you cannot see where it begins. Creases mark his suit, fabric pinched on the inside of his elbow, the flash catching the shine of his worn sleeve.
Behind him is a dark wall, papered with chains of vine; beside him, an aspidistra in a tall planter, its waxy leaves reflecting the momentary glare. But it is his collar that glows, like the moon, with borrowed light: a clerical collar which sits thick and starched around his throat.
He wears a solemn expression, and I wonder what thoughts are being shaped on his tongue. For he is looking not at the lens, but at a young woman, who sports the bobbed hairstyle of a starlet: jet black, cut into a blunt line to expose the curve of her neck. Strands fall across her cheek, curling forward into a sharp point just above her jawline. Are her lips parted in reply? Her eyes returning his gaze? It is impossible to see. She stands with her back to the camera, her head turned to his.
He wears a solemn expression. She is naked.
1
Some might swear it is meant to be, that everything preceding it was merely preparation for this time, this place, but Margaret Finch isn’t the type to believe in foolish notions like fate. Still, no one could be more surprised than she to discover that, in both appearance and character, she is perfect for this mission. For the first time in her twenty-five years, being female is a benefit; being plain and wholly forgettable, an advantage. Following the rules comes naturally to her. There are those that she has been given: to watch but not participate, to listen but not engage. Then there are the strategies she has devised herself: a rummage in a modestly sized handbag can give her the appearance of being occupied for upwards of six minutes.
As a woman, she is not above suspicion, rather beneath it; as a woman she can go to places the male observers can’t. Places like Blackpool’s Open Air Baths. Specifically, the ladies’ changing rooms. She suspects the stalls might have the effect of the confessional, that advice may be sought and secrets shared. But she has been put off the idea, for several days, by the thought of undressing or of seeing other people in a state of undress. Never having owned a bathing suit, she carries only the toolkit she was instructed to compile when she was recruited: a notebook and two sharpened pencils; a stopwatch; a packet of cigarettes and a lighter; five boiled sweets; and a hip flask filled with brandy. Offering a smoke/sweet/swig can be used to distract a subject if they should start to suspect they are under scrutiny.
She has only ever studied the lido from a distance, standing at a vantage point on the South Pier, which juts out alongside. The curved face of white stone always puts her in mind of the Coliseum. Today she steps inside, walking under one of the Renaissance arches leading to the centre, imagining that she will find herself in a combat ring, bracing herself for some distasteful spectacle. People crowd the edges of the pool, some watching from a viewing platform which runs the length of the roof, others trying to make themselves comfortable on the tiered seating which rises up to block the horizon of sea meeting sky. So many people. So much flesh on display. Young women stand in knitted bathing suits, adjusting necklines lowered by the weight of saturated wool. Young men wear only belted shorts, standing with their stomachs drawn tight. There are exposed chests, pale and hairy; legs arranged at lengthening angles; biceps tensed to maximum effect. She finds it all too much. Like meat set out in a butcher’s window. The men and women give each other appraising looks. But all she sees is sinew and flesh. Spots of acne, yellowed toenails, skin blistered where it has burnt in the sun, dimples at the tops of thighs. To her the meat looks tainted. On the turn.
Reaching the changing room, she enters through the turnstile. She could hire a bathing suit from the kiosk, but since she has no intention of wearing one, decides to save herself threepence, and hire a towel for a penny instead. It will make her look as though she intends to swim and, if she carries it across her front, will be a good place to hide her notebook. Walking along the rows of changing stalls, she pushes the door of one that appears to be empty.
‘Hang on!’
But it is too late: Margaret has already seen through the gap between the door and frame. The woman inside is bending over, pulling up her underwear.
‘Sorry!’ The cubicle door slams in her face. She moves on and, not wanting to risk making the same mistake again, waits until she sees an older woman emerge fully dressed. Congratulating herself for hiring a towel, Margaret hangs it over the top of the stall door to make it obvious it is occupied, and removes her shoes. There’s a narrow bench, but she decides not to sit: the bottoms of her legs will be visible to anyone walking past and will look odd unless she gives the impression she is changing. Unpacking her bag, she tries to hear the woman on the other side of the partition, who seems to be talking to a friend further along.
‘So quick,’ one says in a lowered voice. ‘Over just like that.’
‘And did he …?’
‘I think so … There were … afterwards …’
‘And did he say anything about …?’
‘No. Only that he hoped nature would take its course. And that it wouldn’t be long before … well …’
The friend goes quiet for a moment then asks: ‘Did he not try to …’
‘No. Like I say, there was only that. The act itself. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to … or …’
It is clear to Margaret that the two women think they are speaking in a code of modesty, but it requires very little intelligence to decipher it. Copying down their words, she writes the act itself = intercourse in the margin of her notebook. Her hunch that she would be able to collect shared confidences has proved correct, though she had not anticipated that they would speak about such intimate matters. Is it because the screens are there to hide their blushes, or is it the removal of clothes that prompts a baring of the soul?
‘It’s all so confusing,’ she hears the first woman whisper. ‘I don’t know what he wants. And it’s not as if you can come right out and ask, is it?’
‘Or come right out and tell him what you want!’
The woman shushes her friend with a laugh, and Margaret wonders what it is they would say if they could. She has overheard plenty of talk from her colleagues about working-class fantasies and patterns of desire. She was warned when she took the job that ‘women like that’ are much more inclined to speak in coarse terms about private matters. But she has not yet collected evidence about the specifics of what they want. As for herself, she has never thought about such things outside her professional role. To invent intimate scenarios would involve her own participation in the imaginary acts – something she has neither the capacity nor inclination to do.
Margaret transcribes every conversation, word for word, continuing to listen as another group of women arrives. Remembering they might see her legs beneath the partition, she takes off her stockings and undresses as far as her slip, grateful that she has chosen to wear a blue floral tea dress with a long line of fabric buttons to keep her occupied. When the neighbouring cubicles welcome new bathers, she makes a show of putting on the dress and stockings again. Her attempts to eavesdrop are thwarted several times by the loud protestations of children. One who (to her mind) seems disproportionately distressed that it is time to leave the swimming pool; two girls (presumably siblings) fighting about who gets to use a shared towel first; and a little boy who is begging his mother to buy him a sword (a word he pronounces with a heavy rather than silent ‘w’). Margaret notes down every detail, next to the exact time, which runs as a ledger in a thin column on the left side of each page.
This cycle of observing, writing, partial dressing and undressing, continues for several hours. It reminds her of the night she took an inventory of men who fed pennies into the Mutoscope peep shows on the pier. They had put their eyes to the viewing window and turned a handle to see a stack of photographs flipping past. The machines had names like ‘What the Butler Saw’, but from what she had seen herself (her diligence required that she look for the sake of her report), the women undressed no further t
These differences fascinate her: the unspoken codes that unify and define. Decipher those and you can identify transgression. In England, people rely on concepts of taste and propriety, ethics and morals, right and wrong. But there are too many variables in the formula: class, religion, education, gender. As concepts they are not consistent. If they were, she wouldn’t be here right now, gathering data.
The curious thing is that some people seem to understand these unwritten rules instinctively. But from her own experience, Margaret knows it is all too easy to get it wrong: to cross a line, expose or shame yourself without realising. And by then it’s too late.
Until she was eight, she thought people meant what they said, and said what they meant. But on the day she was introduced to Mother, she learnt that, very often, they say the opposite. Father had told her he had a surprise: he had found her a new mummy he was going to marry so they could all be a family and be happy again. That afternoon, a woman came for tea. She brought a cake and set it out on a stand on the table. It had cherries in it. ‘I made it just for you,’ she told Margaret. But when Father was out of the room, Margaret reached for another slice, and the woman looked angry. She ate it anyway, using her fingers to scoop up the last of the crumbs on her plate. And the woman said, ‘Things are going to have to change around here.’
2
Four drinks in, Margaret acknowledges that she may be a little tipsy. It’s a hazard of her profession, a necessity when her work takes her into public houses. She can’t nurse the same half-pint of stout for hours; she might draw attention to herself. It is always wise to order two drinks as soon as she gets to the bar. Brandies. That way she looks as though she is expecting a friend or sweetheart to join her at any moment. Though in reality she has neither.
A quick glance at her watch tells her it is 9.33 p.m., almost closing time. She has been sitting here since seven, having emerged from the outdoor baths to find the promenade significantly quieter than when she left it. At that hour, families have returned to their boarding houses for an evening meal. Margaret has noted that the locals describe this as their ‘tea’, and takes care to use the same term in her reports, for the sake of accuracy. Perhaps it is the fact that she has failed to eat anything herself that accounts for her light-headedness now. She should have stopped to get some refreshment, but her attention was caught by two men as they crossed the tramlines to the other side of the street. One was wearing an overcoat, much too big for him and much too warm for the season. She could tell by the worn fabric that he was a man of low pay. A mill worker, a sidepiecer perhaps. There was something about the way he moved that struck her as odd: the inside pockets of his overcoat looked full, the hems uneven as though weighed down by whatever was inside them. The fabric did not sway with each step he took, rather his body seemed to move inside it. Margaret followed, dashing to catch up.
‘Just a lickle favour,’ she heard him say to the other man (who was much more suitably dressed), his accent confirming her assumption that he was from Bolton (the way he said ‘little’ as if the word contained no Ts at all). It is Bolton’s turn after all. Every worktown in the north-west stakes claim to its own Wakes Week: when the mill machines fall silent for repairs, and the workers make their annual pilgrimage to the seaside. When it comes to the names of these towns, she has noticed that a disproportionate number start with either a ‘B’ (Bacup, Barnoldswick, Blackburn, Burnley and Bury) or an ‘R’ (Radcliffe, Ramsbottom, Rochdale and Royton): tongue-twisters of cobbled streets and grime-stained bricks. For seven days a year, each is rendered a ghost town – roads emptied, shops closed, church bells silenced – until its sons and daughters return home with sunburnt skin and empty pockets.
‘Strictly between us, mind,’ Overcoat Man said, patting his nose with his forefinger before parting company with his companion, and stepping into a pub.
The Mermaid Public House. Man enters at 7.06pm. Mid-40s, average build, sandy brown hair, modestly dressed in over-sized coat which he does not remove despite the warm atmosphere. Orders one pint of ale. Drinks (7 mins) and orders another. Woman arrives 7.25pm. Approximately 20 years old and moderately overweight. Honey-coloured shoulder-length hair (pinned back in rolls from her face), red short-sleeved sweater and pencil skirt (ill-fitting) with make-up applied thickly enough to be obvious (from distance of approximately 12 feet). Sits at empty table nearest the bar and suggests that Overcoat Man might like to buy her a port and lemon. He refuses and turns his back on her. Woman stands and joins table of four young men, one of which goes to the bar for a round of four pints and one port and lemon (for the lady). Woman touches her hair frequently (13 times within five minutes). 7.56pm, she leaves with one of the young men. Exit met with laughter and jeering from the remaining three.
Margaret records her observations with the detachment of an ornithologist. You cannot walk up and ask a wagtail or a linnet how it attracts a mate or guards its territory, you stay distant and watch them, and she finds the technique works just as well when it comes to human behaviour. She is careful to keep her notepad hidden in her lap beneath the table, jotting times and prompts in her own form of shorthand, which she has developed since she was recruited five weeks ago. Listening patiently through hour after hour of complaints about the poor performance of football teams, the unreasonable expectations of wives and the cost of living these days, she dutifully copies down every detail.
There is a white-haired man sitting alone at a table in the far corner. He is reading a newspaper but keeps looking in her direction. Margaret is slow to turn away and he catches her eye. ‘Can I get you another?’ he says, nodding towards her glass.
‘No thank you,’ she tries to keep her voice steady. ‘I’ll wait until my gentleman friend gets here. He won’t be long. But terribly kind of you.’ Too well-spoken. Margaret is usually careful not to give herself away, but sometimes when she gets flustered, she forgets to tone down the accent her stepmother was so desperate for her to perfect. In the days when she still visited her grandparents, she would stand in the parlour and recite the poetry she had learnt in elocution classes, basking in the look of pride and wonder that her speech would prompt. But by the time she returned home for dinner, her words had become lazy and they let her down, which let Mother down, and ‘reflected badly on her father who already had more to prove than most, what with the state the war had left him in’. The wrong vowel sound. A tut. A head shake. ‘After all the sacrifices I’ve made …’
But now here she is in Blackpool, having to round off the sharp edges of her consonants, having to unlearn all the lessons of her childhood. It’s an irony that isn’t lost on her.
The man returns to his newspaper, a satisfied smile crossing his face (perhaps he has solved a crossword clue). Margaret does not catch him looking up again, but his attention has shaken her. She feels exposed; worries that other people in the pub may be watching her, that she may have given herself away, missed something obvious, broken some sort of code. She fights the impulse to stand and walk out. Reminds herself that she is here to work. She lifts her glass and tilts it, pretending to study the brandy inside.
By now, Overcoat Man is a quarter of the way through his sixth pint and she has noted that he seems to be well-known to both the landlord and the majority of customers (unlikely to be on holiday then, probably a local). He nods at every man who walks into the lounge. Twelve have responded with a shake of their head, seven by nodding or tipping their cap. Margaret has observed that, at intervals, every one of those seven has left the pub, followed shortly after by Overcoat Man, who resumes his post at the bar between two and eight minutes later. It is difficult to time him precisely without a stopwatch, but she doesn’t want to take hers from her bag. She has witnessed enough to convince her of two hypotheses: that a) the nods signify some code of communication and that b) they relate to surreptitious meetings, which probably involve illicit or illegal activity. She forgot to note down a description of the most recent man, and now she’s having trouble remembering what he looked like, distracted by the turn the conversation has taken at the bar.
