Being Maggie

Logic and routine were the order of the day for Margaret – until Oscar came along . . .

LIFE, Margaret thought, was very straightforward. You went to work to earn a living. You ate healthy food and exercised.

And you cleaned your home on a Saturday, so it never got out of hand.

She had a strict rota for shopping and ironing and on Sundays she joined her family for lunch at her sister Hayley’s and her husband Joel’s, where she always had two pounds in her purse for her niece and nephew, Evie and Billy.

“My magazine’s floating about somewhere, if you want something to read,” Hayley told Margaret this particular Sunday.

Hayley had just popped in from the kitchen, her face flushed, wearing a floury apron.

“Thanks,” Margaret replied.

It sometimes occurred to her to offer to help cook, but she really couldn’t bear the chaotic way Hayley tackled the job.

Evie and Billy came bouncing down the stairs.

“Hi, Aunt Margaret,” Evie said. “I changed my library book yesterday. Want to see my new one?”

“Yes, please,” Margaret said.

But when Evie handed it over, Margaret sighed.

“Another storybook, Evie? Don’t you ever read anything else?”

“But I like stories!” “That’s all very well, but books can be such a fount of knowledge. You could be reading about insects, or birds, or volcanoes.”

Margaret thought these topics sounded exciting, so why did Evie slope away, looking downcast?

She flipped through the pages of Hayley’s magazine.

Here was an interesting article about which hair cut was best to choose based on your bone structure – now that was the kind of thing it was useful to know.

And the “tried and tested” reviews of steam cleaners and supermarket trifles – yes, Margaret saw the point of consumer features like those.

But fiction? Why bother? It was all made up.

Joel stuck his head round the sitting-room door.

“Margaret? Lunch is ready.”

****

No Monday morning struggle with the snooze button for Margaret.

When the alarm sounded, she switched it off and swung her legs out of bed. It was the only way. After a brisk shower, she ate her porridge, drank her orange juice and took her vitamin supplement before driving to school.

“Morning, Margaret.” It was Julie, the head teacher’s PA.

“Good morning.”

“I’m glad I caught you. The head has asked me to request a favour.

“The new English teacher joins us today, and Mrs Johnston hoped you could help deliver the induction.

“It’s nothing major, but someone needs to do the tour, point out the school’s features, outline the timetable and all that.” “But I have classes.” “That’s OK – Mrs Johnston knows you’re always ahead of schedule and cover’s been arranged.”

“Then I’m not really being asked, am I, Julie?” Julie smiled.

“It’s not a problem, is it?” “What’s her name – the new English teacher?”

“It’s a he, actually. Oscar. Oscar Darville.”

****

Margaret collected Oscar from the front office with a firm handshake.

“Good morning, Mr Darville. I am Miss Triske.”

“Call me Oscar, please.

Your first name is . . .?”

Margaret hesitated. This man was about her age, but she doubted they would be friends.

His hair was on the shaggy side of short and his top button was undone behind his tie.

She was used to the students calling her “Miss Triske” and at school that was an identity she embraced; still, she could hardly expect a colleague to call her that.

“It’s Margaret.”

“And do people call you Maggie?”

She shivered at the thought.

“People call me Margaret.”

****

Once Margaret had come to terms with her classes being covered by someone else, she found she quite liked giving the guided tour of Winthorpe High.

There were the photographs in the foyer of two former pupils who had gone on to become Olympians, and the display cabinet of silverware.

The language lab and the new computer

suites were sure to impress anyone, and of course there was the sports hall and the gym, where her voice echoed as she reeled off the sporting successes the school had achieved.

Oscar nodded a lot, then he asked a question.

“Any chance of dropping by the staff room? I could murder a cup of coffee.”

Margaret looked at her watch – it was still 20 minutes until break-time.

But Oscar looked at her pleadingly and she found herself yielding.

“It’s just this way.”

****

Oscar had plans for more than coffee. Once in the kitchenette, he produced from his bag a cereal bowl and a box of Frosties!

“Mind pointing me in the direction of the spoons?” Oscar asked.

Margaret opened a drawer, wordlessly.

By the time he’d eaten his cereal and they’d made coffee, Margaret decided they might as well stay put and she could introduce Oscar to the other teachers who came for their break.

Margaret assumed he would wait to be introduced by her, but, as her colleagues began to stream in, she found that Oscar was more than capable of taking care of himself.

Caroline, head of the art department, grabbed him in a laughing hug which indicated to Margaret that they knew one another.

Mitch, who taught PE, immediately exchanged remarks with him over shared football enthusiasm.

Margaret’s colleague in the maths department, Donna, asked Oscar who was showing him around.

“I am!” Margaret said quickly.

“You are?” Donna replied. “Yes. Aren’t I the lucky one?” Oscar said, looking at Margaret with such twinkly eyes that she wasn’t sure whether she was being sent up or complimented.

She wasn’t sure, either, why that mattered to her.

****

After break, Oscar said he’d appreciate a breath of fresh air, and wondered if they could walk the playing fields.

Margaret had rarely had occasion to venture in that direction, and the day was blustery, but she found herself reluctant to disappoint Oscar.

She pulled on her parka, thought about tugging up the hood, which would normally have seemed the sensible thing to do, and decided against it.

From the far end of the playing fields, Oscar pointed out that they had a great view of the town.

“You don’t realise how high up the school site is, until you’re standing here,” he observed.

“Imagine all the stories going on down there – the workers in the shops and offices, the people who empty the bins, the baristas.

“Aren’t you just fascinated by the mystery of other people’s lives?”

Margaret thought for a moment. She had enough to do keeping everything up to date in her own world.

And yet, with the wind ruffling his shaggy hair, Oscar did somehow pique her interest.

As he gazed at the view, Margaret gazed at him. But she didn’t even know him, she reminded herself, so she couldn’t possibly tell if he was attractive.

“I don’t see the appeal of stories,” she told him.

“What?” Oscar replied incredulously.

“Well, what’s the point of them, if they’re not even true?” Margaret asked.

“The people aren’t real, the events never really took place and the conclusion is just someone’s fancy. A colossal waste of time.”

Oscar seemed to study her face, and she had to look away. Had she done something wrong? But she’d only spoken the truth.

“Let’s go back,” he said softly, and with a smile that caused Margaret to experience an unfamiliar pang. “You’re freezing.”

****

Margaret led Oscar through the quiet hallway, when they looked at each other. Was someone crying?

Margaret stepped round the nearest bank of lockers and found a young girl sitting on the bench. “Tiffany?”

The girl sniffed and wiped her eyes with her blazer.

“Tiffany, what’s wrong?” Margaret’s voice was soft.

“I’m sorry,” Tiffany replied. “I know I shouldn’t be here during classes.” “Can I help?”

“It’s my maths homework for Mrs Marshall. I couldn’t do it and she’s going to kill me because she said I’m on my last chance.”

It seemed to take all the effort she had to get the words out.

“Can I see the homework task?” Margaret asked.

Tiffany, wiping her eyes again, pulled a neatly backed book from her bag.

Margaret studied the page for a moment.

“This work isn’t too hard, Tiffany,” she said. “And I’ve taught you before and I know you are capable.

“There must be a reason why you’re struggling.”

“I just can’t do it!” Tiffany spluttered.

“But that doesn’t add up,” Margaret insisted. “Have you missed a class?”

“More than one. I’ve been at the orthodontist and at cello.”

“And those both took you out of maths?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, it’s clear that your missed lessons are the problem. Mrs Marshall is very busy and might not have noticed.

“I’ll come with you to class, we’ll explain what’s happened and I promise you we’ll sort this out.” Tiffany looked surprised. “I thought I’d be in even more trouble, caught hiding in here.”

“And how would that help?” Margaret asked. The idea of meeting trouble with more trouble simply wasn’t logical.

She put her head round the corner of the lockers.

“If you could just excuse me – there’s something I need to attend to,” she told Oscar.

“Can you get yourself another coffee and I’ll come and find you when I’ve finished?”

****

Margaret knew that colleagues did not like other colleagues interfering with their methods, so she would have to be careful.

In the event, Daisy was grateful a missing student had turned up safely, and listened with care to Margaret’s explanation.

“I could’ve handled that better,” she told Margaret.

“You’re an excellent teacher,” Margaret replied.

Satisfied with a problem solved, she hurried to the staff room to find Oscar.

When Margaret spoke his name, she was surprised at a strange, breathless feeling in her chest.

And when he turned and smiled, she felt oddly disarmed.

“That was nice, how you helped that girl,” he said.

“We can’t have students upset at school,” Margaret said. “It interferes with their learning.”

“You can’t fool me.” Oscar chuckled. “You might like to show off this crisp, cool exterior, but inside you’re a bit of a softy.” Margaret jolted. “Don’t panic. Your secret’s safe with me – on one condition. You’ve given me the tour of the school.

“Some night soon, let me give you the tour of English literature. I can talk Orwell to Shakespeare to Dickens.

“Let me prove to you that stories are every bit as compelling as equations!”

“Are you serious?” Margaret whispered.

“Of course. I like you. You’re awfully stiff, then suddenly you’re terribly kind, Margaret – although I wish you’d let me call you Maggie.”

Maggie. When Oscar said it, it sounded like a name for a woman who walked out in the wind, and lit roaring fires and drank red wine and laughed a lot.

Being Margaret meant logic and reason and everything neat and tidy.

But, as she looked at Oscar, she wondered if perhaps being Maggie might start a whole new story. ■