Nicola Upson - Two for Sorrow

She found her coat and tied the belt tightly round her waist, remembering how, at the end of her last sentence, a fur coat had graced one of the cells, removed from its mothballs and looking as good as new after months of careful storage. A black crêpe de Chine dress was on a hanger next to it and, on the bench, washed and neatly folded, lay a pair of black silk panties, some stockings and a pale pink brassiere. Marjorie had stopped for a moment, transfixed by clothes which were so unfamiliar, and had tried to imagine how the underwear would feel against her skin. What sort of life would she be returning to if she owned clothes like that? she wondered, but the prison officer moved her roughly on to the end of the row before she could decide and she became Marjorie Baker again, equal to the best of them while she was inside but nothing special anywhere else. The sight of her own clothes mocked any illusions she might still have harboured. There was no need for a hanger here: the worn woollen cardigan, second-hand skirt and loose-fitting stockings—mended and torn again, just like her life sat in a shapeless pile on a chair. She had been brought in to Holloway in winter; now it was May, but no one at home could be bothered to bring her clothes better suited to a summer release and she had been too proud to accept the offer of something from the prisoners’ aid store. Shaking off the memory, Marjorie picked up the parcel and envelopes, then, as she noticed a lipstick poking out of one of the girls’ pockets, put it down again and helped herself. It would have been easy to take a few bob from these pockets, but the theft would surely be traced back to her and, in any case, she had never had the stomach for stealing from her own sort. She examined her reflection in a small powder compact which someone had obligingly left out, then put the lipstick back where it came from. Even now, six months after her release, she found it hard to get the thought of those other clothes out of her head. But that was her trouble—her mother had often said so, and Marjorie knew she was right. She was never satisfied, never had been. She always wanted something more.

Not that there had been much to be satisfied with until now, she thought, picking her way carefully down the iron staircase which led out into the cobbled courtyard at the back of the premises. Being brought up in Campbell Road—the sort of street you had to lie about living in if you were to stand a chance in hell of getting work—wasn’t exactly the perfect start in life. Seven households shared number 35, and the Bakers had a room at the top, across the landing from a knife-grinder and his family. There was nothing unusual about their slum; the pattern was repeated all the way up the street, and she’d had to laugh back in May, just after she came out, when the old Poor But Loyal bedsheet banner was dragged out for the Jubilee, just like it always was for any day of national celebration. There it hung, amongst the tattered bunting and faded Union Jacks—but loyal to what? she had wondered. To a king who didn’t even know they existed? Or to the good old days of community life, when Campbell Road muddled through, immune to interference from outsiders? Surely the only people who truly believed that were the ones who had never lived there. As far as Marjorie was concerned, the only thing the street had going for it was its proximity to Holloway; at least she never had to worry about finding the bus fare home when they let her out.

She crossed St Martin’s Lane and cut through Cecil Court, passing between two theatres to get to Charing Cross Road. A bus was already in sight and she had to run to catch it, but the pavements were quiet at this time of the morning and she reached the stop in plenty of time. Although there was scarcely anybody on board, a man gave up his seat for her at the front of the lower deck. She accepted it with a polite smile, then looked steadfastly out of the window, making it impossible for him to benefit from his gallantry by forcing a conversation. If there was one important lesson that her father had taught her, it was that men were not to be relied upon for anything in life, and she had long since perfected a way of discouraging them from believing that her good looks were any reason to be hopeful. He was a waster, her dad—and had been for as long as she could remember. A builder’s labourer by trade, he travelled all over north London but they were lucky if he came home with thirty shillings a week and, when he wasn’t working, he was in and out of jail on a series of petty charges. He was a philanderer, too—she had known what that was long before she ever heard the word—and he had made the years that followed the war work for him, taking advantage of women who, with a shortage of men and no prospects of their own marriage, were prepared to lower their standards and settle for a share in somebody else’s. She hated his weakness and his cheap opportunism, but despised her mother even more for allowing it to happen. In her mother’s unquestioning acceptance of her lot, Marjorie had seen the image of her own future. It rang a warning bell in her head, louder and more lasting than any deterrent which an institution could throw at her, and it told her to make self-reliance her guiding principle—no matter how much trouble that brought or what the consequences were.

She rang the bell for the bus to drop her at Oxford Circus and strolled slowly down Holles Street, savouring the novel experience of walking through a decent part of town and having a reason to be there. This time, surely, things ought to be different? She had a new job—one that she was good at, which wasn’t the same, day in, day out; she had friends, some from Holloway and others found within the easy camaraderie of the Motley girls; and, for the first time in her life, she could see a way out of Campbell Road. It ought to be enough. Yet still the dissatisfaction gnawed away at her, still she knew that—sooner or later—she’d be chasing something else, proving her mother right. ‘We know what you’re like,’ Miss Motley had said and, while Marjorie knew that no malice had been intended by the comment, the predictable future which it hinted at—the impossibility of change—depressed her. She hesitated for a moment outside 20 Cavendish Square; then, when she was sure she was tidy and presentable, she walked boldly through the Cowdray Club’s doors, marvelling at how readily they opened for her. It was true, people did know what her sort was like—but they didn’t know what she could be; she didn’t even know that herself. Perhaps this time she’d have the chance to find out.

She stood patiently in the entrance hall, waiting for the woman behind the desk to finish speaking on the telephone. Prison taught you to see people as types rather than human beings, and—as the receptionist stretched out her conversation for as long as possible, making her wait and throwing practised smiles at the members as they passed through, thinking she was one of them—Marjorie could tell instantly what sort of creature she was. This small area, where people came and went but never stayed for long, was the only empire she would ever know, and she was welcome to it; there was a big, wide world out there, and she was not about to be made to feel uncomfortable by a glorified message-taker. ‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked at last, looking grudgingly at Marjorie.

‘I’ve come from Motley to deliver these for the gala evening,’ she said, putting the parcel of materials down on the counter. ‘They’re for Miss Bannerman.’

‘Leave them with me. I’ll make sure she gets them,’ the receptionist said with a dismissive nod.

‘There’s a note here from Miss Motley, too,’ Marjorie continued, undaunted. ‘She’d be obliged if you could let Miss Bannerman have everything straight away.’