The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 6
‘He’d have been better doing that when he saw those girls. I’d sooner trust a wild bull than a female – more predictable!’
Margaret is jostled to the front where she finds a surly woman taking coins without greeting or acknowledgement. Ordinarily it is the pretty girls who are given this job, but this woman is middle-aged, her face crumpled into an expression of disdain and disappointment that the locals would liken to ‘a bulldog chewing a wasp’.
When Margaret’s turn comes, she climbs onto a single step below the barrel and looks inside, her eyes struggling to focus. It is like a scene inside a doll’s house. A toy man sitting, head down, in his study. He looks perfectly relaxed, perfectly oblivious to the absurdity of his situation. He scribbles a line or two onto the notepad on his knee then pauses, staring thoughtfully at the cigar in his other hand and taking a puff before resuming his writing. A single lightbulb above his head illuminates the inside of the barrel, making his white hair glow. He looks up. She sees the gap between his two front teeth and steps back.
It is him. The man from the pub. The man who saved her.
9
Even as she makes her way to their appointment, Margaret has not decided whether to go through with it. Her initial calculation had been simple: she must keep her word and meet the white-haired man who rescued her. But her discovery that he is Harold Davidson has thrown her certainty off-balance. No matter how she tries, she can’t seem to find a resolution. This is a man found guilty of making a nuisance of himself with young girls, yet he was a perfect gentleman who had come to her aid. He said he knew what she was up to, yet she can’t fathom how he could have prior knowledge of her work. He is one of the most famous (or infamous) men in England, yet is desperate enough to display himself inside a barrel. If she did give herself away in the pub, if he somehow guessed what she was doing, he could blow the cover off the whole project. And it would be her fault.
The weather is cooler today. A breeze that feels as if it belongs to autumn. She turns onto the prom, and can see the Metropole, the only hotel on the beach side of the road: a red-bricked island topped with white cupolas. But she paces up and down the street for several more minutes, wanting to arrive precisely on time. A doorman, wearing a navy uniform, opens the double doors and ushers her through. Passing the reception desk, she navigates a path through staff who make no effort to avoid her as they carry suitcases and hat-boxes, and finds her way across plush carpets to the atrium restaurant. It is domed with glass, the walls Wedgwood blue, every surface and pillar covered in gold plasterwork; mahogany chairs and white-clothed tables arranged at precise intervals.
‘Can I help you, miss?’ A young man is standing behind a lectern in the doorway.
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Are you?’ As he says it, he looks down the length of her body and back up again. ‘Another lady?’
‘A gentleman.’
‘And has the gentleman made a reservation?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘The gentleman’s name, then?’
‘Davidson. Mr Davidson.’
He checks his list, using his finger to scan the column of names written on it. ‘No Mr Davidson here. We’ve got a Donaldson.’
‘That’s not him.’
‘Are you sure he was expecting to meet you here? There are dozens of establishments further down the promenade.’ She knows what he is getting at. She’s beginning to wonder herself. She remembers mention of the Metropole but perhaps she has got the day, or time, wrong.
He goes on: ‘Is it possible he may have used a different name? Occasionally our patrons like to keep their appointments … anonymous. Oh, excuse me.’ He looks past Margaret as a young lady steps in behind her. ‘Ah, Miss Angus, welcome. Let me see you to your table.’ She watches the woman follow him to a spot near the centre of the restaurant. She can’t help narrating the scene in her head, as if she is taking notes for a report: Female, early twenties, mink-coloured day dress, gabardine, with a brown velvet collar and cuffs, tan heels and matching handbag.
Margaret looks down at her own pea-green tea dress, the shade garish against the red of the carpet. She should have bought something more suitable to wear. The maître d’ seems in no rush to leave the woman’s side, pulling out a chair for her to sit on, unfolding her napkin and placing it across her lap, before engaging in a short exchange which Margaret cannot hope to hear across the chatter of the restaurant.
‘Still no sign of your gentleman?’ he asks, finally returning to his post behind the lectern after pausing to make enquiries with several other guests on his walk back. He gives her an exaggerated smile and for a moment Margaret considers turning round and leaving. This was a bad idea. Her physical safety may be guaranteed in such a public place, but what about her reputation? Does she really want to associate herself with a disgraced man like Davidson?
‘Would you like to wait for him to arrive? Perhaps you could …’ The maître d’ gestures for her to step to one side.
‘I … I’m not sure. I …’
‘Very well.’ He sighs. ‘Follow me.’
She does as he instructs, walking behind him, feeling the other diners watching as she passes. The volume seems to drop, chatter falling quiet, teacups held suspended midway between saucer and lips. But she must be imagining it. Margaret prides herself on being the person who goes unnoticed. That’s why she’s so good at her job.
She pulls out her own chair, unfolds her own napkin and busies herself by studying the gold-trimmed card on a holder in the centre of the table, which offers only one option (tea with a selection of sandwiches, scones and cakes). It leaves her wishing there was a more comprehensive, leather-bound, à la carte menu to keep her occupied while she waits. It is seven minutes before a waitress, dressed in black skirt and white blouse, arrives to enquire whether she’d like to order.
‘I’m meeting someone,’ Margaret says, despising the apologetic tone she hears in her voice. ‘He must be running a little late.’
‘Perhaps some tea while you wait?’
‘Please.’
‘Earl Grey?’
At the mention of it, Margaret is laid bare. She is ten years old again. Sitting opposite Mother in one of the big hotels in Piccadilly, a treat during one of their annual pilgrimages to London. She is trying to concentrate on every muscle in her body all at once. But the effort of keeping her back straight, stopping her hands from fidgeting in her lap, resisting the urge to uncross her ankles, is too much. She can feel a tightening in her limbs, a prickle of heat rising up the backs of her legs and into her spine. Her body is going to betray her. It always does. She is trying to remember the list of rules that Mother drilled into her during the train journey from Northampton. Remember, Margaret, we do not stir our tea in a circular motion; it is not proper. Do not slice into a scone, but tear it instead.
Mother is already drawing too much attention to herself, clicking her fingers to get the attention of a passing waiter. ‘Yes, good afternoon. Tea for my daughter and myself please,’ she says loudly, then, turning to a woman on a neighbouring table, ‘Shopping does make one thirsty, don’t you find?’ The woman smiles politely and looks away. And in that moment, Margaret knows. She knows that Mother doesn’t belong here. With every attempt to speak like them, sit like them, be like them, she is showing herself up. The more she tries to fit in, the more she singles herself out. She is nothing more than a mimic. A bad one. And Margaret despises her for it. For putting her through it. This is supposed to be a treat. Mother told her so. She is supposed to be enjoying it.
‘Tea for two.’ The waiter places a silver teapot and milk jug onto the table. Margaret lifts her teaspoon from her saucer but her shaking fingers make the metal clatter against the china. She is sure everyone in the restaurant has heard her mistake; a look tells her Mother certainly has. ‘Remember, Margaret,’ she whispers, in a tone disguised as kindly, ‘remember your manners.’ Margaret watches with some satisfaction as Mother tries to grasp the handle of the teapot, surprised by the heat of the metal.
‘A good conductor,’ she says, without thinking.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Of thermal energy.’
‘Margaret, what have I told you about showing off.’ With some irritation, Mother opens the lid of the teapot and stabs a teaspoon inside to mash the leaves. ‘It’s not befitting of a young lady.’
This time she lifts the pot and pours two cups. All Margaret has to do is stay quiet, pick up the milk jug, tip it just a little, let the very smallest drop dilute the rich brown of her tea. But when she reaches for it, she knocks the jug over, sending the contents spilling across the table. And Mother’s incensed whisper grows to a volume that neighbouring diners can hear: ‘I’ve spent months putting my housekeeping money away and you had to spoil it!’
‘Earl Grey?’ The Metropole waitress repeats the question slowly, as though Margaret is incapable of understanding English.
‘No. I’ll have a sherry instead. Thank you.’ As soon as she has ordered it, Margaret feels a sense of being rescued. The right drink at the right time can be all it takes. A moment of punctuation. Like a mathematical symbol in an equation, it makes sense of everything that comes before and after. The first time her Cambridge professor handed round glasses of sherry at the end of a seminar, she felt she had passed some kind of test. It became a Friday afternoon ritual. A moment of belonging.
The drink arrives in an ornate tapered glass, cut crystal, a single cat’s tongue biscuit on the saucer beside it. She leans back in her chair and takes the first sip, savouring the warmth of familiarity, the certainty that she has made the right choice. She is grateful to have something to keep her hands busy, tilting the liquid in the glass (the pale liquid of a dry sherry, not the dark amber of the sweet stuff Mother keeps in the decanter at home). She tries to pace herself but the drink is gone quicker than she means it to be and she orders another, handing the empty glass to the waitress to be sure she takes it away, fidgety in the short interval before a full one arrives to replace it.
She hears Davidson before she sees him. His appearance is causing something of a commotion in the dining room, but he seems oblivious. She looks up to see him pointing at her, his top hat beneath his other arm, his clerical collar clearly visible against the black of his shirt. And she prepares to greet him with some pleasantries. A comment on the weather perhaps. ‘Good aftern—’
‘Goodness! I’m a terror for timekeeping!’ he says, snatching out the chair across the table and appearing to fall into it.
‘Yes …’ The moment for ‘Good afternoon’ has passed. But she is at a loss for what to say.
‘Always in trouble with my congregation for being late!’
‘Is that where you’ve …? Why you’re late, I mean. You’ve been in church?’ She realises this is a ridiculous question in the circumstances.
‘I am no longer permitted to preach. And I have no desire to listen to others in the pulpit, Miss … I’m afraid you’ll have to remind me.’
‘Finch.’
‘Like the bird, very good. And you know who I am of course.’ He winks and takes a large cigar from his top pocket, which he lights, closing his eyes as he takes his first mouthful of smoke. ‘What was I saying? The pulpit, yes. I would find it too painful. Phariseeism and superficiality is, unfortunately, characteristic of England’s religious respectability. For all its talk of charity and love for one’s fellow man, I have seen the Church for what it truly is: ineffectual when it comes to striking at public vices, vindictive towards those who take on the challenges it is too timid to face itself, not to mention how sly the—’ He interrupts his train of thought to hail a passing waitress. ‘Excuse me, I’m famished. Could we get the ball rolling? Quick as you like.’ He grins.
‘Of course, sir. Earl Grey?’
‘You’re very kind.’
Margaret does not mention that the ball could have been rolling twenty-five minutes earlier, when he was supposed to be here. The waitress nods. ‘Very good, sir, and for the lady?’
‘A sherry please.’
Davidson turns to watch as the waitress walks towards the double doors into what Margaret presumes must be the kitchen. ‘Pleasant girl,’ he says, absentmindedly. ‘Now, back to business. I’m very glad we met so fortuitously the other night.’
‘Yes, I wanted to thank you again. I’m afraid I was rather foolish to get myself in that situation.’
‘Don’t mention it! I can imagine it gets rather perilous sometimes. When you’re on the trail, so to speak.’ On the trail? ‘But you know what curiosity did to the cat.’
Margaret wants him to slow down. He is talking in riddles.
‘You’re like me, Miss Finch; you find yourself drawn towards drama.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘But we both have a dedication to the truth. As soon as we became acquainted, your kind manner convinced me that you would give me a fair hearing – something I have been cruelly denied by the Church—’ This thought is interrupted by another. ‘Oh, do take out your notepad if you’d like to. No need to be shy. We both know why we’re here.’
She doesn’t want to admit that she still has no clue exactly what he expects of her. ‘It’s all right, I’ll just …’
‘Whatever you prefer.’
The waitress returns with a teapot, a sherry and a three-tiered stand of food. Davidson does not hesitate in digging into the cakes before the sandwiches. ‘I was tricked into coming to Blackpool – well perhaps not tricked exactly – but it was not until my arrival that I discovered I would be put on display in such a manner. But what choice did I have?’
‘I …’ Margaret begins to speak but realises it was a rhetorical question. She busies herself with selecting a sandwich from the stand instead. He does not pause to hear her respond. He does not pause to chew his food. He does not appear to pause to take a breath. She had been worried he would be the sort of man who would look at her intently, and had prepared for their meeting by planning ways she might employ herself to avoid returning his gaze. She has observed that avoiding eye contact usually means people’s attention passes over you, so she often busies herself with checking her pockets for lost keys, counting loose change in her palm or fussing with a stray thread on the hem of her coat (which she leaves dangling there deliberately for just such occasions). But Davidson, eating a finger of sponge with an intensity of purpose she has rarely seen, hardly looks at her at all.
‘I have, I’m afraid, run up significant debts in an attempt to clear myself of the charges made against me,’ he continues. ‘I need to raise sufficient funds for my appeal. Long before the unpleasantness in court, I was spending more money than I could afford, trying to help those unfortunate girls in London. Think of me, if you will, as Robin Hood taking from the rich to give to the poor. Then understand that the theft was from my own modest coffers!’ Every part of him seems to move as he speaks: the cigar, still lit in his hand, jerking to reinforce each point; his gaze constantly darting around to the other tables in the dining room. He is nimble, spritely, full of the energy she’d expect of a man half his age. His eyes shine, the lines around them crumpling as he smiles. She remembers the skin on the back of her grandfather’s hand, so loose upon his bones, which fascinated her as a child. She used to pinch it gently into a ridge then count the seconds it would take to flatten. Davidson’s hands are speckled with the same spots: the marks of age that Margaret thinks of like the rings of a tree, denoting years passed or disappointments overcome.
‘You see – and I’m keen for you to understand this – God brought me to my true calling.’ Davidson reaches for a napkin and wipes his mouth. Before she can avoid them, his eyes have met hers. Her first impulse is to look away, to lift a sandwich or take a sip of tea. But she doesn’t. And she is surprised to find welcome in his gaze, solace even. Not a feeling of being looked at but looked to. As if he is, very gently, asking that she simply listen. ‘I was walking across London Bridge when I came upon a woman – no more than a girl – who was intending to end her life. Can you imagine how wretched one would have to feel to contemplate such a thing?’
‘I can’t,’ Margaret says.
‘I don’t know how long I stood and talked to her. It was cold, that much I remember. But not as cold as that grey water beneath us. I stayed until I was reassured that she had changed her mind. But I returned home that night disturbed. The thought haunted me – what if I had not been there? What if I had not seen her?’ His voice catches and she fears he is going to cry. Right there in the restaurant. ‘And that’s why I vowed to … We all deserve to be noticed, don’t we?’
With that, Margaret looks away. He is being noticed right now, making a spectacle of himself, blowing his nose on his napkin. The couple on the next table are probably staring at them. The waitress too. But Mr Davidson seems unaware, or uninterested, his voice increasing in both emotion and volume. ‘I dedicated myself to looking at the sights from which others turn away.’ She looks to him again. Compelled, fascinated, because she thinks she finds sincerity in his eyes. In fact, she is almost sure of it. A look that greets her without expectation or judgement. So much of her life spent trying to read the thoughts and moods of other people, but this stranger communicates something so clearly, so directly, that she has no need to analyse or decipher. ‘Do you see?’ he says.
‘I think so.’ He rescued Margaret, after all. And now here she is, sitting across from the most famous man in England. What would Mother think of that? She’d be appalled. Margaret stifles a smile.
‘My motives have been so cruelly misunderstood,’ he says, his eyes leaving her to find another treat from the cake stand again, and settling on a scone. Something has shifted; a moment passed. A feeling of what? Connection she might call it, which only took shape once it was broken. The change is so sudden that she feels disorientated. He slides something across the table to her. It is a postcard with hand-drawn headlines.
