Using a palm to rub away the taxi’s condensation, she is surprised how cold the glass pane feels. This is instantly forgotten however as glimpses of the government offices peppering St. James’s give way to Westminster, its palaces and abbey bathed in a comforting yellow light. All too soon though they are spanning the river bridge and leaving behind postcard London in favour of Vauxhall Cross and South Lambeth, dark doorways interspersed with piles of rubbish and kebab shop neon.
In no time they are decelerating to turn into a narrow two-way street and she is eying twinkling whitewashed terraces. As they draw up outside the one she indicates, she notes the red figure showing on the meter and separates a twenty from a clutch of paper money.
‘Keep the change’ she tells the driver, bumping over the ridging in the upholstery to hand it through the sliding pane.
As anticipated after securing a tip of that size, he unclips and walks around to help manipulate their cargo to the pavement. Despite it handling more water bed than sentient being, a surge sees them all reach a knee-high wall in front of a bay window. At this stage the life-form hanging between them fires up, grabbing the top of the gate posts and emitting an extended moan. Given the tightness of the approach to the blue door ahead, progress is going to be problematic for three abreast.
‘I’ll be okay now thanks’ she says.
Still there is no “we” but, with fumes from the idling motor reaching him, the man is happy to mumble approval and reclaim the warmth of his cab.
She watches its top light disappear behind the row of cars wedged both sides of the road. Only when she can no longer hear the familiar diesel engine rattle does she delve back into his jacket to extract the bunch of keys she’d been relieved to detect there earlier. Once more grasping a wrist, she loops it around her neck. As she goes to reach around his belt, she digs in a rough elbow in vain hope of nudging some Power On button.
Ignoring the original door, she takes a deep breath and weaves them four houses beyond any which has possibly lodged in the cabbie’s memory. Shouldering the colleague up a blessedly short path, she glances up and notices a façade that’s peeling in places
|Amazed mummy and daddy didn’t buy summut more flash|
The front door glides open to reveal an ornate walnut stand. Momentarily lifting her gaze, varnished floorboards stretch the length of the hallway. From there a scarlet carpet climbs to a landing, every tread held in place by a gleaming brass rod
|Fuck me|
Staggering them both indoors, she reverse-kicks harder than necessary to ensure the mortice clicks firmly shut. Head bowed with the effort she maintains their ungainly shuffle past the first entrance having already, while outside, assessed this to be a living room. Dog-legging right at the staircase, the next doorway thankfully frames the foot of a single bed.
Muscles choir a hallelujah as she allows the key-ring to jangle to the rug. Dumping him face up onto the quilted counterpane, with difficulty she wrests off his blazer. As she drops down its remaining contents she smells muck on the underside of his brown brogues and goes to unlace. The thump as each shoe falls to the floor brings to mind her brother. Instinctively she goes to loosen an extra button at the throat, for which her reward is a gentle gust of body odour. Starting to unhook the belt buckle, there is a giggle. She pauses but his eyes stay shut, arms leaden. A forceful yank from the ankles sees the trousers slide off, to be flung in the general direction of the Aquascutum shirt. Satin boxer shorts underneath sport a row of Bugs Bunnies, each grinning as they brandish an identical carrot at her. She stares but doesn’t return the wave. As she leaves the room, instinct overrides weariness from the day’s exertions and she begins roaming both levels of the home.
҉
Back on the ground floor after confirming her theory that Toby lives alone, Margo headed for the kitchen before spooning some Nescafé into a mug and thumbing the switch on the kettle. Arms folded, she compared her life now with how it had once seemed. Without question growing up had included some interesting moments, as her grandma insisted on referring to them. Nonetheless her upbringing had been tolerable enough, popularity motivating the playground to christen her “Maggie”. Slowly however the name had morphed into a gentle tease as, to public excitement, Prime Minister Thatcher had triumphed in the Falklands War. But within two years Britain’s second Boadicea had refocused her attentions and had begun menacing the nation’s own pit villages, including those ringing the young girl’s Midlands home. With the Miners’ Strike soon witnessing hostile confrontations between picketers and scabs, at times her nickname had even acted as a lightning rod for certain locals who leapt to conclusions about the political leanings of her family, recently moved in from another coalfield.
More surprising was that the hassle had tailed her into the city. In fact all the way to the grammar school where she’d been proudly dispatched with an academic bursary, so vital to their household budget. Whilst countering sly taunts from well-spoken fellow students was never going to challenge her, a greater learning curve had been defending her homework from a gang of lads from the nearby comprehensive whose relatives belonged to a rival trade union. Not to mention the responsibility of shielding a gangly girl, at least a year older but constantly trailing a few steps behind, fawn eyes peeking out from an impossibly pressed version of their uniform that may as well have sported a giant bull’s-eye.
Thus by the time the nationwide strike had spat and shoved its way into a second calendar year, skills had been acquired which would prove useful to her future profession. First of all to pore over an old map directory, discovered while searching the boot of her uncle’s filthy car when supposed to be washing its exterior, as a means of identifying safe walking routes. Secondly, an improved ability to keep her evolving opinions to herself. And finally, as the girl now known to all but her own family as Margo, that there could be advantages in adapting her identity.
After the National Union of Mineworkers had bowed to sad inevitability and voted to return to work payback between pit communities had thankfully declined. Finally she could enjoy being called by her preferred name, people at college and in her casual jobs having no interest associating her with Thatcher.
All of which made it tricky to explain precisely why, just a few months ago, Margo had boiled over when her old nickname had resurfaced.
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