The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 20
‘Are you all on your own, love?’ The young woman holds the two top corners of the bag and swings it round to close the top.
‘Mmmm.’ Not anticipating conversation, Margaret has already put the sweet into her mouth.
‘Never mind. You can buddy up with us. Can’t she?’ She turns to her companions, who nod their assent. Sitting so closely, it is difficult for Margaret to get a good view of the woman. She has fair hair, she can see that much, curled under just above the shoulder. And she is what Mother would disparagingly call ‘shapely’, encroaching a little on Margaret’s seat. ‘You haven’t been on holiday on your own?’
‘No, I work here,’ Margaret says carefully, fearing the sweet may fall out of her mouth.
‘I’d love to work in Blackpool, me. Be here all the time. There’s so much going on, isn’t there?’
‘There certainly is.’
‘Mind you. Then I’d have nothing to look forward to. It’s the coming for a week as makes it special. What do you do for a job?’ She crunches the sweet loudly between her back teeth and Margaret wonders if she should do the same, just to get rid of it.
‘I’m a researcher.’
‘Researching what?’
Too late, she has missed the window of opportunity to chew and swallow, so tucks the sweet safely into her cheek. ‘Holidays. How people spend their money, that sort of thing …’ It’s suitably vague. She is not giving anything away about the project, and she finds that she is interested in hearing this young woman’s opinion. ‘… Whether they behave differently when they are away from home, take more risks.’
The woman thinks about this carefully and passes the bag of sweets back along the row. ‘We might go a bit daft, but we don’t change as people, do we? Anyway, the whole town’s here together. We wouldn’t get away with much. Even if we wanted to!’
‘I’d never thought of that.’ But it is obvious now she’s said it; Wakes Weeks mean every community takes its turn, everyone holidaying with the neighbours they’ll be going home with.
‘We’ve had a grand time. I’m completely spent up. Not a penny left. My last shilling went this morning. The Headless Girl – have you seen that one?’
‘I have. Horrible isn’t it?’
‘Yes!’ She laughs. ‘And clever. Amazing what they can do these days! I don’t know how they think them up. Still can’t quite work out how they did it. Magic!’
Margaret goes to explain the mirrored box but decides not to shatter the illusion. ‘It was.’
The woman smiles and turns back to her friends, who are whispering about a young man sitting across the compartment. They are far from subtle in their attempts to sneak a look at him, but he shows little interest, engrossed as he is in a newspaper. The front page announces that Chamberlain has once again flown out to meet with Hitler in Germany, and Margaret wonders if the man has read the article in full. She pictures him in uniform, watches his reflection in her window; a muted image, projected against the blur of buildings and trees; a jaw and the bottom of a cheek, a hand scratching the dark curls on the top of his head. She can appreciate why these girls think him handsome.
He looks at the countryside outside and for a moment, the reflection of two dark eyes meets her own. Instinctively, she turns away. Her first instinct: panic. She pretends to study the magazine the woman beside her has opened. Then she feels foolish for thinking he would be looking. Just because she can see him so clearly, doesn’t mean he can see her. He is probably watching Blackpool disappear into the distance, interested to know if he can still see the Tower from here, estimating how many miles they have travelled by the number of minutes since they boarded. She’s surprised to realise she hasn’t been doing that herself, and risks another look at him. Even if he has a view of her from where he is sitting, it isn’t really her face he can see: just angles of light deflected off a sheet of glass. She thinks he catches her eye again but this time she does not turn away. She tells herself that they are just two strangers, watching the landscape fly past, spotting animals on hillsides, and church spires in the distance. But his eyes are not snagging on anything on the other side of the glass. They are completely still. Fixed on her.
They play an unspoken game: watching each other while pretending not to see. She lets him study her, busies herself by checking the contents of the carpet bag on her lap, and she can’t be sure but she imagines she can feel his eyes on her cheeks, on her chin, on her lips. On her reflection. Only her reflection. But she wants them to stay there. Bolder now, she turns back to the window again, only vaguely aware of the changes outside – the greens of hills giving way to the dingy red of sooted bricks which steal the light and make her view of him sharper in relief. She barely notices that the carriage is falling quieter.
By the time the train pulls into Preston station, parents instruct their children to ‘make sure you’ve got everything’ in a whisper. There is a silent scramble to gather belongings. The girl sitting next to her drops her magazine on the floor. Margaret bends down to retrieve it. And by the time she looks back, the man’s reflection is gone. In the moment before she steps down onto the platform, she scans the crowd for him, disappointed that she won’t see his face in three dimensions. But at least he won’t see hers. The reality would expose their imperfections: the blemishes and the scars. And what would she say to him if he tried to start a conversation? The window had not afforded her the opportunity to see who he had travelled with or how worn his clothes might have been. Perhaps he was a mill worker. Perhaps he believed she was the same: just another holidaymaker returning from Blackpool. Perhaps he looked at her and didn’t find her lacking. She is grateful for that trick of the light.
Now she is boarding another train with the hope of new opportunities. But what does he have to look forward to? When she took the job with Mass Observation, James told her the worktowners lived by a routine of mere existence: long hours, dangerous conditions, poor pay, no prospects. For the first time, she feels guilty for play-acting a life that is not really her own; for dressing up, and pretending that she is one of them; for hiding her education and denying her advantages. If they knew, they’d think she was lucky that she could go back to her own life whenever she wanted. Though that would suggest that she belonged to a life somewhere else.
The exchange on the train has given her some confidence. Reminded her that Harrisson will not be scrutinising her, he’ll be seeing her reflection in her work. She can use the data to show him what he wants to see. Davidson has taught her that. All she needs to do is make Harrisson believe she is professional, that she is worthy. All she needs to do is keep pretending. It’s what she does best.
It’s the white sheets on the hotel bed that disarm her. They smell so fresh, and have been pressed and smoothed so thoroughly that she is reluctant to turn them back and climb inside. This is the life that the worktowners would envy. A hotel in Knightsbridge with damask curtains thick enough to block out all the light, and a porter who carries her carpet bag up to her bedroom, unlocks the door and invites her to step inside. There is no chatter on the landing, no sounds of girls rushing between rooms. No Maude. She should be relishing every moment but she cannot sleep. There is not much medicine left and if she drinks it now, there won’t be any to settle her nerves before tomorrow’s meeting. Then again, unless she gets some sleep tonight, she’ll be too exhausted to make a good impression anyway. She is no longer used to lying in the pitch dark; best to open the curtains a little and let some moonlight in. That way, the rising sun will wake her in the morning and she’ll have plenty of time to prepare, and find a chemist. All things considered, it’s better that she has a sip now to help her on her way to sleep.
Even before she climbs out of bed she feels the rush of relief, her senses heightened as her bare feet feel their way across the floor. She drops to her knees and takes her time reaching for the bag, her hands lingering on the tapestry of the fabric. She is shaking now, delving to the very bottom where she swaddled the bottle in folded clothing. Lifting it carefully she unscrews the top: the scrape of metal against glass. She should save a little for tomorrow. Just in case. But she ignores the bargain she has made with herself and tips her head too far, holds it in her mouth as long as she can before swallowing, then reasons that there is barely a sip left in the bottle. She may as well finish it. She’ll have time to buy more in the morning. She’ll wake early. She always does. No need to open the curtains now. Sleep is coming to find her in the darkness.
Dreams dance just under the surface but dart away before she can reach out and touch them. She is somewhere far deeper. Unaware of the lack of broken bedsprings, unable to register the fact the frame does not creak every time she turns. But she hardly moves anyway. Her neck is stiff when she finally wakes, after being so many hours in the same position. It is still dark in the room, but the curtains are outlined with a margin of bright light. Margaret turns on the lamp beside her bed and looks at her watch. It is after eight o’clock. She is due at Harrisson’s house in less than an hour.
31
She can feel the panic in her chest. Her heart beats with such violence that she fears it will split in two; it pulses in her throat, which tightens with every step. She can feel the sweat beneath her arms, can imagine how red her face must look, damp fingers burning with the effort of holding onto her carpet bag. Being late is what she dreams about at night, limbs mired in a pavement that turns viscous beneath her feet, body blown backwards by a relentless wind. It feels now as if those nightmares were prophetic: she’ll never get to Harrisson’s house on time. Ladbroke Road seems to stretch on forever. The houses are set back behind hedges and gates that make it difficult to read the numbers, each frontage so grand that it takes her between seventeen and twenty-two steps to cross them. The comfort of counting is the only thing that is moving her forward. If she doesn’t keep her thoughts busy, they will spiral.
By the time she reaches number 82 she is six minutes late. She should rush straight up to the door, but she can’t bring herself to do it. She stands instead on the pavement and contemplates turning back. Harrisson must be despairing of her. She imagines him sitting at his desk, looking at his watch. In fact, in all likelihood he will have put it back into his pocket by now. He will already have tutted and turned his attention to another task. Her lateness is unpardonable. There is no excuse for it, but if she goes inside he’ll expect her to provide him with one, and that will be even more humiliating, will make her look even more inept. Any hope of impressing him is gone: not only is she late, but she is incomplete. Her body is standing on the pavement but her mind has raced away. It is untethered, wild, running in circles, untamed and unpredictable. She knows this feeling too well; there is no reasoning with it. She needs the hip flask but without morphine all she can do is wait for it to tire, to run out of energy; only then can she overpower it and put it back on the leash.
‘Ah, Miss Finch!’ She jumps at the voice and turns to see a tall, dark-haired man walking towards her. He is smoking a pipe, smiling widely between puffs, his gait unhurried and carefree, his arms swinging by his sides. ‘Is it that time already? I always like to take a walk after breakfast. Sets me up for the day. And I very often lose all track. But, where are my manners?’ He offers her his hand and she shakes it, conscious of the fact that her palm is slick with sweat. ‘Tom Harrisson. Do come in.’ He opens the gate and gestures for her to go through, then leads her up the stairs to the front door. Apart from a pair of white pillars, she thinks the building brutally angular. Within seconds of Harrisson ringing his own door bell, a maid appears, in a black dress and embroidered white apron, who welcomes them into a large hallway with a wide staircase that doglegs up to a landing above. Margaret hardly registers the fact that she has been relieved of her jacket before Harrisson strides through a doorway into a large room on their left. ‘Do take a seat,’ he says, gesturing to an armchair positioned in front of a desk. ‘And, Hughes,’ he says, sticking his head back out into the hallway. ‘Some tea please.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Margaret goes to sit, but there is a typed document on the armchair. There are piles of folders everywhere, held down with fossils as paperweights. Books and folded newspapers stacked at intervals on the floor. You couldn’t call it chaotic – there appears to be order to the arrangement – but cluttered, certainly. The furniture is ornate and fussy, outdated and feminine. Every inch not covered in reports is home to a collection of china: Sèvres vases in dark green and gold, a pagoda that she assumes to be a serving dish. There’s a sculpture of a moustachioed man in a bicorn hat who is fanning himself in the corner; the bronze of an elephant, barely visible amongst the correspondence on the desk. The effect is overwhelming.
‘Ah, sorry. Let me …’ he says, taking the paperwork from the seat and considering the piles on the floor for a moment before laying it on top of one of them. Margaret sits and silently tries to calm her thoughts, which are still zig-zagging.
‘I hope the hotel was satisfactory, Miss Finch.’
‘Very comfortable, thank you.’
‘Quite a contrast to your usual accommodation, I should think!’ He empties the contents of his pipe into an ashtray. ‘I did my own spell of undercover work in Bolton you know. Quite an adventure. Fortunately, I had friends up there who would invite me to stay at weekends – so I could go back to civilisation. They let me keep some clothes there. One evening I wore clogs and a cap with my dinner suit. The other guests thought it was a riot!’ Margaret is aware she is expected to laugh at this story, but she can’t. She should, at least, take part in the conversation but she can’t trust herself to say the right thing. Or rather, not to say the wrong thing. Her mind is trying to date the porcelain. French? Nineteenth century. It is all very ugly, whatever it is. She wants to ask him why he would collect such tasteless pieces. But she mustn’t do that. ‘So tell me, Margaret, what are your lodgings like? Are they filthy? Any problems with vermin? The sordid boarding house is, to the observer, what the entrails of the dogfish are to the zoologist,’ he says, tapping his pipe excitedly, ‘the material of science.’
‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘Clean enough.’
‘Oh,’ he looks disappointed. ‘But what about your landlady? I’ll bet she’s a character. These northern matriarchs are formidable women, aren’t they?’
Margaret can feel herself becoming angry, and begins to fear that she will not be able to hide it. He wants to revel in the misery of her situation but she is not going to give him anecdotes to share with his friends at the next dinner party. ‘She’s been very kind,’ she says, careful to keep her voice neutral.
‘That’s good.’ He doesn’t sound convinced and this irritates her more.
‘In fact, I admire Mrs Crankshaw very much,’ she says. ‘It’s a difficult life for her on her own.’
This detail seems to rally him a little. ‘Is she a widow then or has her husband run off? That’s very common amongst the working classes.’ He reaches for a notepad under some newspapers on his desk and jots something on it. ‘Worth gathering some data on that. I’ll ask James.’ At the mention of his name, Margaret feels suddenly vulnerable, as though Harrisson is testing her. But she tells herself he would know nothing of what has happened between them. Then reminds herself that nothing has happened.
Startled by a knock on the study door, she turns to see the maid carrying in a tray of tea. ‘Thank you, Hughes,’ Harrisson says. ‘Just here is fine.’ He clears some reports to one side. ‘Miss Finch has just arrived from Blackpool – say something to stop her feeling homesick!’ Hughes pours the tea without a word. ‘Don’t be shy,’ he pushes. ‘Do that one you did for the chaps the other day. About the tea.’
Handing Margaret a cup, without making eye contact, Hughes speaks, in a monotonous tone: ‘Ther’s a brew for thee lass. I bet tha’s spitting feathers. Go on. Tret tha’self to some sugar wi’ it.’
Margaret takes the drink from her, aware that Harrisson is watching for a reaction. ‘Thank you,’ she says, simply. ‘Which part of Lancashire are you from?’
‘Burnley.’ The colour coming to the woman’s cheeks could be mistaken for embarrassment but Margaret senses the heat of defiance.
Harrisson chimes in: ‘We like her to use her accent around the house. Cheers the place up! And I find I still have so much of it to study. You’re a great one for dialect in your reports, Margaret. What was that one the other day – scrieking? Can you translate, Hughes?’
Margaret has a deep sense of shame that her work is being used against this woman, who is being exhibited like a sideshow act in Harrisson’s home. These words, this accent, are no longer exotic to Margaret. Yes, she has collected their sayings as curiosities and she still enjoys guessing their derivations; working out how, over time, the speaking of a phrase in haste, or over the deafening noise of mill machines, may have led to a shortening, or distortion of the original. Words have lives of their own, journeys that they take. The relationship between what we say and what we mean is constantly shifting. But men like Harrisson view this richness of dialect and accent as if it is an affectation, a deviance designed to entertain or antagonise him.
‘It means cryin’,’ Hughes says, ‘sir.’
‘Cryiiin’,’ he mimics her vowel sounds. ‘But of course you already knew that, Margaret. I suppose you’ve grown accustomed to the language while you’ve been living there.’
‘It is what people are saying that is of interest, Mr Harrisson. Not the way they say it.’
