The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 19
A knock on the door startles her. She pulls on her dressing gown and unlocks the door.
‘Let’s have a look at you,’ Maude says, pushing the door open.
Margaret stands back for inspection, conscious of the fact that she was naked seconds before, gripping tightly to the two ends of the belt which is all that is keeping her covered. Something like shame runs the length of her, but it is thrilling. As though the robe might fall open and expose her, as though she might pull it open herself. She doesn’t trust herself not to. Doesn’t trust her hands not to move of their own volition. This body of hers feels unpredictable. Powerful.
‘You’re very flushed.’
‘Yes, I’m really not well. Must have eaten something that disagreed with me.’
Maude tuts. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting my food—’
‘No, of course not … I had oysters. At the Pleasure Beach.’
‘Washed down with one too many in the pub!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m not as green as I am cabbage-like.’
Margaret tries to make a mental note of the phrase to investigate later.
‘When you run a place like this,’ Maude says, ‘you know what’s what.’ She taps her nose and smiles. ‘But, I’ve got your medicine. I’ll leave it in your bedroom for you.’
‘No, no. I’ll take it now.’ Margaret tugs tightly on the belt then holds out her hands to receive the two bottles. ‘Thank you.’
‘And you’ll be wanting something to eat. I’d already got the food in.’
‘Yes. Of course. Perhaps some bread and butter?’
Margaret can hear Maude chuntering to herself about being taken advantage of as she heads back down the landing. She locks the bathroom door again, unscrews the first of the bottles and drinks from it. That familiar sensation of being held, of being touched in the very deepest part of herself. The liquid moving down her throat and into her chest, caressing her from the inside out, as though every hair that was standing on end is being smoothed, every tremor being stilled. She grips the edge of the sink. Unties the belt around her waist and lets her robe fall to the ground. Washes slowly, careful to coax her body into assent, touching it with the tenderness of a mother with a newborn, as if she is discovering its wonders for the first time. Wipes underneath her arms, gently at first, wondering at the sour tang that clings to the flannel. Then, swirling the rough fabric in the water and lathering up more soap, she takes a corner to the folds of skin between her legs. Uses the tips of her fingers to comb through the matted strands and part the hair to explore the dark creases of herself. And all the time she studies her reflection. She revels in her repulsion. Horror and excitement. A living waxwork.
28
Washing down the bread and butter with more morphine, she feels stronger. But it’s an artificial sensation, something like false confidence, which she knows will not last. She has to get out of this bedroom while she is able. The medicine merely buys her time, gives her a headstart, but she can’t outrun her own thoughts for long. She knows too well that they are still stalking her, will pounce, pin her down and begin the torture again.
A last swig and the first bottle is empty. She locks her door and heads downstairs, managing to make it outside without meeting Maude. The street is bright, the sun glaring. Her eyes have become accustomed to the dim light of her room. How many days and nights has she been up there? How much time has passed since she was in the alleyway with Davidson? She can’t think about that now. Won’t. She has to get to the chemist and stock up in case she is taken ill again. The route brings her past four pubs and she takes pleasure in resisting the draw to step inside; looks directly at their front doors as though staring them down; proves to an absent Davidson that she doesn’t have a problem.
The man in the white coat behind the pharmacy counter recognises her instantly. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while, miss,’ he says with a self-satisfied look that makes Margaret want to slap it from his face. ‘The usual, is it?’
She nods and he reaches up to the shelf of kaolin-and-morphine bottles. ‘Three please.’
‘I wonder that you bother since it seems to be having no effect. Still no better?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
Holding her eyes, he lifts each bottle and shakes it vigorously before placing it in a brown paper bag. She understands that he is making a point, that he is deriving some pleasure from making her wait for the two substances to separate. She supposes it gives him a sense of power, that he is trying to embarrass her. But it doesn’t work. She doesn’t care what he may think of her. Besides, she has already poured the morphine from Maude’s second bottle into her hip flask, a secret that is resting at the bottom of her handbag. She feels like telling him so, but then it wouldn’t be a secret any more.
‘Thank you,’ she says instead. ‘How thorough you are. Very kind.’ She doesn’t need to ask how much she owes him; she places the exact change on the counter without a word. He raises a single eyebrow and begins to count the coins, as though she is a child who may have miscalculated. But before he has tallied up and placed the money into the till, she turns and leaves. And for once she does not jump at the sound of the bell over the door; she braces herself for its shrill jingle, and walks out without looking back.
Crossing to the beach, she pauses to remove her shoes. She didn’t put stockings on today. She just had to get out of that bedroom, didn’t have the patience to try to tame her body into further submission. And now she finds herself grateful to be without them. She can feel the hairs on her legs lifting at the touch of the breeze. It’s the first time she has walked barefoot on the sand, which is already burning in the late-morning sun, and she is unsure whether the sensation is painful or invigoration: the prick of so many sharp grains, making something very deep inside her twitch.
Her steps are slow, each foot placed tentatively while she finds her balance, her toes disappearing beneath the surface. She has to keep her eyes down to weave her way between blankets, buckets and fishing nets. But the patches of beach begin to open up, the deckchairs less frequent, and she looks out towards the horizon. She can see the foam of the waves just a few yards away, so busy looking where she is going that she is not watching her feet. The cold comes as a shock, wet sand gripping her soles and holding her still. She has crossed a line, into darker ground saturated by the retreating waves; her footprints leave an impression as she walks on. And the sea is rushing to meet her now. Icy water that takes her breath from her, a pull that threatens to knock her off her feet. It creeps up her ankles and she lets her feet sink until they disappear completely into the sand. Two children, a little further along the shore, try to jump back before the waves reach their toes, shrieking with delight and shock every time they are splashed. The sand around them is splotched with the pockmarks of their dance. But the footprints will disappear as soon as the tide rises up to wash them away. Just as Margaret’s will. There is something comforting in that. Perhaps the memory of her humiliation will fade. Perhaps Davidson will forget, in time. And James will no longer wonder why she rushed away.
‘You’re having me on!’ She hears voices and turns to see two men walking the waterline towards her, their trousers rolled up to just below their knees.
‘I’m not. Someone at our guest house said he weren’t much to look at anyway. Just sat reading sommat. Not worth the ticket price, he said. Wouldn’t have known it were him if it wasn’t for the vicar’s collar. Too late now.’
Davidson.
The men draw level and touch their caps, changing their path to pass behind her.
‘Excuse me,’ Margaret says. ‘Are you talking about the Rector of Stiffkey?’
‘We are. Did you see him before he went?’
‘Went?’
‘To his new act.’
‘The whale?’ she asks. Luke Gannon will have unveiled another stunt to keep the crowds coming.
‘The what?’ The first man raises an eyebrow at the other, then turns back. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, love. Only that he’s gone. Set up somewhere else. Skegness, I think.’
‘Skegness? But he—’
‘Shame you didn’t get to see him. Missed your chance now.’
Was he so mortified by her advances that he thought it best to leave the town altogether? She remembers – oh God – trying to kiss him. But her memory will give her no more than that. She ran away from him but did he follow her, or help to get her home? She has no recollection. And now, for him to leave Blackpool so suddenly. He had never mentioned that he had plans to go to Skegness. This man must be mistaken. ‘Are you sure?’
‘That’s what the fellow at the waxworks told me. I was trying to buy a ticket to see the rector. But he’s got a better offer. That’s what the man said anyway.’
Margaret tries to move but her feet have sunk so deeply that she almost falls forward into the sea. ‘Careful, miss.’ One of the men reaches out and gives her his arm; she holds on and man ages to free herself from the pull of the wet sand.
‘Thank you.’
He touches his cap again and they walk on, Margaret turning and heading back towards the promenade. It is heavy going; her feet are thick with clumped sand, her handbag sagging with the bottles of medicine. She drops one of her shoes and can feel tears rising. She wants to be back on the pavement, wants to get home and wash the itch of dried salt from her skin. But first she needs to know. She needs to see for herself. Brushing the worst of the sand from her feet she puts on her shoes, and as soon as she starts to walk again can feel the blisters forming inside them; the burn of skin being rubbed raw. But on she goes, pushing her way through the crowds, past the music booth and the tea stand, past the cigar seller and rock stall, until she reaches the Living Waxworks. Davidson’s sign is still hanging on the board above the entrance but a banner has been pasted across it: CANCELLED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
He is gone. She has driven him away.
The breeze is no longer pleasurable. She can no longer bear the brush of her skirt against her legs, wants to scratch the sand off her skin with her fingernails. She turns down the ginnel where she last saw Davidson and stops to take a swig of morphine from her hip flask. Just enough to get her home, to bribe her body into moving forward and carrying her back to bed.
29
‘Oh, you’re here,’ Maude’s head appears around the doorway of the parlour as Margaret steps into the hallway. ‘Just in time. He were just about to leave.’ She jerks her head sideways towards the room, eyes wide with urgency. Margaret struggles to make sense of it, leaning back against the wall, careful not to knock down the framed list of rules which greets everyone who crosses the threshold of the house. Has Davidson come here to see her, to tell her he is leaving? He will want to talk about what happened. About what she did. Or tried to do.
‘He’s keen! Been waiting quite a while.’ Maude’s voice goes from whisper to overly cheery shout: ‘I’ll make another pot while you two have a chat.’ Margaret watches her landlady gesture to the parlour then bustle off in the direction of the kitchen. She will have to go in and face him. She could turn and walk back through the front door instead, lose herself in the crowd again, but she hasn’t got the energy. Her body won’t allow her to run away. Not this time. It takes all her effort just to stand upright and let go of the wall. She should think of something to say but where to start? An apology, perhaps. But whatever she says will only add to her humiliation. She will just have to endure it. It is no more than she deserves.
‘Are you all right?’ As soon as she rounds the corner, he stands up to greet her.
James. The relief is so sudden that it makes her dizzy and she almost collapses into the nearest armchair. Her head is spinning, her thoughts being flung away, and what is left behind is a gathering darkness, growing bigger with every breath.
‘You don’t look well,’ he says. ‘Can I get you some water?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll be all right in a minute.’
‘Mrs Crankshaw tells me you’ve been in bed since … After the Pleasure Beach the other day I was worried I’d …’
The conversation stalls and they both look around the room. Boarders are not usually permitted in Maude’s parlour, which she guards jealously ‘in case anything is broken’. She doesn’t say ‘stolen’ but the implication is there, though Margaret can see now that there is very little to fall victim to either theft or vandalism. The room is rather bare: faded curtains and a glass display cabinet whose shelves are empty; starched antimacassars which cover the arms and backs of the chairs but fail to hide the wear on the seat cushions. There’s a single photograph on the mantlepiece of a soldier in uniform. Perhaps there was a Mr Crankshaw after all.
‘I’m sorry for my absence these past few days,’ Margaret says finally. ‘My landlady’s right. I have been unwell.’ He seems just as relieved with this explanation as she is. Silence settles between them like a truce. From out in the hallway, she can hear an intermittent jingle of china: Maude must be hovering just outside the door, listening. ‘Do you need a hand with the tray, Mrs Crankshaw?’
There’s a much louder rattle, then she appears. ‘No, no. We’re all set. It’s just brewing.’ She places the tray on a side table and sets about partnering cups with saucers and peering into the top of the pot to check its progress. ‘Pay me no mind. I don’t want to interrupt your little chat.’
With an onlooker in the room, the silence feels uncomfortable. They listen to the tea being poured into cups. ‘It’s very kind of you to come and check on me,’ Margaret says to James.
‘It is,’ Maude pipes up, handing him his cup. ‘Not many would do that for their workers. You must think a lot of our Margaret, Mr Timoney.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, I do.’
Maude hands Margaret a cup and takes the opportunity to wink at her before leaving the room. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
They wait until they hear her footsteps move away along the hallway before Margaret speaks again. ‘I’d like to apologise. The photograph, it was …’
‘I’m afraid I may have offended you after all—’
‘No, it’s not that. I …’ She owes him an explanation. ‘I haven’t been honest with you about Davidson …’ Her words stall again.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m afraid I got rather too involved.’
His eyes grow wide, his cup rattling as he replaces it on the saucer. ‘Oh, I’m sorry I’ve spilt the—’
‘Not involved with him.’
‘Oh.’
‘What I mean is, rather caught up in his case.’ She needs to say this before she changes her mind. ‘There were things that didn’t seem fair. About his trial. And I got the idea I could help somehow. That I could see things other people might have missed.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s nothing else. He didn’t …’
‘No! Only that I thought I knew better.’
‘Old girl!’ He smiles now, and sets his cup down. ‘And it turned out you did. There’s another reason I came to see you.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out another brown envelope, and for a brief moment she imagines that he intends to give her another compromising photograph of Davidson. ‘This arrived this morning,’ he says, ‘from Harrisson. He wants you to go down to London.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’ He is sitting forward in his chair, his leg bouncing as if he is having trouble staying still. ‘He has started reading your report about the sideshows and your notes on Davidson—’
‘But I hadn’t finished!’
‘I looked in your file in HQ after you … well after you were taken ill the other day, and I decided to send it.’
Without her consent? The thought that James has sat and read it is bad enough, but Tom Harrisson too? She feels as though they have been picking over her private diary. The truth of how misguided she was, how badly she misjudged Davidson, laid out for all to see.
‘It is an extraordinary piece of work, Margaret. So comprehensive. And you were right about the access you got. None of the other researchers have got anything close. I knew Tom would be impressed and I was right to think so.’
‘But …’
‘That’s what he says in this letter.’ He slips it out of the envelope and reads aloud. ‘“Please pass my compliments to Miss Finch for her excellent work in this matter and ask her to contact my secretary to arrange a mutually convenient time for us to meet to discuss her findings in person.”’ He folds it and looks up again. ‘Margaret, your attention to detail—’
‘But I hadn’t finished. And it was …’
‘It was enough to impress Harrisson. I’ve never seen him take an interest in an individual researcher like this before.’ A few days ago, this would have been everything she wanted: to be able to stay with Mass Observation, to avoid returning to that house in Northampton. But the thought leaves her hollow now. She is a fraud.
‘Who knows,’ says James, ‘perhaps you won’t be coming back to Blackpool after this.’ He is still smiling at her but she can see the corners of his lips are twitching, as if it is taking effort to keep them upturned. And she can understand exactly how that must feel because she is stretching her own mouth into the same unnatural shape. She knows his conflict must be disappointment or even jealousy that she has been singled out. But in her case, it is something else: the idea not just of leaving this place, but of leaving him. Because although she has spoilt any hope that their relationship could be anything other than professional, she finds she cannot bring herself to let go of the possibility.
‘You don’t look very happy about it,’ he says. ‘I thought this was what you wanted.’
‘I did. I do. It’s all a bit of a surprise.’
‘But a good one!’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’d better go and pack.’
30
There’s a lively atmosphere on the platform: mothers swapping stories, children comparing sunburn, fathers sharing jokes. Friends call to each other over the tops of heads, singing songs they’ve heard at the pier show. Margaret boards the train, manages to get a seat beside the window, and is joined by a group of young women. They are a lively bunch, passing around a paper bag of sweets. The girl beside her takes her turn, then extends the offer to Margaret, who accepts a humbug with a smile.
