Lies or truth. Lies or truth. Margaret began to tap her head on the steering wheel. Faster, harder, words she’d worn out over the past few days and soon the banging motion was rocking the car, like when the headboard bashed the wall and she was glad her house was detached. What would the neighbours think? What would the shoppers passing by the car think?I don’t care, I really don’t care.
Throwing her head back, Margaret looked at her reflection in the mirror and the red mark on her forehead and laughed, at herself, at Herbert, at their situation, at everything. The laughter soon turned to hysteria, tears coursing down her cheeks, her nose runny. Then it happened, an involuntary scream escaped, loud and long, taking her by surprise, the shock of it caused her to tremble as she shook the steering wheel, rocking like a wild thing as the pain of a wounded banshee left her body.
She had to do something with this anger.Dear God in heavenhelpme! But he wasn’t listening. Had he ever? Margaret knew then that she’d had enough of him, everything and everybody. Surely there was more to life than being the invisible woman, the village pariah, a laughing stock. As a surge of energy built inside, the wire in her blood crackled and a switch was flicked. Then nothing. Exhaustion consumed her. Margaret turned off. Closing her eyes, she rested her head, her mind completely blank, enjoying the blackness as her limp body slumped in the seat.
She must have slept, maybe for minutes, perhaps an hour, she’d lost track and concept of time but when she awoke and gazed at the clock on the dash, it said 11.27. Her eyes burned in their sockets as she stared blankly ahead, zombielike, when an odd thing occurred.
They say that just before you die your life flashes before you and it happened to Margaret, right there in the car but in her case she didn’t die, and she definitely wasn’t dead. The film reel of her life was in black and white. Swings on the park; Christmas morning; Mother setting out a picnic; she was laughing; Sheila, then sombre faces; walking home from school alone; notes in her locker; shelves stacked high with boxes; Steve McQueen; meals for three, then two, then one; a courtroom; prison gates.
Then the cine reel stopped abruptly at an image of her in the hairdressers, looking at her face in the mirror, admiring her new look. It was in full colour, vibrant. And that’s when she realised. Old Margaret had gone.
A wave of energy spread through her body, the current getting stronger by the second, as though her depleted spirit was being replenished. The firm voice from earlier spoke loud and clear, and she imagined someone stepping out from the shadows, making themselves known. Then she realised, it was her, Margaret, she’d been reborn.
The dowdy caterpillar had morphed into a butterfly but maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.Sod that butterfly, thought Margaret,I’m going to be an eagle. No, even better, an avenging angel.But how?
The voice had the answer. It was time to stop being used, manipulated, bullied, scorned. She’d show them, that lot in the village, the people who had played a part in ruining her life. One way or another everyone would remember her name. One day Margaret Tibbs would be headline news. Calmer now, at peace, she remained fixated on the middle distance, remembering, hating, debating, taking stock. Minutes passed, then another hour went by.
A flurry of options, what ifs, truths, flittered through her head, one after the other, settling like a cascade of feathers, giving her wings. As random and ridiculous as this was, Margaret had found a way out of the fog, a solution, and it made her heart soar.
Ignoring the woman loading her car opposite and the security guard eyeing her registration plate as he attempted to nonchalantly walk by, Margaret focused on the train that had appeared in the distance, hurtling down the track.
So what’s it to be, Maggie May? You have choices. Death by National Rail, right here right now. Or, go home and nurse your dying lover to the end of his days. Make a difference, be different, and show everyone what you’re made of. Hold your head up high. Either way, today’s the day you get your wings.
Turning the keys in the ignition, Margaret smiled, put the car in gear, and drove.
12
Herbert watered the plants in Margaret’s conservatory, a task he was required to complete as per the instructions on his list of ‘Things to Do’. If the truth were told he didn’t mind doing any of them. What did rankle was that he’d have preferred to offer. Also, the sudden change in Margaret’s attitude had been a shock, as was the creeping sense of being the underdog and somewhat beholden. It irritated the crap out of him.
Herbert paused in his task and stared through the window, surveying his next. His thoughts were dark, not even brightened by the pink rosebush that Margaret had suggested was in need of a prune. If she were a rose, Herbert decided, its petals would be black, darkest ebony, like her brooding soul. And the stem would be covered in the sharpest of thorns that stung and made you wince, just like her words.
Ever since she’d found out about his illness the worm had turned. Herbert hated that term because the thought of those creatures made his skin crawl. He’d assumed he played it well, the grooming and manipulation of Margaret whereas now he saw his error. It stood out a mile, like an inaccurate entry on a spreadsheet that sent a whole set of accounts awry.
His willing supplicant, once so eager to please and learn from the master had blossomed under his tutelage, growing in confidence and breaking out of her shell. He hadn’t seen it coming, so instead of installing himself as master of the house with an eager wifey to do his bidding, overnight Margaret had morphed into her interpretation of an independent woman. As a consequence, he was the one under the thumb. Who’d have thought it!
Plucking a dried leaf from the lower stems of an indoor lily, Herbert gave a rueful smile and attempted to quell the bubbling of anger. The past few days had been a lesson in many things, damage limitation for a start, but after regrouping, Herbert knew exactly how to make the most of Maggie May and turn his frown upside down.
Casting his mind back, he pictured himself sitting forlornly at the scrubbed kitchen table, waiting patiently for Margaret to come home after she stormed out. He’d expected her to take it badly but more on the lines of hysterical, broken-hearted sobbing, with lots of protestations of love and devotion for good measure. He certainly hadn’t expected her to take the huff, and he hadn’t expected to be confronted by the reborn woman who burst through the front door and told him exactly how it was going to be.
* * *
When Herbert had heard the key in the front door he had leapt from his chair, flicked on the kettle, then rushed out of the kitchen and down the hall to greet Margaret. Her earlier outburst and behaviour had stunned him. Actually it had hurt because whilst his motives and intentions hadn’t been pure or honest from the start,hewas the one that was dying. Could she not see that he needed a bit of understanding, and that a dollop of kindness wouldn’t go amiss either?
When they met in the hallway there was an awkward second or two, like an unarmed stand-off at the O.K. Corral. Not wanting to say the wrong thing, Herbert shuffled uncomfortably, most relieved when Margaret spoke first. ‘Herbert, I’m sorry for the way I reacted, truly I am, it came as such a shock and… disappointment, I suppose, but I’ve had time to gather my emotions and get my head on straight, so will you forgive me, as I forgive you?’
Stepping forward Herbert felt relief wash over his body and the image of a dingy bedsit in a halfway house faded. ‘Of course, Margaret, there’s nothing to forgive and in my own defence I blame my behaviour on an addled brain. I’d wanted to tell you for such a long time, I simply couldn’t find the words. I think I’d struggle now, to be honest, but I will try for you, my dear Maggie May.’
A smile that appeared genuine washed over her face as Margaret replied. ‘There’s no need, Herbert, now come along, let’s sit in the lounge and we will discuss what happens next and please be assured, Christian responsibility runs through my veins and I will not forsake you in your hour of need. You can rely on me.’
When Margaret gestured towards the lounge, like he was being shown into an interview, Herbert obeyed and entered the cosy room furnished in muted shades of biscuit, peppered here and there with floral accessories and minimal fuss.
Once she had taken her seat in the Queen Anne chair, poised, ankles tucked together, lily white hands clenched on knee, Herbert watched and listened. As tears coursed down Margaret’s reddened cheeks and she dabbed snot from her nose, snuffling and sniffling, she began with reassurance. ‘My heart is broken in two, Herbert, because, apart from Daddy, you are the only man I have ever loved.’
The mere mention of her father made Herbert at first uncomfortable, until a kinky role play idea pinged into his brain, causing him to brighten somewhat. ‘And you are the only woman I have ever loved, Margaret. You know this.’
‘And I feel such anger and bitterness inside, like a tsunami has washed over me and I am riddled with so many negative emotions… it’s all so unfair, Herbert. Why us? Why now? Do you not feel the same?’
Herbert tentatively reached over and took her non-snotty fingers in his. ‘Of course I do, my love. I have spent many, many sleepless nights going over the injustice of our situation, raging against the world that seems intent on conspiring against us, two star-crossed lovers.’
