The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 2
‘They’re getting uppity,’ the landlord says. ‘Nothing more. They need reminding who lost the last time.’
‘That’s the problem, right there. You can’t keep people down forever. It’s that as’ll make them fight back. They’ve learnt their lesson.’ Overcoat Man puts his pint down so forcefully that ale spills out of the top.
Alert, Margaret tunes out every other sound in the room. Some people are said to have a photographic memory but, since she took this job, she has discovered her talent is aural. She can remember conversations, hold them in her mind in their entirety, until such time as it is safe to write them verbatim in her notepad.
‘Don’t be soft, lad. He’ll be playing up again soon as we let him.’
‘Force him into a corner and he will!’
Margaret knows to whom and what they are referring and she feels a flash of anger. They talk as if the threat is no more serious than a playground spat. As if it won’t happen, could never happen again. As if men like them won’t be dragged into it, shot at, blown to pieces. As if they won’t return changed. Just like her father was. If they return at all.
Exchanges about Hitler’s intentions and what should be done about them often begin just like this. But they frequently escalate into fist-fights depending on the amount of alcohol consumed. While the rest of the country looks to Europe for signs of war, she watches the brawls playing out here in England. She sees the copies of The Blackshirt left on bar stools, and the salesmen selling subscriptions to the Left Book Club. The government’s busy tying itself in knots about which poses the greatest threat – Germany or Russia – while all along the argument is being settled here, in the pubs and working men’s clubs. Pride and honour, belligerence and belief. For Margaret it always comes down to statistics, probability, percentages. Three quarters of the population are working class, and since they were given the vote, they run things now. That’s why it is vital that she carries out this mission. To understand them.
‘If it happens, I’ll be fighting for the right side.’ Overcoat Man finishes the last of his pint and nods at a young man who is leaving the pub. ‘Our lot could learn a lot from him, if they stopped to listen. He makes a lot of sense.’
3
A thought comes to Margaret so suddenly that she feels it as a physical sensation, a moment of clarity that makes her senses sharpen. That’s what Overcoat Man is up to. The British Union of Fascists have headquarters here in Blackpool. Perhaps he’s one of them. He has disappeared outside again and she needs to follow. She stuffs her notepad into her handbag, and in her haste, drops her pencil, but she mustn’t draw attention to herself by bending to retrieve it. Instead, she finishes the last measure of brandy in her glass, taking pains to look unhurried as she stands, slips on her jacket and walks outside. Her legs feel shaky after sitting in the same seat for so long, and she stumbles on the step down to the pavement.
Overcoat Man is not here. She left too long an interval before following him, but he can’t have gone far. There’s a narrow cut-through that runs beside the pub, but it is too dark to make anything out. Giving her eyes a moment to adjust, she starts to walk, meeting the junction of an alleyway that runs behind a row of terraced houses, the glow from their upstairs windows too weak to cast much light into the shadows. With her arms held out wide she can’t touch both walls at once, but with each step she pushes a hand against one, then the other, to keep herself upright.
Hushed voices. Two men. She edges forward and sees an open gate leading to one of the backyards. Another step and they might have seen her. Hiding herself closer to the wall, she stands perfectly still to listen.
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘You can trust me. I’m good for it.’
If only she could see them, she’d have a much clearer idea of what they are up to. Are they passing on information? Making plans for a meeting or some sort of rally? There’s another sound. She holds her breath. Footsteps. They seem to be coming from some distance. She turns back, but there is no one there. It’s as if her mind is lagging behind her senses, as though she has to will the cogs of her brain to turn. Unsure now whether to move or stay. The voices from the backyard are suddenly louder.
‘Rule’s the same for everyone—’
‘But—’
‘I’m the one taking all the risk. Forget it.’
She is slow to register the moment of silence. By the time the gate hinge squeaks, it is too late. Overcoat Man is walking at such a pace that he crashes into her.
‘What the—?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Margaret steps away, her back hitting the wall.
‘What’s your game?’
The younger man is beside him now. ‘Who’s this?’
Margaret tries to get past them but they are blocking her way. ‘I was just … If you’d excuse me, I need to …’ But her words have no effect on them; they continue to talk as if they haven’t heard her.
‘A snitch?’ the younger man asks the other. ‘Think they’d use a woman?’
‘Wouldn’t put anything past ’em these days.’
Margaret speaks up again. ‘I’m not …’
‘Just as well, because I’m not going to let them put me away again.’ Overcoat Man pats the other man on the back. ‘We were just having a little chat about boxing. He is very keen on sports aren’t you, lad? And why shouldn’t two friends have a little wager on it? Between the two of us. Just a bit of fun.’
‘Bet she likes a bit of fun herself,’ the younger man says, grinning to reveal a missing tooth. He steps forward and takes a strand of her hair between his fingers. ‘She doesn’t look the type. But they’re the ones as can surprise you.’
She can smell the ale on him. She knows she should fight but her body is rigid. She closes her eyes tight and wills her arms to hit out and her feet to run. But nothing happens. She can feel his breath now, on her cheek, and his hand reaching around her waist. Can hear both of them laughing. And then, a third voice, much more well-spoken. She opens her eyes and sees something moving behind the two men. ‘There you are, dear girl! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’ She can’t see who is speaking, but she can’t be imagining it because the hand is gone from her waist. The men have swung round to face the stranger. Undeterred, the voice speaks again. ‘Ah good evening, gentlemen. Thank you for looking after her. So kind. I hate to think what might happen to a young lady out on her own at this hour.’
‘Look, we’re not wanting any trouble,’ says Overcoat Man, his tone suddenly conciliatory. ‘We were just having a private conversation and—’
‘Dear fellow, fear not. I have no interest in your affairs. No harm in a man having a wager or two to make the sport a little more exciting eh? But I really must get my niece home.’ Niece? A hand reaches out to her through the gap between the two men, a gold signet ring on its little finger. She grasps it. ‘Come along, dear girl. Come along with Uncle.’
She no longer has to will her feet to walk, she simply surrenders to the pull on her arm and follows its lead, moving forward without looking back. She dares not risk letting go of his hand. ‘You’re all right now. Don’t worry, I’m here,’ he says. ‘Just keep going.’ And that is what she does, not slowing even to glance at him, in case her body stalls again. Even without looking she can sense he is no threat. He has the voice of a man but the figure beside her is as small and slight as a boy. Taller than her, granted, but he can’t be more than five foot three under the top hat he is wearing. His presence stirs a memory in her, of walking beside her grandfather: a small, wiry man who, even in old age, had the energy of a child. Constantly on the move, constantly talking. His body insufficient to contain all the thoughts and ideas he had.
When they reach the main street, he drops her hand and turns to her, lifting his hat and placing it on his chest, as if to subdue his own heartbeat beneath. And she recognises him. ‘You’re the gentleman who …’ The gentleman who offered to buy her a drink in the pub. The one with the crossword. ‘Thank you for … back there … I …’
‘Catch your breath,’ he says. ‘We’re safe now.’
‘What if they follow—’
‘They would have been here by now.’ He looks around and nods towards a low wall outside the pub. ‘Why don’t you sit for a moment?’
‘I’m fine. All just a misunderstanding. I was about to explain to those men … that I …’
‘Not men you can reason with, I’m afraid. What if they had turned nasty?’
She fears they had already turned nasty, but she dare not consider what might have happened had he not intervened. ‘But why did you …?’
‘It’s what I do,’ he says, bowing theatrically. She is not sure if he is poking fun at himself or at her, only that she does not understand the joke. ‘If I can ever be of help to someone then … well …’ He sighs. ‘I don’t always stop to consider the consequences. But then you already know that …’ Does she? ‘I thought they were going to give me a good beating for my trouble, but we got away with it this time, eh? I think it was the element of surprise. And this …’ he replaces his hat and taps the brim of it, ‘… makes me look far taller, and far more important than I really am!’ Smiling widely, he shows no desire to hide a set of overcrowded teeth, which jostle for space either side of a large gap in the middle.
‘Are you quite sure you are all right?’
‘Yes. Thank you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am … that you stepped in.’
He seems to stand up a little taller. ‘Thank goodness I was able to.’
‘But how did you know I …?’
‘I followed you out of the pub to return this,’ he says, taking a pencil from his top pocket and handing it to her. ‘You dropped it.’ He lowers his voice and leans closer. ‘And if I am to be completely honest, I wanted to talk to you about what you were up to … all those notes you were taking. I could see what it was all about.’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes, yes. Quite obvious really. Though I’m surprised our paths crossed so soon. I only arrived in Blackpool yesterday. No one knows I’m here yet.’
The relief she feels at being rescued turns to confusion. Does this stranger know her? Is he part of the same mission? Perhaps it is Tom Harrisson, the man who is in charge of the whole operation. She has heard his name mentioned frequently, but has never met him.
‘I understand.’ He taps his nose conspiratorially. ‘You’re not the first.’
‘I’m not?’
‘No, no. When you’ve lived a life like mine you tend to attract … well, you know …’
She doesn’t.
He grins again. ‘Good. I think we understand each other very well! So, the only question is when I am going to take you out to discuss what we are going to do about it.’
Do about what? She is trying not to stare at those teeth, looking down instead at the street light reflected in the shine of his shoes. He really can’t stand still, rocking very slightly from the balls of his feet to his toes and back again, just like her grandfather used to do.
‘Yes. My treat of course. Tea on Friday afternoon.’ He stands back and considers her, then extends a hand. It hovers there for a few seconds before she realises she is expected to lift her own to meet it. But instead of a handshake, he clasps her fingers between his two palms. He squeezes her hand with a gentle pulse, or perhaps it is the beat of her own heart, skin burning where it is being touched, as if every pore is gasping for air. She is desperate to pull free from his grasp but that would be rude, after what he just did to save her.
‘Marvellous!’ he says, unaware of her discomfort. ‘I am glad we’ve met! The Metropole, let’s say three p.m. I’ll get a longer break on Friday afternoon before the onslaught of the new arrivals on Saturday.’ He winks as he lets go of her hand, touches the corner of his hat and strides away, calling back over his shoulder. ‘Until then, Miss …’
‘Finch,’ she says.
But he has already disappeared into a side street.
4
The curtains are so thin you could spit peas through them. The thought comes to her now as she covers her head with a pillow. She remembers overhearing the phrase from a housewife at the market. Margaret had written up her observations afterwards: how the woman had appraised the quality of a tablecloth between her middle finger and thumb, unfolded a layer of cotton and held it up to the light. ‘Proper pousey,’ she’d concluded, shaking her head. But she bought it anyway, though not before she had bartered on price. Margaret collects these colloquialisms like pressed flowers. For as long as she can remember, she’s had a sense of the power of these words: dangerous enough to be banned in her own home. As a child, she whispered them under her breath, naming objects around her in a forbidden tongue: perfume instead of scent, sweet instead of pudding. Imagining, in her childish mind, that each item had another, secret life.
She marvels at how differently Blackpool’s holidaymakers see the world, and how different their world is from her own. Though in her lodgings she gets a taste of it: observers are required to live among the study group to get as close as possible to the true experience. It has taken her a while to acclimatise, the change so sudden that she suffered with headaches in her first days; muscles tensed, breaths shallow, as though she had been plunged into cold water.
She was in her final year studying Mathematics at Newnham College in Cambridge when she saw the job advertisement in the New Statesman. The salary was minimal but living expenses were covered, which meant she would not have to return home to her parents in Northampton. There had been no opportunities to stay on at Cambridge; she had proved she had a natural aptitude and an unusually high intellect, but there was, of course, the handicap of being female. Nor could she meet the expectations of her parents, having no inclination towards romance, matrimony or procreation. The girls she had been at school with had already ‘settled’, a term which she pictures literally, imagining them as particles of sediment piling up, one generation on top of another.
Margaret wants a life of purpose. She wants to solve problems, find solutions. It’s not that she is arrogant, just realistic: a talented mathematician for whom marriage offers very little opportunity to use her skills (beyond household budgeting). She would undoubtedly be hopeless at holding dinner parties to further her husband’s career. Research might aid her in choosing the right clothes, or menu; she could perfect the skill of flower arranging to make a fashionable centrepiece for the table; but when it came to making suitable conversation with the other wives, she would be found lacking. No, it would not be fair to inflict herself on a husband.
Mother, however, resolutely miscalculates her suitability for marriage, and assumes that she will move back and take an administrative position at the bank where Father works, until she finds a match. She has told Margaret, with some pride, that she has recently taken it upon herself to make enquiries about the marital status of her friends’ sons (taking care not to mention ‘Cambridge’ or ‘Mathematics’, lest it put them off).
Blackpool is a necessary compromise to Margaret’s escape, but she has discovered that it suits her better than she could have imagined. If only she can prove herself, there is a real possibility she might be asked to stay on after the summer season is finished, or be invited to take up another post elsewhere. Who knows where the opportunities might lead – to which organisations or government departments? And if she can only stay away long enough to become an irredeemable spinster, even Mother will have to admit defeat.
The secretive nature of her role provides the perfect screen behind which to hide. She can say, with all honesty, that she is not in a position to discuss the important work she is doing. And Blackpool is too far away for her parents to make an impromptu visit. Not that her father is capable of acting impulsively. Not any more.
Mother would be horrified to know that the curtains hang limply at her window, that the brass bedstead is tarnished, the mattress sagging. Some of the other researchers have been blighted with an infestation of bed bugs. The spots on their arms add an air of authenticity when they try to infiltrate a group of sunbathers on the beach but, having seen how persistently they scratch, Margaret has become fastidious about prevention: she regularly strips off the mattress and applies Keating’s insect powder to the crevices between the slats. Last night she woke convinced that she could feel the crawl of something on her skin and jumped out of bed to check every inch of the sheets. After that, she could manage only a fitful rest, turning over the events of the evening, trying to make sense of what had happened. But every time she was on the verge of an answer, sleep would interrupt her logic and lead her on a winding path. Thank goodness for the stranger who stepped in. What was his name? She is unsure whether she failed to ask or has forgotten the answer. At the time, her pride did not allow her to imagine the full implications of what might have happened if he had not been there, but in her sleep the memories return: the smell of ale, fingers clutching at her waist. She wakes again and finds red marks on her skin where she has been scratching.
Usually, Margaret applies the principles of mathematics to everyday life. Like every other woman, she makes thousands of these assessments every day: the result of a particular meal on her figure, the probability that the group of men on the street corner might jeer or attack. The difference is that Margaret knows she is doing it, understands the mechanics of the process, draws comfort from the reliability of the numbers. But last night she ignored the risks and put herself in danger. She got carried away and did not stop to make the calculation. Had she done so, she concludes, it would have been obvious that she was at a significant disadvantage. The combined physical strength of the two men, coupled with her suspicions about their moral weakness, should have been enough to make her think twice about following them outside. And the environmental conditions, a dark passageway with limited options of escape, should have made her abandon the plan altogether. Margaret is disappointed, not in them, but in herself.
