Margaret

It was a dark December day and the air lingered damp and icy, seeping through jumpers and shawls and settling bitterly into the curtains and bed sheets. Everything smelt of the dampness, and the bedclothes had gone that way where it was impossible to tell if they were wet or cold, or both. The condensation trickled despondently down the dirty glass windows and Margaret watched blankly as the water merged with the muck, leaving long, slow, russet coloured streaks in its wake. Betty was in the corner sitting hunched on the bed, a pink and blue shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, cross-legged with her feet tucked neatly underneath her. She had been endeavoring for the last ten minutes, at least, to untangle a tiny gold chain that her mother had given her before they had left.
“Ach! Forget this! Ah give up. Ah jist cannae dae it any mere!” She announced, loudly, looking around the room. “Ma fing-urs ur fur tae cauld”.
Margaret glanced over uninterestedly. She had long since given up at her knitting. Her fingers were too frozen to knit at a reasonable speed, and she couldn’t possibly attempt it with her gloves on. She hoped despairingly that the weather would clear up for the cricket tomorrow, but she just knew that it wouldn’t. Margaret really wasn’t concerned about the Dancing that night, although all the other girls were fussing over their shoes and dresses and worrying about what to wear, but really, all Margaret cared about was if the weather would clear up for tomorrow. Please let it clear up. Please. If the weather continued like this, like it always did, then there wouldn’t be a cricket match tomorrow, then there would never be any cricket matches ever and then how on earth was she supposed to see her.
The rain had thawed the loch outside, and fragmented pieces of ice that were like shards of broken mirrors drifted aimlessly around on the surface, breaking up the irate ripples where the raindrops were falling. She usually liked listening to the plopping and splashing of the rain. Not today though. She winced as she rolled her hair tightly and briskly into the curlers and stared in jealous irritation as wee Annie separated hers neatly into sections and brushed them efficiently into precise and orderly little spools, smiling to herself ever so slightly as she peeked fleetingly at Margaret out of the corner of her eye, with that horrible, smug, perfect look fixed onto her face. Margaret always struggled to contain her angry frustration as she crossly attempted to tug the wilder strands of hair into place. Somehow they always managed to elude her though, and her hair was yet again a wiry mess, and never glossy or shiny like Annie’s. Huffing loudly and throwing sporadic demonic looks Annie’s way, she collapsed onto the cold bedclothes with her Edith Wharton book in hand, pulling the covers over her for warmth. Actually, she thought, it now seemed fairly obvious that the bedclothes were both cold and damp.

* * *

Of course, in the end, the ball had been rubbish and boring, just as she had anticipated. All the men had showed up all handsome and charming in their navy uniforms, and the girls all flustered, ruffling their petticoats and tinkering pathetically at the terrible lusty jokes, ridiculously gratified at the lewd attention that was showered on them. Margaret had almost got herself into trouble again. She was rude to all the men that paid attention to her, and sneered when any of the girls dared to flirt back at them. Betty, who usually got on quite well with her, had called her a dreadful spoilsport and Billy MacPherson who really liked her, and had been quite sure that she was interested in him, had been deeply hurt and now thought her a little queer. She had refused to dance for most of the night and had only given in to Billy because the other girls had started to whisper about her amongst themselves. The only satisfying part of the night was that even Margaret, who had been so awful and uncouth, had actually received more attention than that stuck up Annie had done. Not that Margaret cared about the interest in her, but she loved to see Annie suffer. She had worn this perfectly horrid pink floral print dress with one of those ridiculous crinolines underneath it. Margaret hated those petticoats. The other girls thought her appallingly unfashionable, she knew, but those fluffy chiffon things just made her feel unwell. She was far more elegant, she thought, as she smoothed out her black slim cut wiggle dress on the bed. She had a long string of tiny, exquisite mother of pearl stones with matching earrings to go with them. It wasn’t pearls like she wanted, but they weren’t phony pearls either, which was the important thing, because there was nothing Margaret hated more than counterfeits. Except, she contemplated, perhaps Annie.

To her tremendous surprise the weather had cleared up and the rain had stopped. She was enormously excited as she let out her curlers and shivered into her dress. She hardly even noticed the other girls, who were crawling reluctantly out of their beds, each yawning clouds of freezing steam into the brittle air. The cricket match really wasn't very popular with everyone else. But, she thought, rubbing her arms, she literally could not wait. Sitting at the dresser she gazed scrutinizingly into the mirror, vaguely irritated at the pluke that was residing just below her right nostril. Trying to ignore it and not let it get the better of her, she spat into her mascara box and fiercely rubbed the brush into the mixture, feeling slightly better as she watched her eyelashes curling a satisfying black. Shifting uncomfortably on the seat she pulled at her stockings trying to relieve herself from the itch of the material. They were cheap. Margaret passionately despised cheap things, but she could not afford silk ones. It was necessity. Nevertheless though, a necessity that aggravated her beyond belief sometimes. Smiling at herself and pinching her cheeks, she regarded herself with near satisfaction as she plucked up her lips before painting them red. Done. She breezed out of the door and down to breakfast leaving Betty to defend her in her absence as the other girls began to gossip. She was under no allusions however, she was well aware that she was absurdly overdressed for a cricket match, and that last night she had been absurdly underdressed for a ball, but she really didn’t care. However, breakfast that morning just was not happening for Margaret. Her stomach was hollow and fragile and she was embarrassed to discover her hands shook slightly with nerves. She wished wholeheartedly as the girls clambered onto the bus, huddling together for warmth, that she could at least get a seat to herself. But alas! For who of all people to sit next to her but Annie. Margaret glared evilly at her out of the slits of her eyes as the bus rattled off, folding her gloved hands into her arms and crossing her legs towards the corner. She watched as the countryside rumbled past, the fields stretching on, piled together like untidy little boxes mapping out the landscape. It was freezing and she longed for a fox fur or shawl to wrap around her, shivering to watch the cold drips slithering down the window glass. Stepping out from the bus her feet sank immediately into the soaking grass, seeping through her shoes and stockings and chilling her toes. Battling to maintain her cool stature she stood up tall and took a cigarette out of her case, placing it into her cigarette holder, drawing in the smoke and then elegantly blowing it back out. She looked about, pleased with herself, vaguely hoping that everyone had been watching, but sadly she realised they were all oblivious to her stylish sophistication and were too busy wading across the wet lawn to the stands. Sighing airily, holding her chin high and stealing occasional glances around, she followed them. Her step was dainty, she thought her appearance chic and she walked with diffident confidence towards the raised seats.
“Ah think theres sumday ye’re keen tae impress the day”, Betty teasingly whispered into her ear, “sumday thit yer sweet oan.”
“Don’t be so absurd!” Margaret replied cuttingly, rapidly colouring. She cursed Betty silently for making her loose her cool. ‘I am calm, serene and composed, I am calm, serene and composed’ she breathed to herself, her head turned away from Betty.
“A certin Bobby MacCadam mebe?”
Margaret, on consideration, really thought it best just to ignore that comment and instead began preening her hair, pocket-mirror in hand as they sat down. The stands were centred around an old football pitch that stretched out about an acre across the field. Even the football pitch hadn’t been a proper one; there were no markings on the ground and at the top end of the field the grass had been worn down to a brown sludge where years of cattle grazing and football boots combined had destroyed any life left in it. It was probably going to be a pretty miserable game. But then, everything was miserable in this country. Cricket was far more of an English game than anything else, and this was really just a few local boys having a bit of fun on a Saturday afternoon. Still, she thought, we girls have nothing better to do. She had dragged Betty to the front of the stands only partly because she could hear indistinct derisive whispers behind her back. It only vaguely bothered her though as broken pieces of their conversation drifted her way, but it was putting her off looking for her. She peered into the dull distance, straining to see across the football pitch. The one forlorn, broken light flickered wretchedly above her head, and, Margaret thought, was actually far more of a hindrance than a help in aiding her vision. It was getting quite dark now and everyone looked anxiously at the thickening clouds above, fiercely willing the rain to stay off. It never did though, Margaret thought gloomily. It was always raining here.
Suddenly she bolted upright, rooted to her seat as she saw that familiar, formidable figure enter the stands on her left. The cricketers were coming onto the football pitch from the left hand side, and Betty grinned at her friend as Bobby MacCadam jogged out, tossing a friendly wave in their direction. Greatly battling to maintain her composure Margaret straightened her back and crossed her legs as she attempted to light another cigarette in the onset of the dreich weather. It was the Lady St. Pat’s headmistress that she was straining to see, although it had worked out fairly well for her that Bobby had appeared simultaneously. The headmistress, Mrs. Clessa, was looking her way. She smiled faintly at Margaret and raised one gloved hand in greeting. She was beautiful, Margaret thought, this strikingly strong, tall, solid woman dressed completely in black, with white skin and black hair just like snow white, or sleeping beauty or something. Margaret had been taking tutoring lessons from her for almost a year now, but her English test had been two weeks ago, and she had not been able to see her since. She had only taken the silly English lessons to see Mrs. Clessa in the first place. There had been something between them, there was something between them. Not a fleeting thing, but a year long incriminating affair. She was forty, and Margaret was just nineteen, but they had shared something that neither of them had ever had before. Of course, Mrs. Clessa was married and had children, and Margaret hardly wanted to be labeled an outcast so they had kept things quiet, and she knew that it could never last, but somehow she just always yearned to see her. She stood up suddenly, blocking the view of those behind her, under the pretence of waving to Bobby, pulling out her white handkerchief and waving it ridiculously in the air just willing Mrs. Clessa to turn around and see how good she looked in her slim black dress.
“MARGARET!”
She was lying on the floor, her legs thrashing ludicrously over the blue seat, upside down and in the air. People were crowding round her gasping in horror and the pain in her face was immense. A bloody cricket ball rolled slowly, triumphantly, beside her and as she put her hand to her face in shock, five little crimson teeth fell in to it, like glittering rubies just sitting there in her palm. She felt her front lip and in agony realised that her five front teeth at the top had disappeared. It was to the acquisition of this knowledge, and not to the pain, that Margaret finally blacked out.