The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 25
‘Margaret.’
‘Well, you may as well make yourself useful now you are here. Pass me a cloth from that bucket.’ Margaret hesitates and the girl steps up to the bars. ‘You don’t have to come in. Just pass it through here.’ Her hand reaches out, palm open. Margaret sees that one of the buckets is full of water and, plunging her hand inside, finds it is lukewarm. She lifts out a small hand towel that is frayed and full of holes.
‘That’s it. Wring it out. I don’t want to get my costume wet.’
Margaret does as she is asked and reaches up to pass the cloth.
‘Freddie here is not known for his table manners, are you, boy?’ The girl cups the lion’s chin and wipes his beard. Margaret can see streaks of pink on the towel, dried blood mixing with the water. ‘Can you pass the brush please? The other bucket, there.’
It’s the sort of brush one might use to groom a horse. Again, Margaret does as she is asked, sliding it along the floor of the cage so she doesn’t have to reach through the bars.
‘That’s better!’ the girl says, pulling the tangles out of his mane tenderly. ‘You’re almost presentable. And what about you, Miss Toto?’ At the sound of her name the lioness steps forward and stands still as the fur on her head and flanks is smoothed down; she starts to buckle at the knees and sway a little, evidently enjoying the sensation. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to go and take your seat now,’ the girl says, laying down the brush and turning back towards the cage door. ‘I’ll be taking them in for the show. I hope Harold’s ready.’
Margaret watches the girl ease back the lips of the lioness to reveal four yellowed teeth, each sharpened into a point longer than her own fingers. It reminds her of the moment, weeks ago, when Davidson tried to do the same: inspecting her as though she were an animal herself. ‘Tell him we’re on in ten minutes, would you?’
‘I will.’ Margaret stays long enough to watch the girl conclude that the lioness ‘looks dazzling’ and plant a kiss on its nose. Walking round to the other side of the trailer, she spots the crate but no Davidson, just the stub of a cigar on the ground beside it, the last embers still burning at its tip. She tries the door to get back into the building but it must be locked from the inside. James will think she has forgotten him; she has been gone much longer than she intended. She tries another door, also locked, and walks further, hoping that she will find a gate to get back to the main entrance at the front. In the narrow passageway that runs between the wall and the fence, she is relieved to see Davidson’s back. He is talking to someone. Two people. So deep in conversation that he does not hear her coming. His arm is raised, bearing his weight against the brickwork. He looks relaxed, nothing like a man who is about to step into a cage of lions.
Even from this distance she can hear his voice. ‘Those tickets got you in all right, ladies? No problems at the gate?’ The two young women watch her approach but he remains oblivious. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the chance to see Freddie and Toto,’ he tells them, ‘but if you’d like to come back here again after my little performance, I’d be happy to introduce you.’
Margaret taps him on the shoulder and tells him the show will start in ten minutes. ‘I’ll be there,’ he says. But he does not turn to look at her. ‘That’s Miss Finch,’ he tells the two women. ‘She is writing a report on me. All top secret. But I wanted to help her get ahead, get noticed by her superiors, you know. And she has been very grateful for the opportunity.’ He pauses and speaks over his shoulder. ‘Followed me all the way to Skegness, haven’t you, Margaret? To write about my new show.’ He still hasn’t turned to acknowledge her; hasn’t introduced the two women.
‘That report’s all finished,’ she says.
He turns to face her now. ‘Surely not. There’s still a lot of interest in my case.’
‘I can’t see that there is anything left to say,’ she says. ‘I think I got a pretty good idea of the sort of man you are.’
‘So you haven’t come to—?’
‘No. But I’ll stay and watch the show. I want to see how you do it. Knowing you, there will be some sort of artifice involved.’
She doesn’t pause for him to answer; she is already walking away. ‘I’m glad I got to see you again,’ she says, to herself. And she is. She has got what she came for. She doesn’t need to look back to know that Davidson will not lift a hand to wave goodbye. He will not notice she has gone. Too busy acting; too consumed with playing the lead role in his own life to take note when someone enters the stage or leaves it.
38
She finds James sitting just where she left him, staring at his hands, which are laid, palm down, on his knees. He does not notice her until she takes her seat beside him. ‘Are you all right?’ she says. He does not look up at her. ‘I saw the lions. I was wrong, they are real.’
‘Oh?’ One of his legs is jiggling up and down.
‘A lion and a lioness. Freddie and Toto. I’m on first-name terms.’
‘Oh, right.’ She watches him tap his fingers on the tops of his thighs. There’s a good minute of silence and then he says, ‘What were they like?’
‘Absolutely terrifying!’ He turns to her then, and she feels such relief. Perhaps there is still a chance she can make things right. She shifts very slightly along the bench – an inch, maybe less – but it’s enough that she can feel the heat from his body. She tries not to react when they make contact. ‘It’s getting crowded in here now, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘I’m sorry I left you sitting here on your own.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘I think so.’
‘I had something I wanted to ask him.’
‘Right.’ He worries at a small spot on his trouser leg – a spill from the fish and chip supper, Margaret assumes.
‘And did you?’ he says.
‘No.’ He is only going to make the stain worse, rubbing it like that. He’ll work the grease into the fabric. Best to leave it until he can wash it properly. ‘In the end there was no need. To ask him, I mean.’ In the end she knew the answer herself. Davidson hadn’t left because of her. She hadn’t upset him. Shocked or offended him. She was beneath his notice.
Margaret looks around at the rows behind them. Families pass bags of sweets along the line to each other, children complaining that a brother or sister is taking too much time or more than their share.
James speaks suddenly. ‘I should have come with you. I didn’t like you being alone with him. A man like that.’
‘He’s harmless!’ She turns to look at him but his eyes are still fixed on his knees.
‘But he might have …’
‘There was never anything like that. Not with me.’
There is silence and then he speaks again. ‘But those women. The trial. He was guilty of—’
‘—of wanting to feel important.’
‘Improper relationships, Margaret. That’s what got him into trouble.’
‘Yes, and I admit it – I believed him. There were many things about that trial that didn’t seem right – didn’t seem fair. And I thought I could save him, I suppose.’ She looks around the auditorium. ‘I thought I could save him from all this.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll never know.’ Because there isn’t only one version of it. Of him: Davidson, Harold, the Prostitutes’ Padre, the Rector of Stiffkey. ‘And what does it matter, in the end? I believe he used those girls. There’s more than one way of doing that.’
Davidson told her once that his story was a tragedy but she sees now that it is a farce. A man whose biggest fear is that he won’t be talked about or remembered. ‘There was never any danger he’d be inappropriate with me.’
‘But come on, Margaret. He must have had thoughts … I wouldn’t blame him …’
‘You wouldn’t?’ She means the question as a joke. For so long, the idea that she could inflame anyone’s desire has been ridiculous. She thought she’d proved as much that night she tried to kiss Davidson. But James is not laughing.
‘Of course I wouldn’t. You’re …’ He finds her hand, which is resting on her lap. ‘Any man would … But I’m not … I have grown very fond of you these past few months. But I can’t ask you to waste your time on someone like me.’
‘Someone like you?’
‘I’ve never had the … I hear the other researchers talking at HQ and it’s … I’d come to terms with the fact that I’d probably spend my life alone. That I’d be happier to … But then, all this.’ He squeezes her hand beneath his. ‘It’s rather confused things.’
‘It has.’ She is grinning so widely that she can hardly get the words out, her throat so tight that her voice sounds strange.
‘You think I’m ridiculous.’ He takes his hand away.
‘No, I … It’s me. I’m the one who’s … I’m not like other women. You said it yourself.’
‘But I didn’t mean … I’m not making myself clear, I—’
‘It’s all right. I’ve always known I’m—’
‘Exceptional,’ he says, turning so suddenly towards her that she doesn’t have time to look away.
‘I was going to say different.’
‘That too! Extraordinary, uncommon, marvellous!’
She reaches for his hand again and wraps her little finger around his, grasping it tightly. And she tells him everything: in that tiny gesture she pulls every part of him towards every part of her. His forefinger grazes her thigh and she does not draw away from the touch.
‘What a coincidence,’ she says. ‘Those are exactly the words I would use to describe you!’
‘So …?’
She nods, and they sit side by side, both staring at their entwined hands, neither saying a word. They jump as music strikes up from the back of the auditorium, and turn to see the last few audience members settling in. Margaret watches as two girls walk down the steps of the central aisle and take the two last seats on the end of their row.
‘I saw them backstage,’ she whispers. ‘Friends of his.’
‘He is friends with a lot of young women.’
‘He is indeed.’
‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, GIRLS AND BOYS …’ The announcement makes Margaret grip the front of her seat.
‘This is it!’ she whispers.
‘I’ll get to see the famous rector at last.’
‘I hope you’re not disappointed!’
She hears a metallic squeak and watches as the curtains judder into motion. At every sideshow she has ever been to, Margaret has noted how the crowd leans forward to get a better view. The curtains part, slowly at first, revealing the girl standing in a spotlight behind the bars. She is still wearing the sand-coloured shirt and on her head is a safari hat. She is perfectly still, her arms outstretched, and as the curtains widen the audience can see metal chains wrapped around her hands, attached to something hidden at the dark edges of the stage. The curtains stop suddenly, swinging back towards each other. She tugs on the chains and both lions growl, making the audience cower so violently that several people cry out. James reaches for Margaret’s hand again and she hooks her thumb around his little finger to keep it there.
‘… FREDDIE AND TOTO …’
The curtains are fully open now. Everyone is sitting completely still, not one of them taking their eyes off the lions.
‘… AND MR HAROLD DAVIDSON, FORMER RECTOR OF STIFFKEY.’
There is a commotion at the back of the room and Margaret turns to see Davidson walking towards the stage, pausing to shake the hands of men sitting either side of the aisle. She can feel James’s hand twitch on hers, as though he is about to move it, but she squeezes his fingers gently.
‘Welcome!’ Davidson says, lifting a cane in greeting. ‘You will know, of course, that the Bible tells us the story of Daniel …’ Another sermon. Margaret already knows it will be a variation on the theme she has heard innumerable times before, about his innocence and the hypocrisy of the Church, but in this incarnation he is not Diogenes in a barrel, or the starving rector; he is not being prodded by mechanical devils or encased in a coffin of ice. ‘Daniel, who was thrown to the lions, punished for his faith in our Lord God …’
The lions sit obediently in the cage behind him, wearing the disdainful expression of two housecats woken from a nap in the sun. One licks its paw and begins to groom behind its ears, the other stands slack-jawed. Margaret can see it sniffing the air, its whole head twitching as it draws in breath through its mouth.
Davidson talks for several minutes more. She can see his eyes sweeping across the rows of people in the audience; there’s a brief moment of recognition when he sees her, but he does not linger. It’s only fair that every person who has paid should return home saying they have seen the real Rector of Stiffkey and that he singled them out. He stays with each one just long enough. But Margaret watches his eyes snag on something. She doesn’t need to look to know that he has spotted the two young women he saw backstage. He seems distracted now. Has lost his train of thought.
The crowd is beginning to get restless: more interested in watching the tamer unwrap the chains from around the necks of the lions. They didn’t come to hear from Davidson, they came to see him risk his life in that cage. He will struggle to hold their interest for much longer. He raises his cane at intervals, and uses it to strike the bars of the cage. There, that got their attention. Both lions climb their front paws up the bars. Standing on their hind legs they must be ten feet tall.
‘And the Lord,’ he shouts, ‘sent an angel to prise open its jaws and save Daniel from the lion!’ He drags the cane along the bars and two paws swipe to catch it. The audience is rapt now.
‘Should he be doing that?’ James whispers.
It will all be part of the act. The tamer knows exactly what she is doing. But Margaret doubts any of them have noticed the look on her face. Or the fact that she has begun to move slowly backwards. She doubts that they can see that, without turning her back on them, she is pulling back a bolt on a door at the side of the cage and stepping out.
Davidson steps forward and opens his arms to the crowd – a posture reminiscent of the crucifixion. It’s all deliberate, Margaret thinks. All designed to put on the best show. And it works. Margaret can see him growing; she can see the brightness in his eyes: his own light reflected back at him by the crowd. He opens a second cage door, just behind him.
‘He’s really going to do it. He must be mad!’ James says. ‘Margaret, are you sure you want to …’
But they both know it is too late to leave now. There’s a cheer as Davidson steps into the cage, bolting the door behind him. Then absolute silence. The lions fall back onto all fours with such force that the stage shakes.
All part of the act. All rehearsed. All under control.
They are pacing now, back and forth along the length of the cage. Margaret hears the tamer’s calls to ‘calm down now, just calm down’, and is unsure whether she is talking to the animals or to Davidson himself. He lifts his cane, and the lions lower themselves to the floor, both rolling onto their backs as playfully as kittens. The crowd calls out in delight and Davidson flashes a smile and begins to pace back and forth.
He taps the cane into the palm of his other hand, as though deciding how next to subdue them, and there is laughter from the audience and suggestions to ‘put his head in its mouth’ or ‘take a ride on its back’.
His eyes keep returning to the girls in the crowd. He winks. A huge smile on his face. Margaret sees him stumble, step on a tail. And there is a flash of movement. So sudden that she can’t make sense of it.
She hears screaming, even before she sees the blood. She doesn’t know what has happened, but the lion is on its feet and Davidson is lying on the floor.
She knows that the person crying out a few rows back is a plant to cause hysteria. It is very well done. People are running out. James tries to pull her by the arm. But Margaret cannot move. She is fascinated by how Davidson is doing it. She knows, of course, that the blood that is seeping into the sawdust on the floor is carmine dye and glycerine. If these people wait long enough they will see it set too hard; they will see it is all a trick. Artificial claws paint lines of fake blood across Davidson’s face. Artificial blood on sharp teeth. They look like wild animals but Margaret has seen them stand while a young girl grooms their fur. She knows that they have been trained to perform: to roar and swipe, to lift Davidson as Freddie does now and carry him just as tenderly as they might lift a cub by the scruff of its neck. And Davidson is playing the role of his life. Kicking his legs, shouting out for help. His arms flail as his head disappears into Freddie’s jaws. She wonders if he keeps his eyes open. What it is he can see in there. And then he falls still.
She begins to clap. But nobody else is joining her. Surely James can appreciate the art of it. The tamer is unbolting the cage door. She is going inside. She is lashing out at Freddie with a rake. She is shouting get back. Get back. She is crouching down. Pulling Davidson by the foot. Dragging him towards the door.
The stage curtains are pulled across. They hide the blood that’s pooling in the sawdust on the floor. They hide the safari hat that has fallen off the girl’s head.
All part of the act. All rehearsed. All under control.
But still no one is clapping. No one but Margaret. She leans forward to lift the curtain but James pulls her back. They can hear shouting from the other side: Get him out. Call an ambulance. Lock the cage. For God’s sake, lock the cage. She has to get out. She has to get backstage. To see the trick. If she is quick, she will catch them laughing. She will congratulate them on their performance. She runs to the side door and down the corridor to the compound outside.
He is lying on the ground. Not moving. His shoe has come off. That must have happened when the girl was dragging him along the ground. His trousers are torn and he is covered in sawdust. And blood. He is covered in blood.
