The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 4
‘Oh?’ James looks up at her; the jerk of his head is so sudden that the loupe is dislodged. He catches it as it falls. ‘Was that Irish fellow outside? Selling yo-yos?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I didn’t see—’
‘Yo-yos. You know, little discs of wood. With string wrapped around them.’ He lays the boat on the desk, flicking his arm up and down in demonstration, and she glimpses the child he once was. ‘Yo-yos; you bounce them.’
She does know. She knows exactly what he is describing but he is so earnest in his excitement that she doesn’t have the heart to stop him. She imagines his mind is much like this room: a miscellany of oddities and memories. Poorly organised.
‘Come in all different colours …’ he says. ‘He was selling them last Thursday. Or was it Wednesday? But no one’s seen him since.’
‘I’ll look out for him.’ She takes off her jacket and goes to hang it on the stand in the corner, which is being gradually taken over by James’s collection of flat caps.
‘Put that back on,’ he says, standing suddenly. His tone is abrupt. Perhaps he does know what happened last night. ‘We’re going straight out again.’
‘We are?’
‘There’s something I need to do. Can’t put it off any longer.’
She can see his discomfort. Disciplining a member of his team will not come easily to a man like James. The white-haired man reported back. And now she is going to lose this job. Is going to have to return home. To Mother.
Is it too late to make her case? Explain? ‘Can I just—?’
‘No time.’ He picks up a black box and hangs it on a strap around his neck. ‘Come along.’
6
James strides past her into the hallway with the obvious expectation that she should follow. Easier to just hand in her resignation, spare them both the embarrassment, get it over with here and now. But ‘Time to go!’ he says. And she knows that there is little point in registering any objection. He won’t listen. It is not that he is stubborn or arrogant like other men she knows, it is that he is all too often in a world of his own. And today he is even more distracted. Anxious to get to wherever they are going.
‘I need a decoy,’ he says, ushering her out of the front door and leaving the key beneath a garden gnome on the front step.
A decoy. Such an unexpected word. Margaret’s shame is usurped by curiosity.
‘I’ve been working on it for several weeks,’ he says, his knuckles white as he grips the box around his neck. ‘I think it’s pretty much there. That’s why I need your help.’
So, he doesn’t plan to send her home? The relief she feels is instant, her body stalling as she takes a breath. ‘What is?’ she says, struggling to keep up. ‘Would you mind if we … Could you slow down a bit?’
‘Yes, sorry, you’re right. We should walk together. Makes us look more convincing.’
She isn’t sure what they are supposed to be convincing people of. He hasn’t answered her question. There only ever seems to be room for one subject at a time in James’s brain. As soon as a new thought comes to him, the one before is ejected. She can tell he has already forgotten her request to slow down, his pace now akin to a gallop, and she briefly considers asking him where they are going but, already out of breath, she can’t afford to expel energy on needless words. The pavements become busier as they draw close to the seafront and James seems to grow smaller; he walks through the crowds with his head down, his elbows tucked into his body, saying not another word until they reach the Golden Mile.
She has never seen so many people. There must be thousands, swarming and clamouring. Since she walked the prom, not an hour before, they have multiplied. The sea beside looks cowed by so much humanity; gentle waves beating an apologetic re-treat. They step between parked cars, which sound their horns. Not parked at all, but stuck in a queue. Carts, buses and trams, brought to a standstill by the people who have spilled out into the road. Every window is filled with figures, the roof of every stall supporting several bodies. One man has even climbed up a flagpole to get a better view of the scene.
‘Dear God,’ says James, drawing closer to her. ‘Let’s cut back and go through the backstreets. Too many people, it’s—’
‘What’s going on?’ There’s something about the mood of the crowd, a sharp edge, which makes her stomach contract; fear or excitement, she can’t be sure.
‘Margaret …’ James tugs on her sleeve and she turns to him. He’s pale. ‘We need to get on. Somewhere much quieter.’
She is torn by a desire to find out what’s happening and a reluctance to disobey her supervisor. ‘But I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she says. ‘It must be a rally or march or something. Don’t you think? Perhaps we should—’
‘We need to concentrate on why we’re here. Come on.’
Before she has a chance to make argue further, he turns and takes a route away from the seafront. She follows after, walking quickly to catch up with him, and calls out to a passer-by who is rushing to join the crush. ‘What’s going on? Why is everyone—’
‘Harold Davidson,’ the man shouts over his shoulder, without slowing his pace. It’s a name she recognises but can’t place, and she feels foolish for her ignorance. She makes a point of reading up on all the various union and party leaders.
‘Did that man say Davidson?’ James says, as she draws level with him.
‘Yes.’
‘Well I never … The man himself!’
She is too proud to admit that she has no clue who the man himself might be. ‘What do you suppose has brought him to Blackpool?’ she says, calculating that the question will not betray her.
‘Money I should think. He must be trying to raise funds for his case.’
‘His case, yes.’
‘There was definitely more to that trial than met the eye. Things that were hushed up for … well, obvious reasons. Seemed to go on for months. One of the chaps I was at school with is a newspaperman. I might see what he can tell me on the QT.’
‘Good idea.’
‘And if he really is here in our patch, Margaret, it’s definitely worth looking into what the people make of him.’
‘Definitely.’ The things people say in private are much more revealing than what they say in opinion polls. More honest. More authentic. It’s what this project is all about.
‘We need to get into the thick of it,’ he says. ‘Do they believe him? If there’s one thing the working man can be relied on to do, it is to follow his heart where these matters are concerned. His view of the world is not diluted by intellectualism. He is content to feel the truth rather than to know it. It’s something the rest of us could learn from.’
‘It is,’ says Margaret. Though in truth she could not agree less. She has come to Blackpool to learn about the working classes not to learn from them. She spent much of her childhood unlearning their habits.
‘Might shed some light on their view of authority. Religion too, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Religion. She’s got it! Harold Davidson. Him. ‘The Prostitutes’ Padre!’ she says.
‘Yes, I rather suspect he came up with that name for himself. Seems to revel in the attention.’
A vicar – no, rector – from somewhere in East Anglia. Norfolk. Defrocked by the Church of England for something improper. It was a sordid business which had irritated Margaret at the time. All depressingly predictable as far as she could tell. She is not condoning such behaviour but it hardly warrants the kind of attention it generated in the press. News, by its very definition, is that which is new, or at least surprising, and the weakness of men – even the clergy – could be considered neither. She could not fathom why the country had paid so much attention to the salacious details. There were several days that Davidson’s trial kept even Hitler off the front page and so, on principle, Margaret had refused to read about it.
They turn back onto the promenade. ‘Here we are then,’ James says, finally slowing his pace, as they reach the domed roofs of the North Pier. It is noticeably quieter at this end of the seafront. He looks around, his fingers tapping a march onto the case round his neck. ‘Almost torn in half last year you know,’ he nods towards the pier. She does know. Repeating stories he has already told her is another of his eccentricities. ‘A paddle steamer. On the way back from Llandudno.’
She should let him continue. Men, like parents, must always be made to feel they are right, otherwise they find a way to exert their authority. But she finds the task of making other people feel comfortable exhausting. She decided long ago that biting her tongue was the best stratagem, but it has never come naturally, and occasionally her thoughts become words before she can stop them. ‘You have mentioned it.’
‘Oh, have I?’
‘The Queen of the Bay? The name of the steamer, I mean.’ It is irrefutable proof. Realising he must indeed have told her the details on an earlier occasion, she expects to see disappointment on his face but he looks confused, then impressed. She goes on. ‘Ripped a hole ten—’
‘—feet wide!’ he smiles. A tight smile, at odds with his other features. But it seems to soften. ‘That’s right! No one—’
‘—was hurt but several people were marooned at the far end.’ She realises, quite unexpectedly, that she is smiling too.
He makes a noise under his breath as he tilts his head, almost imperceptibly, to the side. She finds the gesture difficult to decipher but concludes it is amusement. Or confusion. Or both. Either way, he seems to have relaxed a little. She seems to have made him relax. Though she didn’t mean to and she is not sure exactly how she achieved it. The drumming on the case has stopped.
‘Champion!’ he says, with a little too much enthusiasm. ‘That’s what the locals say, isn’t it?’ It is. One of the colloquialisms she has collected in her observations.
‘Grand!’ That’s another common one. In Blackpool no one says ‘capital’ or ‘splendid’ like they do in Cambridge.
He takes a deep breath. ‘Here we are then.’ He has already said that but it would do no good to point it out. ‘Busy …’ he adds, looking over his shoulder.
‘Always,’ she says. ‘That’s Blackpool.’
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘that’s Blackpool.’ A pause. ‘Shall we get down to it?’
‘I’m sorry?’ she says.
But he is distracted. Opening the clasps at the back of the case around his neck he releases a concertina of black ridges.
‘A camera!’ she says. ‘That’s why you want me to … I thought for a moment it might be a …’
‘What?’
‘There was talk of gas masks on the wireless this morning.’
‘Margaret, you are a one! No, it’s definitely a camera.’ He grins widely, but his lips are shut tight, as though trying to stop a secret from spilling out. ‘Ready?’
She nods, unsure what she is agreeing to.
‘Over there then. Pose for me.’
7
‘Pose?’
‘Yes. In front of the railing.’
Everything is moving too fast. Not a moment before, they were sharing a smile and now he is asking her to stand and arrange herself for him. She is horrified at the thought that he might be sweet on her. He has not shown any interest in that regard before. But, though it has never happened to her personally, she knows the signs to look out for. Wanting her to pose for him surely qualifies. She has been overfamiliar, must have inadvertently said something she shouldn’t have; something that made him think she was interested in romantic interaction.
‘I’m not sure it’s …’
‘Hmm?’ He is busy adjusting the dials on his camera.
‘Appropriate. Professional. For me. To pose. For you.’
He looks up and his eyes widen momentarily. ‘Oh … I see. I’m sorry. Yes …’ He drops his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’
Margaret has eavesdropped enough conversations to know that when someone uses that phrase, it almost certainly is what it looks like. And she can feel him drawing closer to her now. They are standing side by side.
‘I’ve made some … adjustments.’ He brings the viewfinder to his eye and falls silent while he focuses on the sea. Then in a low voice says: ‘Don’t look now but there’s a woman to your left.’ Taking her time, as though scanning the crowd for something or someone, Margaret moves her head first to the right, then to the left, confirming that he is correct. ‘See her?’ he asks, giving the lens a quick wipe on his shirt before raising it again. ‘Her ice cream is melting quicker than she can eat it. It’s dripping down the front of her dress.’
A trick camera. James must have modified it so that he can stand and watch a person, while appearing to be looking elsewhere. He wasn’t planning to take a photograph of her at all. She is here to serve exactly the purpose he has said: a decoy. Nothing more. A momentary sense of relief is swept away by a wave of mortification. She has just used the word ‘appropriate’. She implied that he had dishonourable intentions. Out loud. But he has no such thoughts about her. Of course he doesn’t. He wouldn’t. Should she apologise? No, she won’t do that. She feels like turning and running away but that would only draw more attention to her mistake. So instead, she forces herself to speak. All she can do now is pretend the misunderstanding didn’t happen.
‘It’s ingenious,’ she whispers, feigning an interest in the dials and buttons. ‘Do you just use it to look, or does it take pictures?’
‘Oh yes, it still takes pictures. I think it is going to come in very useful. Best to go out in pairs though. Don’t want to get so caught up with what I am looking at that I end up inadvertently pointing it at some chap’s wife!’
Yes, she supposes that would be a very bad idea. She has seen how territorial men can be, especially when they are inebriated.
‘Stand just there,’ James instructs her. ‘That’s it.’
She does as she is told, reminding herself that he cannot see her. She tries to remember the times she has observed other young ladies arrange themselves for photographs, considers lifting one arm above her head (like the girls in bathing suits she has seen on postcards), or standing with her hands on her hips (a common trick used to emphasise a female’s child-bearing credentials).
‘Left a bit,’ he shouts across to her, fiddling with the focus ring. ‘A bit more.’ Then in a voice designed for passers-by to hear: ‘Beautiful, darling! That’s one for the album.’ He is going too far now. There is no need to play the role with such commitment. But she is impressed that he has done his research. The North Pier is the posh end: sweethearts are careful to address each other as ‘darling’ to set themselves apart from the ‘luvs’ further down the promenade. Though it is unlikely anyone would give Margaret and James a second look here anyway. Too busy worrying about keeping up their own appearances: wives straightening their husbands’ lapels, mothers pulling up their sons’ socks. Everything has to look just right. But Margaret feels all wrong. Still unsure how to arrange her limbs, whether to show her teeth or smile with closed lips, she settles on standing with her hands clasped together and reminds herself that people aren’t staring at her, it only feels like it.
There are no signs of embarrassment or offence in James’s manner; no awkwardness or resentment. Perhaps he was so excited by the thought of using his camera that he didn’t realise she was suggesting – well, she mustn’t think about her foolishness now. She must be grateful she got away with it. She won’t make the same mistake again.
For several hours they continue their double-act, working out a series of code words in whispered exchanges: ‘say cheese’ means stay still while he composes the covert photograph, ‘give me a smile’ means she should stall for time by smoothing her dress or fixing her hair. He suggests she use a compact to pretend she is checking her reflection, but she doesn’t carry one. The only mirror she owns is wrapped in a handkerchief in the back of her dressing-table drawer in Northampton. Her parents presented her with a small box on her thirteenth birthday, but she has rarely thought about it until now.
As soon as she held it, she was convinced. A box that shape and size. It had to be jewellery. A necklace. The pendant from the wedding photograph that used to stand on the mantlepiece at her grandparents’ house. She had spent hours studying exactly what the woman in it was wearing. Elizabeth. Lizzie. Her mother. Her real mother. Who died when she was three. The pendant just a delicate smudge on the photograph. Was it a leaf or feather? Now she would find out. Would see it. Hold it. Wear it.
‘Go on then!’ Her father is smiling at her. She eases off the lid. Slowly. Carefully. But before she can remove it, Mother is speaking. There’s warning in her words. ‘It wasn’t cheap, Margaret. The man in the shop said it’s inlaid with mother-of-pearl.’
The man in the shop. Suddenly the box feels heavy in her hand. Too heavy for a necklace. The lid comes off and she sees a flash of emerald green, criss-crossed with a grid of white lines. She can feel tears rising, but she mustn’t let them reach her eyes.
‘I told you she was too young to appreciate it, William,’ Mother says, folding her arms.
‘She’s just a bit overcome, aren’t you, Margaret?’
‘Yes, Father. I just … I wasn’t expecting …’
‘I’m glad you like it. But your mother’s right – we’re trusting you to keep it safe. We wanted you to have something special.’ It is too much. Too precious. She doesn’t deserve it. She feels as though, through carelessness, she has already lost or broken their gift. ‘Try the clasp,’ he says and she does as he instructs. ‘You’re a young lady now.’
She brings the mirror up to her face, finding her reflection; sees the woman in the photograph looking back. Father used to say she was ‘the spit of her’ until Mother pointed out that the phrase sounded common. But her grandparents never shied away from marvelling at how much she looked like ‘Our Elizabeth’. Grandma would raise her eyes to the ceiling as she spoke, leaving Margaret to infer that her mother’s soul was somehow hovering above them. ‘A real credit to you, this one, Lizzie,’ she’d say. And Margaret would take the reward she was offered for her resemblance: a bowl of ‘winkers’ (tinned clementines so tart that they made her eyelids twitch). She had lived with them for three years until Father returned home from fighting in France. She wishes now that she had taken her time and savoured every segment, enjoyed the sharp stab of flavour on her tongue.
