Chapter 2
MAGGIE
I pull out my phone, selecting my ‘songs to clean to’ playlist. ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ by Wham!
blasts through my one working ear pod. An hour ago, Riz’s kitchen bin was full, the surfaces splattered with coffee grinds and dirty teaspoons and now?
Lemony fresh, shining tiles, gleaming toaster.
My sense of pride peacocks inside my chest, fluffing up like my feather duster as I close the kitchen door and make my way into the lounge, while trying not to question how I’m going to pay my rent next month without the five days a week at Pillow Paradise!
Mrs Hancock, Riz to her friends, has wall-to-wall photos of every stage of her adventurous life.
I pull out my microfibre cloth and go about dusting them.
The pictures range from her in her twenties, a firm athletic body atop an elephant in Kenya; in an army green flak jacket as a photographer and war correspondent, cigarette between red lips; in her thirties holding an award, silver dress; her wedding day, garter showing as she sits on the back of a transport lorry.
I take my time with each frame, with each piece of glass, making sure every stage of Riz’s life remains unblemished.
I imagine myself in those scenarios. Riz’s chin is always slightly lifted, as though she’s challenging the world to take its best shot, whereas I keep my head down, avoiding the world as best I can.
I’m also short rather than tall, my mouth is fuller, my nose isn’t as strong, and I have dark green eyes instead of light blue.
The only travelling I’ve got under my belt is a few wet weeks in Wales, which my foster mum, Hellie, had saved all year round to pay for.
God, how I would love to travel to those kinds of places.
I’ll be lucky if I can make it to China City down the road for a chicken chow mein, given I only have twenty-five pounds and fifty-three pence to last me until next Monday.
And now, after Doug and his search for paperclips, I’m going to have to find another gig.
Maybe Tess is right and I should set up my own company rather than working for other people.
On the plus side – I straighten a frame – I might not have enough to splash out on a takeaway, but I have a roof over my head that’s mine, a bedroom that I’m not sharing, and a job I love, when I’m not avoiding the likes of Doug and his roaming hands.
I look to the window where September hail is hailing on the Georgian panes.
It’s a good job I’ve already set the timer on my heating so I can have a long bath before my last job of the day.
I say job, but cleaning the local cinema and getting free entrance and snacks every Friday night is hardly what I would call work.
The playlist has flicked on to ‘White Wedding’ by Billy Idol and I sing along as I dust the rest of the surfaces.
My finger catches on a piece of paper poking out of the top drawer of Riz’s dresser, and I reach over to put it away.
My heart sinks as I read the words at the top of the letter: Dear Mrs Hancock, we are thrilled to confirm your placement at Heritage Retirement Home.
Riz has been looking frailer lately, and I know she doesn’t have any living relatives.
I close the drawer quickly as Riz shuffles into the room, the steel-framed walker making her progress slow.
Even at eighty-four, her white hair is still thick, but it’s flat on one side; she must have been napping in her office. I unplug Henry and pull out my ear pod.
‘Do you want me to turn up the heating a bit?’ I rub my hands together. I’m cold… even in the summer, always feeling the need to have a jumper or coat on hand. I nod towards the window, landing my foot on Henry, the lead tidying away with a whoosh.
‘That would be wonderful, thank you, Mags.’ She pushes up her sleeves and begins manoeuvring herself.
I step towards her high-backed chair, give the cushions a quick plump and stand back, not touching her.
She grips the side of the walker, bracing herself as she releases the bar and reaches out towards the arm of the chair.
I take a small step in her direction, but keep myself far enough away so we’re not touching.
Riz flinches, a flash of pain crossing her features before being replaced with a look of frustration.
Her eyes meet mine, defeat softening her gaze.
‘Would you be so kind as to give me a hand, Mags?’
I look at her in panic. Of course I want to help her.
It should be a simple request; I should already be moving towards her, hands at the ready, but touching someone is not easy.
It never has been. My eyes search the room for the pair of bright yellow Marigold gloves, but realise I’ve left them in the kitchen.
I back away, but I already know my fight is lost. The tension in her body is making her shake, and if I hesitate any longer, she will be on the floor.
My feet move towards her: mouth dry, heart jack-knifing against my ribs. My hands stretch outwards, one at her bare elbow, the other at the bottom of her back.
Nausea tightens at the base of my throat as I try to speak, to continue my life on the outside as I’ve taught myself to do since I was a child.
‘Almost there.’ I hold on to her elbow and shift the cushion as she lowers herself down.
I’m on the verge of passing out. I take a steadying breath, and manage to land her into the chair, letting her go as quickly as I can without ceremony or fanfare, while inside, my body reacts to the release with breakneck relief.
My hand reaches to the back of my neck. It feels as though my pulse is about to explode through my veins.
Riz shifts and leans her head against the chair, eyes tearful as she looks to the ceiling rose.
I know how much it’s going to hurt her to tell me that I no longer have a job.
I can help with that at least. I ignore the pulse throbbing at the top of my spine and crouch down in front of her.
In normal circumstances, I would take her hand in mine, and run my thumb across her paper-thin skin.
But I’m not normal. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’
She shakes her head, closes her eyes briefly then straightens, resilience and tough-upper-lip expression as she meets my eyes. ‘Mags, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you g—’ she begins, earnest.
‘Riz,’ I jump in. She leans forward, sapphire-blue eyes widening as she takes in my expression.
‘I’m… well you see… I’m so sorry, Riz, but I’m not going to be able to clean for you any more.
I’m going to be studying’ – I pick a plausible subject – ‘script-writing. But the thing is… the hours will probably conflict with my time here.’
Her eyes search mine, tears pricking behind them as she smiles.
‘How marvellous for you, Maggie! I honestly couldn’t be happier for you.
’ She beams. ‘I once dated an English professor – did I mention that? Two decades my senior… mind you, he taught me more than English that summer and I dare say I taught him one or two tricks myself.’ She winks and we laugh.
‘How about you open that cabinet and pour us both a glass of rum to celebrate new beginnings?’
* * *
The hail has turned back to rain, and my thick more-brown-than-blonde curls are now rat-tailing above my shoulders.
I drag Henry along the path, his face smiling, regardless of the strain on his ligaments.
‘Come on, Henry,’ I encourage, giving his hose-nose a tug over cracked paving slabs.
I’ve parked in the lay-by and walked the ten minutes needed to get to Riz’s rather than park in the pay and display outside her place.
Harrowsby Bay has been my home for the last twenty-three years.
And honestly? I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
We have our fair share of sandy beaches, plenty of high street shops, rolling hills and top-notch restaurants – or so I’ve heard.
The buildings that line the bay are a mismatch of the old and new, shops and houses that rub alongside each other despite their differences.
It’s like they echo the personalities of the small population who call this home.
We’re not far from Brighton, on the South Coast, and up until the last decade, our little slice of paradise had remained pretty much under the radar.
But best-kept secrets never stay kept for long.
And lately there have been more and more visitors and property owners joining us.
I don’t mind, not really. But the more people that come, the more people I avoid.
I approach the lay-by outside Harrow’s Hawkers where my red Fiat Punto is parked beneath a flickering street lamp, rain sliding down the rusty bonnet into the giant pothole puddle next to it.
My lilac boots are starting to leak, but it was either these or my white house pumps that I wear when I’m cleaning, and they’d be ruined by now.
My next job isn’t for another few hours and my plan is to get home, take a long hot bath, and change my clothes before my Friday night date at the cinema.
I know technically it’s still work, but as soon as I’ve hoovered up the popcorn, cleaned the loos and polished the lobby, Friday night belongs to me.
The last session on a Friday night is usually a quiet one, so I give it a good clean beforehand, then it just needs a swift once over before I leave, which leaves me with two glorious hours in front of the big screen with as much popcorn as I can eat, and a large Diet Coke.
I lean Henry’s hose next to the car and fumble with the keys, as the rain pelts at my skin and falls into my eyes.
My fingers are still cold regardless of the thick wool of my green gloves.
For once in my life, I would love to have a car with central locking that works and heated seats and – crap!
No, no, no, no, no! Scrambling to my knees, I crouch down next to my car.
I take off my gloves and shove them into my pocket, a hole already forming in my fishnets.
I scan beneath the car in the dull light, searching for my keys, tapping my fingers around, but sit back up with nothing to show for my efforts.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, slide my damp fingers three times across the surface until it opens the torch.
I get on all fours, tilting the light across the pavement until it lands on the six slots of the drain. My keys lost beneath them.
Perfect.
It’ll take me too long to walk home then back into town. The thought of getting on a bus makes me feel sick. The last time I was on public transport, in close proximity to so many people, I found myself wedged in the ‘wheelchair only’ space of the bus.
But maybe I can get on the bus this time.
It might be quiet; I reckon most people are at home, staying in from the hideous weather.
I dig my hands around in my pocket and find I have just over three pounds, as well as a packet of Tic Tacs.
That’s enough to get me and Henry a bus ticket.
I shake two mints into my palm, pop them into my mouth, put my gloves back on, and employ a determined stride.
‘Not long now,’ I reassure Henry as much as myself, pulling him along the stretch of path towards the bus stop, the rain still unleashing itself on us.
Pausing for a second to catch my breath, I wipe the mascara from beneath my eyes again before dragging poor Henry onwards. Waterproof mascara, my backside. There is a heavy rumble behind me and a blast of dirty puddle water hits my right side as the bus hurries past.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I carry on walking. The few shops that edge around town are closed.
Some date back to Tudor times, others built in the seventies and eighties, each window dark, reflecting me and Henry as we walk.
I pass a boutique, eyeing the clothing inside that even if I saved all of my wages and didn’t buy one packet of Super Noodles, I still wouldn’t be able to afford.
I continue on, taking my usual shortcut through Fleetwood Road.
It’s a narrow cobbled side street; blink and you’d miss the entrance.
It’s the perfect shortcut to avoid the busier parts of town.
Just a few small rows of neat bungalows.
Hellie used to clean number six. Tess and I would climb the tree in the backyard.
I glance at the blue door with fond memories, following the quiet street until I cut back out onto the main road.
To my right is the beachfront, the waves loud as they crash against the shore. I drag Henry past the bakery, and the ‘Grab a Gift’ shop on my left.
We sidestep the smokers outside the White Lion, my head dipped against the smell of stale beer and the sounds of a sports match playing in the background. I continue past Smithfield Road, and the ‘Best-Pork-Pie-in-the-County’ shop.
Ahead, a group of women grip umbrellas and chatter amicably, one holding the door into a bookshop open with one hand, shaking rain and closing the umbrella down with another. I trail slowly behind them; my stomach rumbles almost as loudly as Henry’s wheels.
I’m hit with a waft of fresh coffee as the door closes.
I step cautiously closer. On the inside of the door facing me is a poster advertising a book club, a grainy black-and-white picture of the book of the month: ‘Great Expectations! Join us for coffee, cake and bookish chat. All welcome. Entrance ￡3.’ I peer in through the blurred windows, rain distorting the view.
My stomach rumbles again as I eye the warmth inside, and the group of people taking their coats off.
Their hugs and smiles are being passed around like a biscuit tin.
The chairs are arranged in a semicircle, and there is space around them.
My hand reaches for the coins in my pocket, warm and comforting like the inside of the shop.
I wish I could be one of them. They wave and embrace, their conversation flowing easily.
A head turns. A woman in a polka-dot dress and straight black fringe catches me looking in and begins to smile.
But I already know how this ends.
With a slow exhale, I give the bookshop one more wistful look, and pull Henry behind me.
There is a chippy down the road with a three-star hygiene rating, which is bound to be empty.
I’ll go there instead. I should have enough to get a bag of three-star chips and if I’m lucky, they’ll take a while to reheat.