The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 18
‘Are you all right there, love?’ The landlord pauses his conversation with three men at the other end of the bar. ‘You look like you need another.’
‘I do.’
He picks up her empty glass, fills it and places it back down on the bar beside her. ‘What’s that you’re looking at then?’ He turns his head to try to see, and Margaret spins the photograph to face him.
‘The Rector of Stiffkey,’ she says.
‘My, it is! He’s got his hands full too. Look at this, lads!’ He calls to the men at the end of the bar, picking up the photo. ‘Can I show them?’
Margaret nods and he takes it.
(‘I always said he were a pervert.’)
(‘But to sit on the prom every day and tell everyone he’s innocent!’)
(‘Good luck to him, I say. He’s making a living out of it.’)
(‘And who could blame him when he were faced with that. Look at her!’)
(‘What I wouldn’t do for a view like that to go home to.’)
(‘This picture’s the nearest you’d ever get to a body like that.’)
(‘Wouldn’t mind a copy to put on my wall at home.’)
(‘As if your Ida would let you get away with that!’)
Opening her handbag, she thinks bitterly of Other Margaret who would have taken out a notebook and pencil and made a note of everything that’s being said; who would tally up the comments supportive of Davidson versus those that were critical, as if she could find some definitive truth there. But these men don’t care whether Davidson is guilty or not. They are too busy living their own lives. Just as she should have been.
She can’t bear to hear any more about the Rector of Stiffkey or his sordid affairs. The first sip brought instant relief, but every mouthful that follows is merely chasing the same sensation. And it does not come. Shame is prowling inside her. She stands up, loses her balance and starts to fall forwards. She wills her body to right itself but it does not listen. Her forearm crashes into the edge of the bar and she manages to struggle upright. One of the men rushes to her aid.
‘Get your hands off me!’
‘All right, love. Just trying to help.’
Her limbs are still rebelling, still sabotaging her resolve to leave the pub with some respectability intact.
‘Don’t you want your picture?’ One of the men holds it out towards her and she snatches it away. She needs to find another pub, another drink.
He’ll finish just after 9 p.m. Leave by the side door and turn down here, the alleyway that runs beside the Living Waxworks building. That’s when she will tell him what she thinks of him. The only way to get these clamouring thoughts out of her head is to say them out loud. He deceived her. He wasted her time. She needs to show him that she is not a woman to be underestimated. That she knows the truth.
She waits in the shadows halfway along the passage, where it opens up into a slightly wider path. The bins beside her are overflowing with food; the lids must have been knocked off by a cat or the wind, and flies have moved in and made a home. She can hear the relentless hum of so much life, see the potato peelings churning with it, the top layer teeming with maggots. Other Margaret would have recoiled from this squalor, would have recorded it as an example of poor living conditions. But she is unmoved. It signifies nothing more than reality: it is the way things are. Flies lay their eggs where they can. And why shouldn’t they?
It is already quarter past. He would usually be out by now. She is starting to lose her resolve. Perhaps, when the time comes, her words won’t come out the way she has practised them. She is so very tired, and has to lean against the ginnel wall to keep herself standing. The stench of the rubbish bins pricks her eyes. It is the only thing that is keeping them from closing.
There’s the sound of a door slamming and she looks up to see a figure stepping into the passage, a flame bouncing in the air, its movement stilled for a moment before it disappears. Davidson. Lighting a cigar. A smell more revolting to her now than the rotting food. She steps out into the centre of the path to prevent him passing.
‘Dear God!’ he says. ‘Who’s there?’
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes have grown more accustomed to the darkness than his and she can see him straining to make her out.
‘Margaret? Is that you?’
Still she chooses not to speak.
‘It is you, isn’t it? Thank goodness. I thought I was going to be robbed for a moment!’ He pauses for her to say something, but she doesn’t. ‘What are you doing? Why didn’t you come in instead of waiting out here?’
She promised herself she would stay calm, business-like; that she would not show emotion. But the arrogance of the man.
‘Is there something I can do for you?’ he says.
‘You can stay away from me.’
‘What’s this, Margaret? What are you talking about?’
She forces herself back to the script she has rehearsed. ‘It will not be necessary for me to carry out any more observations. I do not intend to write the report after all.’
‘Don’t intend to write it? Why ever not? Surely it is of great public interest.’
‘It is a pointless exercise.’
‘But all that time we spent … Margaret. I told you every thing.’
‘You told me lies.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand …’
She takes the photograph out of the envelope and holds it up to him.
‘What is that? I can’t … Hold on.’ Taking out his lighter, he makes a flame and can see enough to make out the photograph. ‘That’s not … It’s not what it looks like.’
‘Don’t take me for a fool. How could it be anything else?’
‘I’m the fool, Margaret. I let myself be tricked. I thought I was doing her a favour.’
‘And what kind of favours was she doing in return?’
‘Margaret, please! There is no need to be so crude.’ Crude? A man like this, a man who had sexual relations with prostitutes finds her words distasteful?
‘Do not lecture me about propriety.’ She lurches forward and has to steady herself against the wall.
‘She was the daughter of a friend of mine. An actress. She asked me to help her with some photographs that she could send to directors in the theatre. She knew that I was knowledgeable about such things. When I got to the house, she was wearing a bathing suit but she left the room and she must have taken it off. I had no idea until she dropped her shawl and the camera flashed. I was supposed to be cut out of the pictures. I was only there as an actor. Playing various roles, so she could demonstrate a range of expressions.’
At this Margaret starts to laugh. The very thought of it is ridiculous. ‘And what role are you playing in that one? Leading man?’
‘Villain, by the look of me. It’s an abominable picture. I am ashamed of it. I look like the man everyone says I am. But consider, Margaret – why would I have agreed to pose for a photograph just before my trial if I had known that she would be …’
‘Naked?’ Margaret says, with some satisfaction at having shocked him again.
‘You are not yourself this evening. Are you quite well? You’ve been drinking again. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’ How dare he make this about her? ‘Margaret, I’ve been wondering how to broach this subject with you. You think I haven’t noticed that hip flask you carry but, I’m sorry to say, it is rather obvious that you are becoming reliant on it. And I’ve seen where it can lead. The girls I worked with in Soho—’
‘You are comparing me to them? Women like that? Who let men put their hands all over them?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. I have never thought of you as that sort of woman at all.’
She is not like other girls. Even to Davidson, a man who has degraded himself with the most desperate, the most debased. He has been alone with her on too many occasions to count. For weeks they have spent hours talking about his life and his hardships; she has walked with him in the dark, sat with him long after the sideshow has closed up for the night and he has never once tried to touch her. A man who could not control himself even among the most wretched of women. So, what hope would she ever have with a man like James? She starts to cry. Loud, gasping sobs that she is powerless to stop.
‘Margaret,’ he says, reaching out in the darkness to touch her arm. ‘I’m sorry … I—’
She pushes him away, both hands on his chest, hitting him with all her strength. He stumbles backwards and in her rage she feels something else, as if a flame has been lit inside her. She steps forward and grabs him by the shoulders, her body knocking against him. He brings his arms around her to stop her from falling. She is shivering. She wants to be held. To feel the warmth spread through her. To be revived. It will never be James’s touch she feels, but in the darkness she can pretend. Can ignore the smell of his cigar. In the darkness he is only arms and lips. She lurches forward and forces her mouth against his. If she can get this over with, perhaps she will be healed. Perhaps she will be normal. She just has to prove to herself that she can do it. Force her body to surrender.
‘No, Margaret! What do you think you are doing?’
‘I thought …’
‘Is that what you think I am? After everything I’ve told you these past few weeks? I don’t want to … You are drunk, Margaret. You don’t know what you are doing. In the morning you’ll realise how—’
She turns from him and starts to run away, her body slamming against the alley wall as she stumbles.
‘Wait. I need to see you home safely. Margaret, please!’
But he doesn’t follow her. She makes it round the corner before she is sick in the gutter.
27
Stale cigar smoke. She is aware of the smell of him even before she wakes; a memory pulling at her hair, tugging at her scalp. She is wearing no dress and no nightshirt. Only a slip. One torn stocking. Shame scratches at her bare skin, at the blush of bruises on her arm and the ragged flesh of grazed elbows and knuckles. She has no recollection of how she got home. Of undressing. Of getting into bed. But her muscles ache with the memory of humiliation, and she knows the truth is waiting to taunt her. She tries to turn from it and escape back into the oblivion of sleep. But it is too late. Maggots. Alleyway. Photograph. The rough skin of his lips. She threw herself at him, offered herself up like a sacrifice. But he was disgusted by her touch. Jumped away as though she was tainted, as though her flesh was on the turn. The thought takes her back to her observations at the lido. All that pimpled skin, the yellowed toenails. What would Davidson look like without his clothes on? He is an old man. A man who has proved he has no scruples, no morality. But she can’t be certain that she wouldn’t have let him go that far. That she would have stopped him dropping his trousers, lifting her skirt, doing the things she witnessed under the pier. She can’t be sure at all. And though the thought of it is vile, it’s the knowledge that he couldn’t bring himself to do it that is worse. Men are supposed to want it all the time, their biology driving them to take an opportunity when it is offered (and in some cases when it is not). But he considers Margaret too freakish to respond to her advances, sensing perhaps the coldness, the void, the deficit. She is not like other women. And any hopes she had in that regard have been proved wrong. She cannot change who she is. It was ridiculous to try.
Laughter creeps in through the gap beneath her door. Chatter from the other young women who share her floor. They are laughing at her, at her humiliation. Too odd for even a man like that to take advantage. That’s what they would say. And they would be right.
She may as well stay here and rot. Her breath is putrid; a bitter taste every time she swallows. There’s a tightness to her face; she reaches up to her chin and picks at the flakes she finds there. Dried vomit. Another memory comes to mock her. Her stomach cramps and she feels the rise of nausea. She should get up and retrieve the bedpan in case she is sick. But she cannot muster the energy to move. If she lies still it might pass. There is no need to rise, to get herself cleaned up. She has nowhere to go, nothing to do.
She cannot face James again. Not now. Though she wishes she was brave enough to give him the apology he deserves. She rushed off and left him standing there. Dear James. If she ever sees him again, she should try to make him understand how much his little acts of kindness have meant to her. He thinks she is somebody that she is not. Somebody worthy of his admiration. All she can do is stay away. Stay in bed. If she is ill then they cannot compel her to go in. She will lose her job but that is no more than she deserves. It is over. She will leave Blackpool as soon as she is strong enough to face it. Return home to Mother and Father. Get a job as a doctor’s receptionist.
The door handle shakes at intervals. Maude knocks, calls through the keyhole, asks if Margaret is in there, tells her that she hasn’t seen her at breakfast for two days, asks whether she would like her to bring some food up on a tray, points out that it goes against her usual policy, makes it clear that there will be an additional charge for the service. Margaret stays silent at first, hoping that Maude will think she left the house early to go to work. But when her landlady threatens to use her own key to unlock the door, she calls out some words to reassure her: just tired, under the weather, not hungry, needs to sleep it off. And none of that is incorrect. She has developed a fever, her body shaking so violently that the bedframe shudders against the floor. She has discovered that if she holds her jaw in a certain position, her teeth chatter and she tests herself on how long she can sustain the drumbeat: the only semblance of control over her obstinate body, which refuses all her attempts to console it. When it shivers, she tucks a blanket tightly around it, but it grows restless, and she wakes to find her legs have kicked themselves free. It forces her to rise just long enough to use the bedpan but refuses to grant her the energy to walk as far as the bathroom to empty it.
Her mind and body are at war now, one being suffocated by the demands of the other. But there is something gratifying about experiencing the pain so physically. Studying the tremor in her hands, she can watch herself suffer and know that she deserves it. That’s the thought she holds onto; the rhythm that beats in her head; the bass note beneath the constant drum of craving. If she could just have a drink, if she could just get some gin or whisky, it would quieten, she would feel better. Her heart races at the memory of its taste. Without it, she wants to claw at her skin to let the pressure out. Knock at her head to interrupt the questions that circle in an endless loop.
Her body and mind are not at war with each other now; they are both at war with her. She is in control of neither, unwelcome in both. So, she will punish them in return. She will deny them any peace. At this moment she is grateful for the fact that there are no bottles of spirits in her bedroom. That she is not well enough to go out and buy more. Because this is the only fragment of self-respect she has to cling to.
‘I’m not having it!’ Maude calls from the other side of the door. ‘You’re under my roof and you are my responsibility. I’m coming in.’
Margaret hears the sound of a key in the door. ‘No, no, please! I’m not decent.’ The words come now she needs them to. She remembers how to pretend. ‘I’m just getting up. Getting dressed.’
‘I really think I should call a doctor.’
‘There’s no need. I’m feeling a lot better. Though I think some medicine might sort me out.’
‘Medicine?’
‘Yes. A stomach bottle. I don’t want to impose but if you are going out today, could I trouble you to get me a bottle of kaolin and morphine please?’
‘I have no plans to—’
‘I’d pay you for the inconvenience, naturally.’
‘Well, I do feel responsible for you. Think of myself more as a mother than a landlady.’
‘Thank you. So that I don’t have to trouble you again, I wonder if it might be wise to get two bottles. And I must insist that you bill me for double the service charge in that case.’
‘If it will make you better, I’ll go straight away.’ Maude’s footsteps are swift on the landing. ‘But when I get back, I’m coming in to check on you!’
At first Margaret cannot muster the energy to move, but slowly the thought of medicine seems to appease her body, her limbs compliant enough for her to stand. But it is a hesitant truce, her movements clumsy and her muscles weak. She finds a film of dust on the surface of her washbowl but the splash of water on her skin is enough to rouse her to her senses. Suddenly aware of just how putrid the air in her room has become, she opens her curtains and window, pulls on her dressing gown and listens at the door to check the landing is empty. She makes sure to lock her bedroom door behind her to deter Maude from going in, and makes her way slowly to the loo, her hands shaking so violently that she almost spills the contents of her chamber pot onto the lino. Progress is slow but she uses the toilet, managing to produce a rusted stain of urine which clings to the side of the pan.
Undressing in the bathroom next door, she is surprised at how quickly her body has gone wild. The bruises on her arms have darkened. She is nothing but animal. Organs and cells. Component parts. A machine made of flesh. There’s no more to her than the clockwork clowns. Human bodies are just another illusion. Clothes and make-up and even personality, just artifice to distract people from their grotesque physicality. And those are the tricks she lacks. Perhaps that’s another reason why she is not like other girls. She has never learnt the strategies that others have, of hiding the ugly truth. But she must do her best now. Maude will be back soon and she has to make herself ready.
