The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 17
‘Do you know, Margaret,’ he says, ‘that doesn’t surprise me. You are not like other girls at all.’
She is fairly certain he means to compliment her. But, though she despises herself for thinking it, there is a small part of her that wishes she was like other girls. That, alone with her in the dark, it might cross James’s mind to try to make love to her. If only so that she could rebuke him. It is not that she has ever wanted to be interfered with, but she resents never having had the choice.
‘Tyrannosaurus rex!’ he says, feigning fear, as they turn to watch the giant model attacking a mannequin of a primitive male in a loincloth. The boat turns again, taking them under the gracefully curved neck of a diplodocus, and into a much longer tunnel. For a few moments there is no light at all. James shifts on the seat. Now his leg is resting against hers. She fights the impulse to move away. She doesn’t want him to think she is assuming any impropriety on his part, so she stays exactly where she is, steeling her muscles against the movement of the ride to prevent herself being knocked more closely into him. The roar of the dinosaurs is fading now, and she can hear the echo of whispered conversations from the boats in front, and the sound of falling water. There is light up ahead and they sit in silence, emerging into a large cavern. Brightly coloured creatures are suspended from the ceiling: starfish and seahorses, jellyfish and corals. The effect is other-worldly. Margaret knows the scene has been carefully choreographed to create a sense of magic, but she chooses not to look at the wires that hold each fish in place.
‘I feel like we’re underwater ourselves.’ It is as if she has slipped beneath the surface. Sounds are muffled and distant, movements slowed. If she let herself, she would see the evidence: that all the noise and activity of the Pleasure Beach is just yards away, just the other side of a wall of artificial rock. But she chooses to ignore this too. She is not in Blackpool. Not on a ride designed to manipulate her senses. She is watching pearlescent fish flit by her in the darkness, fearing that a shark or electric eel might be lurking in the caves.
‘Beautiful,’ he says, a single word that echoes around the cavern, and she can hear something in his voice, something waiting there. ‘What I said,’ he whispers, so softly that she has to concentrate to make out his words. ‘About you not being like other girls. I don’t mean that as a bad thing … it’s just that you know such a lot about all sorts of subjects. You’re interested in learning about why things are the way they are. And you have such principles. Such a strong sense of … justice. More than any woman I’ve ever met. Or man, for that matter. That’s all I meant …’
She knows what he meant. He is right. And it means that, even alone with her on a tunnel of love in the dark; even though their legs are touching, and the rough cotton of his trousers is catching on her stocking; even though the couple in front have been kissing since their boat entered the tunnel, it has not crossed his mind to embrace her, to take her hand. He admires her professionally. He just said so himself. She needs to hold onto that. It’s all she could ever hope to expect.
Swept along, they enter a jungle: a gigantic boa constrictor coiled around a tree trunk; tribal masks strung up on lines between branches.
‘Mayan or Aztec?’ he wonders.
‘I think we can assume they are supposed to be cannibals, wherever they are from.’ She points to the display of skulls on spikes.
Travelling through another tunnel, they emerge into a dimly lit cavern that looks like the mouth of a giant creature: stalagmites and stalactites for teeth. A sign announcing ‘The Valley of the Kings’ takes them between hieroglyphs on pillars of artificial stone, past slaves fanning pharaohs, and on to Tibet, where elephants trumpet amongst crumbling temples. They can see daylight coming from around the next corner. ‘Margaret. I …’ His tone is suddenly abrupt, his words rushed. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Yes?’
‘The Tower Ballroom. Have you been?’
‘Was I supposed to? I can. Was there something in particular?’
‘No. I’m sorry – you misunderstand … What I mean is … I’ve been in Blackpool for almost the whole season and I’ve never seen one of its most famous sights. I thought we should—’
‘Yes. There would be some very interesting data about numbers of partners, average number of dances—’
‘I mean go along, just to see it,’ he says.
‘Without making observations?’
‘Yes. Just for fun. After work.’
He wants to go together. He wants to spend time with her. In this job, they work all hours of day and night, but the way he stressed the word ‘after’ seems significant: that he wishes to go as something other than colleagues. Does going to the ballroom, together, after work, mean his intentions are romantic? Perhaps he wants to embrace her after all. To draw her close to him. Because that’s what people who are attracted to each other feel compelled to do. She fights an impulse to throw her arms around him then and there. Just to get it over with. Just to check that she will enjoy it. What if her body betrays her, what if her muscles tense up and reject him when the time comes?
‘I’ve always fancied seeing the Wurlitzer and … in the past … before we started these missions together … I … well, I wasted too much time just reading about these things.’
She wants to say something but no words come. They have all fled. They do not trust her to use them.
‘I was, I admit, rather envious of you,’ he says.
‘Of me?’
‘Yes, going out every day and doing all this.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Yes, but it’s the job you chose. I chose to work in an office all day, reading about the sights you were seeing and the people you were talking to.’
‘I very rarely talk to anyone unless I have to.’
‘But at least you are not on your own. Not lonely.’ She realises that what he says isn’t true. Being in a crowd of people has no effect on how alone she feels. None at all. She does not seek the company of others. Didn’t, anyway. He clears his throat. ‘So, the Tower Ballroom. If you fancy it … Understand if you don’t but … well, I can’t dance on my own!’
Dancing. Of course, it will mean dancing. It will never work. Even if she can persuade her body to let him put his arms around her, her feet won’t comply. Not with so many people watching. She tried it once, alone in her bedroom, and she felt a fool. She looked a fool. She doesn’t have it in her. There’s a craving, rolling like a wave; gently at first but then it starts to gather pace, wild, white-crested. She should tell him that he is wrong. That he has misjudged her. Her skin is crawling with the feeling that she is deceiving him somehow.
‘I can’t dance,’ she says.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that … Have a think about it.’
She doesn’t need to think about it. She is not like other girls; he has said so himself. And this change in her, this need, will only bring pain. Another wave crashes over her, but this time it’s anger. At herself. At her body, which will sabotage her. But she is not going to let it. Is not going to raise her hopes only to be humiliated in a crowded ballroom. She is not going to fail in his arms.
There’s enough light to illuminate the walkway that was running alongside the river all along. Though she tries, she can no longer ignore the service doorways inside the rockface: the hinges, the handles and the bolts. The tunnel opens out into a brilliant blue sky and her brain is already noting the scaffold of the ride in silhouette against it. She cannot stop herself from identifying it as the Flying Machine, the oldest attraction on the Pleasure Beach; from estimating the ticket prices and duration of each ride; from calculating the cost per minute.
The smell of the food stalls reaches them even before the chatter of the crowds. Margaret is back in Blackpool.
25
‘We’ve lost them,’ she says, looking around as they step off the ride. ‘I’ll write up what we managed to observe this morning. I’d better be getting—’
‘Hang on … Over there, look.’ He is right. She can see the little girl above the crowd. The father must have lifted her up onto his shoulders. ‘We can catch them.’ He grabs her hand and pulls her through the crush of people. ‘I can still see them.’ He is excited by the chase, and she is now feeling something like exhilaration herself. The family have stopped to look at Noah’s Ark, which looks as though it has been washed up in the middle of the attractions. It is rocking from side to side, life-sized models of various animals gathering as if preparing to board. She wonders what Harold would make of this cartoonish tableau – a Biblical lesson rendered in clockwork creatures. She rather suspects he would approve. The children seem to like it, the parents listing each animal they can see. They attempt a convincing vocal impression of each – polar bear, elephant, giraffe – but get stuck when it comes to the penguin.
James lets go of her hand. There is no need to hold it now that they have stopped to continue their observations. Margaret busies herself, taking out her pad and pencil to jot down some notes. Out here in the bright sunshine, she is unsure what just happened on the ride, unsure how they left things. She questions whether she was firm enough in her insistence that she can’t dance. Did he think her reluctance a coquettish affectation? She wonders whether he will bring it up again. Whether she should. Whether it is too late to change her mind and go. Or suggest a different outing. One where she doesn’t have to dance.
‘It would be interesting to find out how many visitors consider its religious significance,’ he says, while timing how long the family stand and look at the animals.
‘Very few, I should think. It’s a conventional ride inside. Jerking to and fro. Something like the Fun House, but with moving models of animals in cages. Not suitable for small children.’ Now she thinks of it, it wouldn’t be suitable for Harold either. The youngest child has begun to cry after a particularly convincing roar from her father, which Margaret suspects was an imitation of the bear which is standing near the prow of the ark. The parents look just as weary as the children, who have been out in the sun for several hours by now. They start to move towards the exit.
‘That’s that then,’ James says, sounding genuinely disappointed.
‘That’s what?’
‘No tattoo for you after all.’ They are back on the spot where they saw the tattooed woman this morning. Now someone else is drawing a small crowd. James cranes over the heads to see, Margaret far too short to have any chance of doing so herself.
‘It’s a small man with a sign,’ he says. ‘Professor Flicke’s … something.’
‘Flea Circus,’ Margaret says. ‘Professor Fricke’s Flea Circus.’ She wonders whether Horatio and Samson will be performing.
‘Shall we stay and watch?’
What’s the harm in staying a little longer? She is in no rush to go back to her lodgings alone. The small gathering of onlookers is moving along quickly. People staying just a minute or two before stepping away and heading on to the next attraction. It is not long before Margaret and James are close enough to see a small trestle table, on which a series of miniature vehicles are involved in some sort of race. James is obviously fascinated. She predicts he is going to want some for his collection of Blackpool paraphernalia.
Professor Fricke lifts one, and brings it right up to the faces of the families further along the row. ‘Here is an empty carriage, ladies and gentlemen, he says. My fleas travel in only the finest. A miniature version of the very coach which carried our king to Westminster Abbey for his coronation. I made it myself.’
James strains to look then turns to Margaret. ‘But how does he get them to perform?’
‘Tiny lassoes of wire,’ she whispers, glad of the opportunity to demonstrate her knowledge. ‘He keeps them on little tethers. Feeds them every day on his own blood.’
‘He does what?’
‘He lives off them and they live off him. A symbiotic relationship.’
He laughs and, though she hadn’t intended it to be funny, she is gratified. ‘You’re not joking. He really lets them suck his own blood?’ Perhaps he won’t be wanting to keep his own as pets after all. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I’ve been … That other report I mentioned to you …’ Not choosing to tell him about Harold is one thing, but lying to him would be another. She hasn’t been doing anything wrong. Perhaps the time has come to be completely honest. ‘I managed to get access to the building where the Living Waxworks are on show. Do you know it?’
‘Isn’t that the one Davidson was at, inside his glass coffin?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And they let you in? Behind the scenes, so to speak?’
‘Yes, a front row seat to observe the crowds. And I’ve got to know some of the acts. Some of them quite well, as it happens—’
‘I bet you’ve seen all sorts!’
‘You could say that!’
He stops suddenly and shakes his head. ‘Margaret, you are a wonder! I was silly to think that … earlier … I shouldn’t have …’
Shouldn’t have what?
‘Margaret … When I said—’
‘It’s all right. I understand.’ He has changed his mind about the Tower Ballroom. She should be relieved but—
‘Of course you do. Good old Margaret! This is exactly what I mean. I’m embarrassed I made a thing of it now.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘Any other young lady, well – when it comes to matters that are … inappropriate. I mean obviously – I wouldn’t—’
‘Obviously.’
‘But it’s different with you, Margaret. You’re not going to be offended. I should have shown it to you as soon as we met this morning.’ He slips a hand into the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Re-member that school chum I mentioned – the newspaperman?’
‘I …’
He pulls out a miscellany of papers. ‘I asked him about the rector when he went on show in that barrel.’ He grins. ‘That was the day we first went out with my camera.’
‘It was.’
‘And I couldn’t get over how many people turned out to see him. How many believed him!’
‘There’s a lot about his case that doesn’t add up.’
She is not sure he has heard her, too busy sorting through the various notes and ticket stubs he has fished out of his pocket. ‘I mean you just can’t fathom some people, can you? It doesn’t take someone with your skills of observation, Margaret, to see— Ah, there it is!’ He waves a brown envelope. ‘Obvious to you and I, but people fell for his story.’ She wants to set him straight, to make him understand, but he is already handing it to her. ‘If the newspapers had been allowed to print this, no one would have been left in any doubt. Though you can see why they … well … you understand … decency and all that.’
She lifts the flap, and slides out a thick sheet. Blank. Turning it over, she sees a face she recognises. 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 she wonders 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.
26
Margaret feels as though she is being turned inside out. As if her skin is no longer holding her together. She has to get away from all these people, from James. She wishes she could outrun herself: this stranger who she does not know at all. Everything they said about Harold was right. She has the proof in her hand. And she can no longer persuade herself that she knows better than other people. She is worse than the lot of them. Worse than the families who spend their money on pavement tricks and sideshow illusions. She has gambled her career on this man’s lies, spent her time looking for evidence to support his deception, when she should have been concentrating on the job she was employed to do.
She should be angry with him, but instead she is consumed by sadness. Thinking not of Harold, but of James. She was a bigger fool to convince herself that he admired her. Any fondness he may have is for the person he thinks she is, the person she had thought herself to be. Not being like other girls was all right when she could believe she had the insight and intellect to analyse the world and see its truths. But now she has nothing. Is nothing. Any regard he has for her, misjudged. And now she understands this, she realises how desperately she craves his good opinion.
‘Pretty conclusive, I’d say!’ He is looking down at the photograph in her hand.
‘Yes.’ She tries to laugh along with him, but her breath catches in her throat, her eyes sting. ‘I’d better go,’ she says, turning and walking into the crowd, before the tears can start to spill. ‘I’ll see you later.’
He calls after her but she does not turn back.
She needs a drink. She needs a drink to calm her nerves and slow her thoughts. There is a pub on the corner and she goes in. Orders gin. A double. ‘Another please.’ Every thought is suspended for a few moments. It is as if each sip she takes allows the pressure in her skull to be released. She is not really here. Feels so far away from this bar and the people in it. Knows they are staring at her. Whispering. But doesn’t care. They don’t know her. Turns out she doesn’t even know herself. The thought makes her laugh. The whole situation is farcical. She can see the corner of the photograph, peeking out beneath the envelope on the bar beside her drink. She uncovers it and looks again. A young girl trying to look older; an old man trying to look younger. Staring into her eyes as if he is leaning in to kiss her. As if she would want him to. The whole thing is ridiculous. Pathetic. She makes a sound. Perhaps a laugh. Perhaps a sob.
