The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 22
But Davidson was wrong about her. She is in control. She could step inside right now and choose to have a ginger beer. Prove him wrong. But her heart is racing again. She feels conspicuous, as if she has no business being here asking questions. She could find a chemist’s shop but she does not remember passing any. Setting off in one direction or another, she might not find a place in time. She might miss her chance to meet Claudette.
She is right not to risk it. Here she is. Almost unrecognisable from the woman who leaned out of the window. Chin-length brown hair styled into two rolls sweeping back from her face, freckles visible through a thin dusting of powder, eyelashes darkened and curled. She is wearing a tailored dress and short jacket, as though on her way to the office rather than stepping into a pub. ‘I thought you’d have started without me,’ she says, walking straight past Margaret, through the door, and heading straight over to an empty table near the window. ‘Pub’ll be closing for the afternoon.’ Margaret hesitates to join her; sitting down feels like a boundary she’ll be crossing, as though the act of doing so will commit her to having a drink.
‘Would it be better to speak in your rooms?’ she says. ‘More private.’
‘It’s a right mess up there,’ she says. ‘Haven’t cleared up since last night. Anyway, we’re here now, aren’t we? Time for a quick one. Sit down and let’s decide the fee.’
‘Fee? You misunderstand. That’s not how it works.’
‘It might not be how it works for you.’ Margaret is embarrassed by the directness of this statement, the unspoken suggestion that this woman is not just talking about the sale of information. The bell rings out for last orders. ‘Least you can do is buy me a drink to compensate me for my time. Mine’s a port and lemon.’
Margaret has to will herself to turn and walk to the bar. Every step heightening both desire and fear. ‘Port and lemon please.’ The barman does not bother to greet her. She hears the metal thread of a cap being worked loose, the gurgle of the alcohol displacing the air at the top of the bottle, the splash as it hits the bottom of the glass. A ceremony that quietens her thoughts momentarily. The ritual of anticipation. Just one wouldn’t hurt.
‘Anything else, love?’
The need within her makes her scalp burn. Her fingertips tingle. Perhaps an ale would be all right. A long drink. That hardly counts at all. And she wants to make this woman feel comfortable. ‘Half a stout please.’
She wants him to hurry up and pour it. No, she wants him to slow down. To stop. To discover he needs to change the barrel. To close the pub before he can serve her. She watches him pull the pump down, flick it back halfway and pause; watches the dark cloud swirl inside the glass; doesn’t want it to settle and bring the moment to an end. But he has already taken her money and Claudette is calling on her to hurry up. She lifts the two glasses and walks over to join her. ‘There you go.’
‘Thank you.’ She takes a sip then leans back on her chair. ‘But listen, if it’s Harold you’ve come to ask me about, I’ve said all I want to. I’ve put that behind me now. Not interested.’
‘I understand,’ Margaret says, gripping her own glass tightly. ‘I know him myself.’
‘Harold?’
‘Yes. I’ve been working in Blackpool. On a research project.’ She traces a line in the condensation that has formed on the glass.
‘About him?’
‘No. About people. Holidaymakers. To try to understand them better.’
‘So, what’s he got to do with it?’
‘He set himself up in a sideshow. Sitting in a barrel. Preaching about his innocence.’
Claudette rolls her eyes and lights a cigarette, and Margaret takes the opportunity to say more. ‘I went along and started to make a note of what people in the crowd were saying about him. Whether they believed him. He found out what I was doing and offered to tell me his story.’
‘I’m sure he did! Loves the sound of his own voice, that one. Bet he bored you to tears.’ Claudette takes another large sip of her port and lemon but Margaret doesn’t move. ‘So, if you’ve heard it, chapter and verse, from the rector himself, why come asking after me?’
‘Your … colleague …’ As soon as she says it, she wonders whether her reference to their line of work, however oblique, may have caused offence, but can see no sign of discomfort on Claudette’s face. ‘… Norma – she said you were the woman to speak to. How did you know him?’
‘How did I know him? Are you kidding?’
‘No, I—’
‘Do you not read the papers? I was on the front page for days.’
Her hair is different but Margaret can see now. How could she have missed it? A little older and a little less attractive than she appeared in the photographs, but it’s her. ‘Barbara?’ Barbara Harris. The one who gave evidence in court. ‘But your name …’
‘I changed it to Claudette after the trial. Don’t get me wrong, those newspapers brought in a few more punters to start with but it put more off than it persuaded. Men don’t want the services of a woman who’s given evidence in court. Makes them wonder if they’ll be next.’
‘I see.’ Margaret is still holding onto the glass. She is in control. She doesn’t have to rush to take that first sip. ‘He – Harold – told me for weeks all about the work he was doing to help girls who …’
‘Girls like me, you mean? It’s all right. You can say it.’ Claudette smiles a little, but it is forced.
‘He told me he was on a mission to help. But then I saw that photograph of him with …’
‘That actress who was starkers?’
‘Yes. I saw him for what he really is.’
‘An old fool? Sad really. Didn’t surprise me at all that those photographers tricked him like that. He’s easily taken in. Needs to feel wanted. Desperate for attention.’
‘You believe him? That he was tricked?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘Because all this time he’s been raising money for an appeal to prove he’s innocent. While you’re still here. Doing what you do … You’ve had to change your name. Aren’t you angry?’
‘I hardly think of him these days. It was all right while it lasted. Trips to the theatre. He paid my lodgings for a time. Took me to fancy places. But he wouldn’t play the game.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Most men know what they come to me for. They pay for what they get. And with Harold – I just wanted to get it over with. Keep my side of things. That way we’d both know where we stood.’
‘Norma said he wasn’t able to …’
‘That was the rumour among the girls. But I think he wanted to believe he was above all that. Better than other men. So, he sort of toyed with the idea. Always hanging around. Getting a right eyeful whenever he could. Coming to me in my room while I was getting changed. Getting into bed with me.’
‘In court he said you were the one that tried to force yourself on him …’
‘At least that would have got it over with and he might have buggered off. And yes, at first, I was taken in by him. He told me he could help me get work as an actress. Said he would introduce me to people from the theatre. But nothing came of it. And I soon realised what he was really after.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was always trying to change me. Wanting me to be respectable. Like I was some sort of pet that he could train. My saviour or something. Then those detectives came and found me and I finally thought I might have got my break – that was stupid an’ all. I’m still here ain’t I?’
For a moment, her composure slips. Margaret sees the slightest tremor in Claudette’s bottom lip, and before she has time to stop herself, reaches out and touches this stranger’s fingers with her own. ‘I can see how you’d have believed him,’ she says, gently. ‘I made the same mistake myself.’
Claudette looks out of the window. She lets her hand linger underneath Margaret’s briefly then removes it and busies herself with tidying her hair. ‘That’s what I can’t understand,’ she says, her voice suddenly brighter. ‘Why would he go after you?’ She studies Margaret, making no effort to hide the inspection. Margaret can hardly bear the intensity, the silence. She pretends not to notice. Reaches for the glass. Lifts it to her lips. Takes a sip of stout, another, then another.
‘I can’t imagine why he’d look twice at a woman like you.’ Claudette’s judgement hurts, but Margaret has spoken plainly to her without rebuke and it is only fair that she should do the same. ‘You’re too old for him for a start,’ she says, head slightly on one side, still staring. ‘He likes them young. So he can look after them. You’ve got everything going for you.’
Margaret takes another drink, barely giving herself time to swallow before the words rise inside her. ‘You don’t understand …’ Soon she’ll feel the swirl inside her head start to settle. She’ll feel the liquid consume her; feel it carried, with every rush of blood, into the deepest parts of herself. But when it comes, it is not the familiar warmth of comfort that greets her. It burns. It rouses. It sharpens. Instead of surrender it brings fight. She puts the glass down. She wants to hear this. She wants to get what she came for. ‘He wouldn’t. Not with me … I’m not like other girls.’
‘Lucky for you,’ Claudette says, with an edge of resentment. ‘You’re clever – I can see that. And not bad looking either – if you made a bit more of an effort. Everything Harold’s not when you think about it. He goes after girls who’ll look up to him. And you don’t need to be rescued, do you? You’ve got your own life to live.’ She grabs her clutch bag and stands. ‘But so have the rest of us.’
And Margaret is left sitting alone.
34
As soon as the train slows, Margaret gathers her belongings and makes her way to the door. The carriages are much quieter at this time of night, but her impatience has been building since she left London. She wants to be first onto the platform. There is no crowd to carry her through the exit onto the street outside, but she is compelled by her own desire to see it: Blackpool Tower standing proudly in the darkness, its prow cutting through a moon-drenched sky. She is home, greeted by the calls of the last of the street sellers, welcomed by the whisper of the sea which strains to find her on the breeze, the hairs on her arms reaching up to meet it. She feels as though she knows every inch of this town, every curve and every blemish. She knows its dazzling lights and its darkest corners. She has moved inside it. Crawled beneath its skin. Scrutinised it with the commitment of an obsessive lover. And it has laid itself open to her, let her undress it, probe, prise and examine; waiting patiently for her to realise that the secrets she was looking for were in plain view.
This town knows what it is, and so does everyone who comes to holiday here. It gives people what they want and they choose to play their part in the act. Blackpool’s veneer may be thin, the mask it wears may be crude, but that’s because it has no wish to hide its true nature. It is unapologetic in its reality, honest in its illusion. It knows that people do not look for the strings, the cogs, the powder. They look instead with wonder. They choose to look with love. Because love, after all, is a pact. It is knowing that the paint behind the façade is peeling, that every light is pointed to exaggerate or flatter. It is not denial of reality, it is a question of where you rest your focus. You are not being manipulated if you are complicit. If you choose to step onto the ride.
It is illogical, ridiculous, but she feels as though she owes this town an apology. She has the urge to put her arms around it. Nostalgia perhaps, because she has already decided she must leave. Leave Mass Observation behind. Facts can never tell the full story; she realises now they are less reliable than opinions because they have a dangerous authority. In isolation they are immovable. As unyielding as rock, as symbolic as statues. Erected and revered as proof that something is wholly good, or wholly bad. But the same set of circumstances can be strung together to tell unlimited stories. How else could Barbara have thought her – Margaret – worthy of admiration? Clever, confident – at first Margaret snapped the lid shut on those words, which only seemed to taunt, and magnify the faults she knew were there – but she spent the journey back to Blackpool gradually unwrapping them, feeling their weight, turning them in her hands. She wondered how a stranger could look at her and see a woman Margaret has never recognised in herself. And once she sat with those words, once she could bear to think of them without flinching or turning away, they grew familiar as if they had always been there. Was Barbara’s view of her mistaken because it did not match her own? Or could she come to know the woman she’d described? If only she chose to look for her. If she chose to look with love. To make a pact. With herself.
The prom is busy; there’s a tension in the crowd, an atmosphere, the air unusually still, voices carrying through the heat of the evening. Walking into the entrance at the foot of the Tower, she checks her carpet bag into the cloakroom. She had intended to take the lift to the top, and take in the town in its entirety, but she changes her mind. Remembers what James said. She too has been in Blackpool all these weeks and has never seen the famous ballroom. She has spent her days – and nights – lurking in alleyways, looking beneath upturned stones for the things that crawl beneath. As if truth is always hard-won. As if it has to be scavenged, or mined.
She can barely make it to the door, couples spilling out of the entrance, young men and women cheering, embracing, lighting cigarettes and clinking bottles of beer.
(‘I’ll drink to that!’)
(‘It’s put me in the mood to celebrate!’)
(‘It’s put me in the mood for sommat else!’)
A man grabs her as she tries to push past, sweeps her up into the air and spins her round. ‘How about it, love?’ He puts her down again just as swiftly and pats her back good-naturedly. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m getting carried away. But why not eh? In the circumstances.’
‘What circumstances?’ She has to shout above the chatter, above the music.
He turns to a small crowd of people nearby. ‘She hasn’t heard!’ Then, putting his arm around Margaret’s shoulder: ‘Chamberlain’s only gone and done it. Arrived back with a piece of paper signed by Hitler. Peace for our time, he’s calling it!’ The group cheers and surrounds her. It’s not going to happen. These young men are not going to be sent away. James is not going to be sent away. No war. No fighting.
Margaret is carried along and through the doors. She looks up. It’s like stepping into a cathedral. She is mesmerised by the sheer scale of the ballroom, but does not pause to estimate its dimensions. Its exact size is of no consequence to her; of no consequence to the couples who are moving across the floor. They have no time to stand still and appreciate the architecture or decoration. It is as if the building itself is watching the spectacle of so much life below. Painted women gaze down from the arched canopy of the ceiling; classical statues above the stage, so engrossed that they seem oblivious to their own nakedness.
Two levels of balconies undulate around the walls on either side, each curve marked with lights that make the golden plasterwork shine. Every surface is patterned: the floor in herringboned wood, the walls with scrolled latticework and creeping vines. But none of it can compete with the mass of movement. It reminds Margaret of a hive of bees. It looks effortless, instinctive. Every couple charting their own path across the floor, without appearing to look where they are going. They swarm to the same beat, a rhythmic shuffle that moves every foot and bends every knee. When Margaret closes her eyes, she can feel it: the floor is pulsing beneath her feet, encouraging, prompting, insisting that she answer the call. It drives through her legs, up into her body; it shakes her from the inside: a rallying cry.
Opening her eyes again, she finds a point within the crowd; allows her focus to soften. Now she no longer sees the couples dancing, but a blur of colours. She doesn’t have to try to make her body move, she only needs to stop fighting it. The music does the work, once she surrenders to it; it makes her sway from side to side, shows her feet how to take their turns to move, weight shifting from one to another. Her hips follow, her arms shaking gently by her sides. The rhythm makes its way into her neck, her head; it finds her tongue which rubs against the back of her front teeth as though they are the keys of a piano. No one is watching. Only the painted frescoes and the naked statues. And what do they care? What does she care?
‘May I have this dance?’
Before she knows it she is holding the hand of a young man who is leading her onto the floor. ‘I don’t know the steps,’ she tries to say, but he is not waiting for an answer. He’ll never hear her above the music anyway. Finding a space amongst the couples, he slips his free hand around her waist and begins to guide her. Margaret has no choice; she is carried along by the movement of the couples around her. She looks down and tries to watch her partner’s feet to see if she can discern a pattern.
‘Are you going to let me lead or what?’ he says, holding her hand more firmly as he manoeuvres her backwards.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m no good at this. You should find a partner who—’
‘Come on. We’re here now.’
A couple knocks into them and apologises, laughing as they change direction and dance away. Now she looks around there is a lot of that going on, small collisions and overcrowding, but it all seems good-natured. ‘You need to relax a bit,’ her partner says, raising his voice so that she can hear him, but forgetting his proximity to her ear. She closes her eyes again and tries to tune into the rhythm pulsing through the floor. ‘That’s it!’ he says, keen to take the credit for any progress she might make. ‘Hold tight.’
She lets herself be taken around the floor. She does not count the beats; she does not notice when the song ends and another begins; when the foxtrot becomes a waltz. When her partner talks to her, she does not listen. When he thanks her and leaves her, she continues to dance, swept up by another stranger. The steps are no longer a riddle to be solved, or a pattern to study. She goes wherever she is led, dizzy from all the turning. It’s a feeling like the first sip of alcohol – a lungful of air when you are gasping for breath – but it is not wearing off. The sensation is so similar: the slowing of her thoughts, the dulling of pain. When she drinks the world becomes hazy and her own boundaries soften. She feels less conspicuous, less wrong, less lonely. That’s how it feels now. As if she is moving so quickly that the edges of her are blurred. But the strange thing is that her senses feel sharper: the colours look brighter, the music so loud that she can feel it running through her. She can feel every muscle moving, the bounce of the ball of her foot. She can feel her hair lifting as she spins, exposing her neck, a strand catching on her lips. The mind has nothing to teach the body, she thinks. We do not learn how to breathe, how to digest, how to bleed, how to dance. We do it instinctively. Perhaps the mind should follow its lead.
