The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 9
She is exhausted but she knows, if she goes back to her lodgings now, that she will not find sleep there. She needs to find purpose and her first thought is Davidson. She is not far from his sideshow and she has observed that he usually waits until the crowd has dispersed before he leaves – would no doubt be mobbed if he didn’t. Perhaps he is still there. She could just see where he goes then call it a night. Make sure he is all right. Perhaps she might even speak to him this time. Has he been wondering why she hasn’t taken him up on his invitation to pay him a visit? Has he given it a second thought?
Following the path back towards the stairs that lead back up to street level, she avoids the pools of light thrown by the streetlamps, as though stepping directly through them will make her a target, but for whom or what she does not know. It’s not far to walk but it is slow going. There are still plenty of people out enjoying the warm evening, couples dancing the foxtrot and a group of women trying to do a fling. A young man falls and his friend picks him up and puts him over his shoulder. Margaret reaches Davidson’s show, now closed for the night. Taking a seat on an empty bench on the opposite side of the road, she places her handbag on her knee, pretending to search for something inside it, while glancing up to look for any signs of Davidson. One last look across the road and she can make out a top hat, sees him turning onto the seafront and walking north. She stands and follows, crossing the road so she can walk behind him. Rushing to get closer, then holding back as he slows to speak to two young women. One of them takes something from her pocket and hands it to him. There’s the spark of a flame, the smell of cigar smoke reaching Margaret seconds later.
She looks down, watches the shoes of the women as they step towards her, laughing. ‘He’ll hear you!’ one chides the other as they pass.
‘Don’t care if he does. What’s he going to do? There’s nothing of him – couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding!’
Margaret looks up to see Davidson striding away. No top hat now, but white hair, weaving between the small groups gathered along the pavement. He is heading for something, walking at quite a pace, as if he has a purpose and a destination in mind. He takes only the most cursory of glances left and right before crossing a junction then taking the next side road inland. It is much quieter here. If he turns, he’ll see her. She pulls her hat down lower and raises the collar of her jacket. The street is deserted apart from a man walking towards them with a black dog on a lead. Davidson stops suddenly, glances back towards her then steps left, ducking out of sight. From this angle she cannot see where he has gone. A doorway or passageway perhaps. Nodding politely at the dog-walker, she stays motionless for a moment, considering what her next step should be. Then, deciding she has come this far and may as well see which building Davidson has gone into, she walks very slowly to the spot she last saw him, and edges up to the entrance to a narrow passageway at the side of a terraced house. She decides to risk a look.
‘Has it gone?’ Davidson’s face is so close it is almost touching hers.
‘Dear God!’
‘The dog …’ There is no chance he hasn’t seen her this time. ‘Has it gone?’
She looks back down the street and finds it empty. ‘Yes.’ She should walk away herself. If she goes now – if she doesn’t turn back … Perhaps he didn’t get a good enough look at her.
‘You’re sure?’ he says again, and she can feel him peeking past her to see for himself. ‘In that case, let’s go …’ He is right behind her now. ‘We can’t keep meeting like this. Hanging around in dark alleyways. What will people think?’ She can hear a smile. ‘And there is obviously more you wish to discuss. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been following me.’
‘Following—?’
‘Did you think I hadn’t noticed?’ That’s exactly what she had thought. What she had been sure of. ‘Not to worry,’ he says, stepping past her into the street, ‘practice makes perfect! But, there’s really no need. I’m only too happy to give you all the information you require. When’s your deadline?’
‘Deadline? I … it’s late … I—’
‘A drink,’ he says as he strides up the street. ‘I insist.’ And she is already following him again. This time at his request.
13
They do not stop at the first pub they pass, the second, third, or even the fourth. Davidson leads her several more streets inland. Margaret has started shaking, and tells herself it is the adrenalin of being discovered. But there’s embarrassment too. That she has made a fool of herself, and that he spotted her failings so easily.
‘Go on then,’ he says. ‘You must have a list of questions.’
‘I …’
‘Ask me anything you like. Anything at all.’
She chases her thoughts but cannot grasp a single one of them. Did he do the things he was accused of? Is he the kind of man they say he is? Has he known all this time she has been keeping an eye on him? He could not have known. He was inside the barrel for most of it. She could ask him if he knows about Mass Observation, but if he doesn’t, she will have given herself away. She needs to say something neutral.
‘That dog …’
‘Horrible things.’
‘They were right about you being frightened.’
‘Who?’
‘I heard some people talking in the queue for your act. One of them said you had run at the sight of a mouse.’
There’s a look on his face, something like pride. ‘You really have done your research! Yes, unlike much of what’s been said about me, that story is true. I was right in the middle of my sermon when I saw it. And I screamed. Top of my lungs. They must have thought I’d seen the Devil himself!’ He chuckles but his eyes remain wide. ‘Running right along the top of the pew. Fast as lightning. And I …’ his shoulders shake in an impression of a shiver. ‘I climbed up into the pulpit until one of the congregation scooped the monster up in his hands – his bare hands! Can you imagine? – and took it outside to set it free.’
Most likely took it outside and killed it, Margaret thinks. Probably knocked it over the head. No use letting it go; they always find their way in again.
‘After you,’ he says, as they reach the door of the Red Lion. Margaret hasn’t been here before. It is busy, but he cuts a path through to the bar, Margaret following in his wake. There he greets the landlord, a man whose burst capillaries suggest he drinks almost as much alcohol as he serves. In another town, it would not be considered respectable for her to stand here. But there are (she counts them) five females of varying ages already at the bar. In Blackpool the rules are relaxed, even the rules about what a woman may or may not do.
‘A ginger ale for me please.’ Davidson turns to Margaret. ‘And for you?’
‘I’ll have the same,’ she says.
‘Very good.’
‘With a whisky. A double.’ Her voice is louder than she intends it to be. Davidson looks down, disappointed in her perhaps. Interesting – she didn’t have him down as a teetotaller. Not necessarily a beer man either, but she had pictured him as the type to sip a good port.
‘Let’s take that spot that’s coming free,’ he says, nodding towards a table at the end of the bar. ‘You sit and I’ll go and get our drinks.’ He takes off his jacket and folds it carefully, as if it is made of the finest cashmere rather than creased wool. It is only now that she notices he is not wearing his clerical collar, just a slightly crumpled white shirt with the top button open. ‘I’m off duty tonight,’ he says, bringing a hand to his throat. ‘Wearing the full get-up rather draws attention to who I am.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I suppose it would.’ He wasn’t wearing it on the first night they met, but she remembers seeing it in the Metropole, and she wonders whether he should be wearing it at all – even for his act – since he has been defrocked by the Church. Surely there are laws about such things.
He returns to retrieve their drinks and she watches him chat easily with two old men. ‘What do you reckon, sir?’ the first says to him. Margaret can see from his uniform that he is a postman. ‘This one,’ he goes on, pointing at his companion, ‘says he’s an ’ero. He’d have you believe he won the Boer War single-handed.’
‘Bloody right I am. I’ve got medals. More bloody bars on ’em than a stepladder,’ says the man in question. Margaret suspects the only bar he has any familiarity with is the type he is sitting at.
‘You both look like brave fellows to me,’ says Davidson. ‘Men like you are the backbone of this country. How about I stand you both a drink?’
‘Ah, that would be very good of you. Very good.’
The two men salute as Davidson pays and walks back to Margaret. His generous gesture distracts them only momentarily before they find another cause for argument.
‘Do you miss them?’ Margaret asks him as he places the drinks down on the ring-stained table.
‘Who?’
‘Your parishioners.’
‘I miss feeling that I am doing good. Isn’t that the purpose we all crave?’ She supposes it is. Or at least it should be. ‘It was God’s will,’ he says. ‘It was in my blood. My father and his father before him. Inevitable that I would one day have a flock of my own to tend to.’
She nods but says nothing. She has learnt that people share more that way. Give them silence and they fill it, offering up the odd-shaped pieces of themselves to fit into the awkward corners.
‘But it wasn’t always my calling. It may surprise you to know that I had another life before the Church.’
‘Really?’ She resists the urge to get her notepad out.
He laughs. ‘Really. In my younger days I was an actor. Rather a good one – so I’m led to believe. Left school and joined a touring theatre company. Played the title role in Charley’s Aunt. Do you know it?’ She nods. But she doesn’t. ‘Trod the boards in the West End too. At the Steinway Hall. I like to think it was a good foundation, that I brought some of that performance to my Sunday sermons. Light and shade. Comedy. Tragedy.’
‘I can imagine.’ She can’t. ‘But your family were …’
‘Not exactly what my father had been hoping for, put it that way. He indulged me for a short while. I got a few paying jobs to see me through my studies at Oxford. I met my wife, Molly, during that time. She was an actress. Such a beauty …’
‘What does she make of your—’
‘I was a chaplain to the Actors’ Church Union for a while. Ministering to spiritual needs in Music Hall.’
She tries to draw him back to the subject of his wife. ‘Does Mrs Davidson still perform?’
The expression on his face suggests amusement, as though she has told a joke, but he straightens his face and says, very solemnly: ‘No. It has been some time since my wife has performed. For me at least.’ Margaret decides that he is being unnecessarily cryptic. And when he gives her another smile, she does not return it. ‘Forgive me. To answer your question, no, she has not graced a stage since we were married.’ Margaret considers the irony that his wife’s circumstances have since become just as dramatic as any play she might have acted in. ‘She settled down to church life much more easily than I did. I’m afraid I missed the excitement of showbusiness. For a while God gave me a way to return to that world and do his work. Good days. Thrilling times. The magic of it! I’d very often stand and watch the shows from the wings; the atmosphere back there … But it wasn’t to last.’
‘Why not?’
He shifts in his seat. ‘The accusations. All unfounded! Close-minded people who didn’t understand the freedom of theatre. There was nothing inappropriate about me being back-stage. Yes, the girls are required to do quick changes but I am a professional. I wouldn’t have dreamed of …’
There’s a breeze as the door opens and two women walk in, both wearing black skirts and white blouses, likely waitresses from one of the more upmarket establishments in town. She wonders whether they are from the Metropole. Davidson stops to watch them as they cross to the bar, turning his back on Margaret for longer than she thinks it would be considered polite. The landlord is trying to light a pipe, cursing the tobacco which is refusing to kindle: ‘Bloody matches are no good!’
‘Allow me,’ says Davidson, leaping up from his seat and producing a lighter from his trouser pocket.
‘Thank you.’ The landlord flicks the arm to produce a flame, and draws on his pipe until the bowl is glowing red, to match his nose. ‘Nice one that,’ he says, handing it back. ‘Must’ve cost a bit.’
‘It was a gift,’ Davidson says, ‘from a dear friend in the theatre.’ He sits back down opposite Margaret, placing the lighter on the table between them. It is made of hammered metal and is in need of a good polish. ‘This has seen some sights, I can tell you. From my travels during the war.’
‘Oh yes?’ Margaret hopes he will elaborate but he is looking around again, tapping his fingernails (which are in dire need of a trim) on the table top.
‘Another drink?’ he says.
‘Not just yet, thank you. Perhaps in a little while.’
Silence settles between them. Across the room, the two girls she assumes to be waitresses start to sing: a dirty song, using words seldom heard, even in Blackpool. It is a parody of ‘Old King Cole’. On it goes, becoming bawdier with every verse. Displaying no signs of disapproval, or concern about a woman like Margaret being exposed to such language, Davidson begins to clap along, joining in the chorus when it comes back around. Singing much as he might lead a hymn in church, at a volume noticeably louder than anybody else’s.
The attention of the pub has turned to him now, which he acknowledges with a small bow when the song comes to an end. ‘Shall we have another?’ he shouts.
‘How about “Antonio”?’ says the postman, lifting his empty pint glass.
‘I was thinking of something a little more … Godly,’ Davidson says, bringing his hands together, as if in prayer.
There’s heckling from the table in the corner of the room. ‘Godly?’ a man in a cap pipes up. ‘You’re in the wrong place, pal.’
(‘Hang on though. Isn’t that …? Can’t be.’)
(‘That vicar chappie? Nah.’)
(‘The one from the barrel?’)
(‘That’s it!’)
Davidson bows again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve found me out!’
‘Well bugger me!’ says the postman. ‘Is it really you?’
Davidson shrugs then smiles at Margaret and mouths ‘I’m sorry’. But he doesn’t look sorry at all. Just the opposite. The man in the cap rushes to their table to shake Davidson enthusiastically by the hand. The other drinkers crowd around too. Even the landlord is raising a hinged section of the bar to make his way closer.
(‘I paid a shilling to see you on’t seafront. I wouldn’t have wasted my money if I’d known you’d turn up in the pub.’)
(‘Diabolical how you’ve been treated. Diabolical. I said as much to the wife the other day. Wait ’til I tell her …’)
(‘Can I buy thee a drink, lad? And your lady friend.’)
It takes Margaret a moment to realise that she is the lady friend he is referring to. ‘A whisky and ginger please,’ she says, with forced enthusiasm. She is going to need another if she is going to survive this.
‘Right then. Jack – get theself back behind that bar and get serving.’
The drink arrives not a minute later, passed along the line which has formed in front of Davidson. He produces a pen from one pocket of his folded jacket and a stack of his postcards from another. Margaret watches him sign the first few cards with a flourish, and waits for him to pick up their conversation again. She looks for something to busy herself with, settling on an inspection of the lighter that is still sitting on the table. Why did he ask the girls on the street for a light when he had one in his pocket all along? He certainly strikes her as the forgetful type. The very fact that he brought her here tonight, that she is waiting patiently beside him, seems to have slipped his mind completely. But there is plenty to keep her occupied. She is close enough to study him; can see that he is generous with his time and his attention, paying considered compliments to every single one of his admirers.
‘He’s quite a character!’ they say, as if that’s a good thing. And perhaps it is. He is drawing all eyes to him; no one is looking in her direction at all. With him she doesn’t fear she will be discovered. She could stare at any one of them as much as she wanted, could probably take out her notepad, and no one would notice: too dazzled by Davidson to see her hiding in the shadow he is casting. She should take the opportunity, take an inventory: how many people are here, what they are drinking, what they are wearing.
The singing has started up again. The postman’s got his way with ‘Oh! Oh! Antonio’, and someone lifts the lid of a piano and starts to play an accompaniment. Aware that she should appear to fit in, she moves her lips in time, surprised to discover that she knows the words.
Davidson steps onto his chair and conducts the crowd with two forefingers, and Margaret is struck by a memory: her grandfather picking up knitting needles from her grand-mother’s sewing basket, tapping them on the sideboard to bring an invisible orchestra to attention, then beating out time in the air, both hands dancing away from each other before meeting again in the middle. One, two, three, four. Down, out, in, up. Sometimes she would sit at the kitchen table and watch her grandmother singing. Oh, oh Antonio, he’s gone away. A quivering voice, arms outstretched in dismay. Left me alonio, all on my ownio. And then her grandfather would appear in the doorway, would step in and hold out his hand to her. The kitchen had barely space to walk, never mind dance, but she would stand on the tops of his feet and he would waltz her round in tight circles. Her grandparents didn’t care how much of a show they made of themselves. Didn’t care how they might look. As long as they made her laugh.
14
Every time Margaret finishes a drink, another appears. She has lost count and feels lighter somehow. Her limbs less stiff, her movements less practised. The piano starts up again: a Gracie Fields song, something about looking on the bright side. And though she doesn’t know any of the words to this one, and the piano sounds like it needs to be tuned, and several of the singers are off-key, it doesn’t seem to matter.
