The Right People
“Did you call for me, George?” Mary grinned, shifting the hefty file packed with important papers under her arm for a better grip.
“Oh, stop it with the George this and George that! George sounded almost put out, sitting behind his desk. In front of him lay mock-ups of magazines and two new, brightly-covered books the publishing house hoped would be a smash hit come Christmas. Im knackered, to be honest… Put the folders down, Mary-love, stop clutching them like the crown jewels! How about a holiday, eh?”
Mary smiled again, walked over to her husband, put the documents down on the ornate, hand-carved desk and, like a cat, slipped under his arm, settling herself on the arm of his chair. She nodded, hugged him around the neck.
His office was always warm, welcoming and sort of dignified, you know? Everything felt proper classy, reliable, solid. The desk in particular bespoke, crafted by master joiners.
Both the desk and Marys husband seemed cut from sturdier timber than most, if you get my drift built to last, solid and dependable. Only one was crafted by expert woodworkers, and the other, George, made sturdy by life itself. And hed lived a life, truly if he ever sat down to reminisce, it could fill an entire evening.
…His mum, Margaret, had brought him to York from a little village, convinced shed quickly find her feet and start afresh. But nothing happens quickly, does it? Only done a bit of school, eight years or so, Margaret struggled for ages to find proper work, scrubbing stairwells in tower blocks or sweeping the neighbourhood with a broom. They lived in the caretakers flat right there. George would wait for his mum at the window or sometimes help out.
Passersby, watching the boy awkwardly lug a heavy shovel or sweep the pavement with a broom longer than he was tall, would look on with fondness, nodding at him, Helping your mum, are you?”
But George just gazed back, quiet, straight-faced.
Whys he so serious, your boy?” Margaret’s mate Susan a talkative, lively twenty-nine-year-old would muse. Sue was always the life of the block, deliberately cheerful, loud with her laughter, joking through work like she was determined to prove how little her troubles mattered, how unimportant she felt, some silly fly so what if she played the fool? Margaret understood: something had gone wrong for Sue, but she put on a show, chased trouble away. Quiet at night though, sometimes crying out in her sleep, calling for someone…
Margaret felt sorry for Susan, tried to comfort her, but Sue would only brush her off, flicking her ginger curls, hands on hips, stubbornly insisting, Sort your own life out, Maggie! No house, no husband, just a sad little boy in tow help yourself, love! Me? No one can help me now. Its all over for me. And then shed flop onto a kitchen stool, face buried in her arms. No one can help anymore. Its done.
What had ended, exactly, Margaret never managed to find out. Sue stayed mum, like a stone, so all Margaret could do was shrug and try her best.
Sue lived just down the hallway, in her own caretakers room. Strange, isnt it? She seemed rough and plain, but she kept everything perfectly tidy a pot with a geranium on the windowsill, floors scrubbed clean, and she always dressed simply but neat, hair brushed, boots polished properly.
Every morning, after splashing her face with freezing cold tap water from a rusty sink, Sue would rub her cheeks till they were scarlet, give herself little smacks and pinches, wink at George and say, Keeps the wrinkles at bay! Shed neaten her hair and then, if the day was sunny, shed launch into a cleaning spree scrubbing, dusting, rearranging, even washing the curtains and beating the rugs outside. Sometimes shed bake if she had enough bits and bobs, but lacking money for nicer ingredients, she’d take her string bag (and George for company) off to the shops.
Margaret would watch them go, content to leave George to it: he wasnt one for mixing with other kids, too quiet. At least Sue would keep him company.
Somehow, Margaret trusted Susan with her son, knew shed do him no harm.
Today again, Sue dragged George to the grocer, scowling at the prices and grumbling about the cost of things. Shed have a go at the shop lady, Mrs. Lowe, pleading to let the boy have a few slices of sausage, Ill pay you next week, come on, hes wasting away!
Mrs. Lowe would tut, and George, who adored sausage, would just sigh well, if you havent got any, you havent got any.
See? Youre breaking the boys heart! Sue would scold, Hes withering away, the poor love! Isnt that right, George?”
He would only shrug.
So Mrs. Lowe would eventually give in, slicing up five great slices of sausage for the boy.
There you are, thank you kindly! Sue would beam, picking up flour, some weird-looking margarine, and a bit of sultanas. Thats all I can pay, look!” And she’d hand over a handful of crumpled notes and coins.
Mrs. Lowe would count out the money, laying change on the sugar-dusted counter while George followed every movement with his eyes.
Still short, are we? Sue would ask, tilting her head and winking at George.
Of course you are! What do you expect? Mrs. Lowe would snap, Youve given me three quid and coppers. You owe me the same again!
Sue would just make a face, rest her chin on her fist, when suddenly George stomped his feet and pointed angrily at Mrs. Lowes apron pocket.
You see, George noticed too! Sue would announce, suddenly fierce as a bobby prowling the park. Pocketing a childs money, are we? Thats not on! Out with it!
Looking guilty, Mrs. Lowe would lay the missing coins on the counter.
Thats more like it. Not a penny do I owe you, Mrs. Lowe! Right, George, off we go weve got important things to do!
George would run ahead, dreaming of eating his sausage on the buildings communal bench, while Sue thought about inviting Margaret round for tea and cake. Shame she didnt have fancy plates and dainty teacups, lovely little bowls for the jam and saucers you nibbled cake from slowly with a spoon. And laughter so much laughter
Sue grimaced; the picture almost made her cross with herself. She hurried on.
Margaret caught sight of them returning, called George, but he just waved his arm, too busy!
Margaret! Put that mop down, come have some tea! Sue would call, standing at the door like an actress on stage. George, collect your mum and wash up! Take her hand, lad like this! Down on one knee Thats it! Lead her in. Margaret the table is laid, madam!
Giggling, Sue would drag Margaret in.
Even George managed a smile, albeit small and secretive.
They all settled in. Sue poured strong, builders brew, ladled steaming slices from a sweet-smelling, sultana-studded cake onto plates. Never again would George taste cake like Sues no one else could bake it quite so soft and rich.
He would scoop up crumbs with his finger, then dig in to the warm treat, while the mug of extra-dark tea sent up clouds of steam. Sue loved her tea strong as tar. Margaret would wince but dutifully drink hers.
Feels like a party, doesnt it? With sausage too! Sue, did you land the pools or what? Margaret teased. And by the way who are you, Sue? You hardly work, your money comes and goes, but you always have cash for cake. And you know more about music than I do Even in your sleep you recite poetry.
Me? Nonsense! Sue waved off the idea. Never happened.
It did. Look even George is nodding.
Well, what does your George know about poetry! Tell me, first, why your boy never speaks? He reads lips hes not deaf, is he? Sue squinted, head on one side, biting at a ragged nail. Youre keeping secrets, arent you, love?”
I am not! Margaret bristled, Its his nerves, thats all. And I dont want to discuss it.
But still What brought you to York then? Family trouble? Sue wouldnt give up, This is a big city good doctors, experts! Maybe they could help George? Well find someone!
Nobody cares about us, Sue. The good doctors dont take folks like us. Even if they did its nerves, Im telling you. Drop it. George, more tea? Margaret jumped up, almost knocked the mug over. Oh, for goodness’ sake, George, why didnt you finish your tea? You should!”
Dont shout at the boy! You cant sort your own life out, always sweeping and fretting, and the lads growing like a weed you never even put him in nursery! We can all shout at the kids, but its not right, is it? Dont you dare raise your voice at George!
Alright, alright, sit down! Margaret stammered, flustered. George, Im sorry. Sue! Stop fussing over him! Hes a normal boy, stop coddling him! Give him here!
A bit of a tug-of-war over George, as each woman pulled him her way, until he started crying.
Look at that! Youve done it now. Eat your sausage, George! And you, Margaret, spill the beans or you won’t get another slice of cake! Sue plopped George onto a stool, gearing up to listen.
We lived in a village before, Margaret began, stilted. I had a husband. Georges dad.
Right, Sue nodded.
Im not putting on a play for you dont you dare! Margaret snapped. His name was John.
So George is a Johnstone. That makes you a Johnstone, too. Fancy! Carry on, Sue grinned.
Youre a trial! grumbled Margaret. Alright, listen. He was killed by a bear. Right in front of George. They were out in the woods not hunting, just wandering. John loved animal tracks, used to sketch them and tell George all about them. That day, he took George with him. Didnt ask me it was freezing, deep snow, but John said George was a little man, hed manage. I wasnt keen, but off they went. Next thing, George came running back alone. Guess John told him to run, get help, but he was so young, sobbing, couldnt make sense of anything… John had a rifle, I never understood why he didnt use it It happened right before Georges eyes I couldnt even go to the funeral, the neighbour women had to arrange it. And George hasnt spoken since. Happy now? Thats what you wanted? Margaret turned away, sobbing. I thought moving to the city would help, new sights, buses, trams, something to distract him… But it didnt. And I cant do anything right here. I only know how to mind animals, not manage in a place like this
Sue was silent for a moment, watching Margaret blot tears with the corner of her apron, then said quietly:
How come hes so good at counting then? He always counts out money at the shops Ive noticed, more than once.
We had a neighbour back home, used to deliver pensions. George would tag along while I worked, and she taught him. Everyone laughed, said hed be an accountant one day. And here we are What now? Margaret looked truly lost.
She snatched a tea towel from the hook and crushed it in her fist. Sue saw the whiteness in Margarets knuckles, the red veins on her neck. Real trouble… Sue had never known such heartbreak harsh, hopeless, and smelling faintly of smoke, for some reason.
Smells like smoke Sue muttered. Why does it smell of smoke?
Both women looked out the little basement window, which barely showed a slice of the yard. Peoples legs flashed past.
Quickly! Sue grabbed Margaret and hurried up the stairs and onto the street, rounding the corner after the others. The old biddies by the playground wailed, while the men, home for lunch, seized tools from the rusty fire board.
Whats happened? Fire?! Margaret caught a stranger by the elbow.
He frowned down at her. The pigeon loft. Kids are in there. Started the fire themselves, the idiots! Are you the caretaker? Wheres the water? Come on then! Pull your weight standing about, useless!
Weve just enough hose to water the rose beds, not out there Margaret replied, subdued.
He cursed and dashed off, shooting Sue a glare so fierce it couldve peeled paint.
The rickety old pigeon loft, black with years of weather, was already engulfed in smoke. People ran about, flinging pails, tripping on the wet grass, bitterly swearing.
Margaret craned her neck, shading her brow. Above, pigeons wheeled like white lace in the sky while two little faces, a few years older than George, peered out of the loft window, fear written large.
Sue saw at once what needed doing, dashed over, ducked under the low door and vanished inside.
Sue! What are you doing? Susan! Margaret raced toward her, but someone grabbed her roughly and pushed her back. Margaret fell.
Back off! shouted the same bloke. Well handle this. Someone douse me seriously, chuck water on me now! And promptly was soaked, before bolting into the smoky doorway. Sue already appeared at the window above.
Margaret! We cant get down. You lot catch them! Boys, dont cry! I said, dont! Sue barked at the panicking boys.
Blankets! Quick, anyone got one? People hurried about, spreading a blanket under the window. Sue boosted out one boy he clung to her, screaming, then at last let go, tumbling safely to the ground. The other jumped himself, arms flailing as he fell.
No sooner had both boys landed than the grown-ups started telling them off for starting the fire the little ones wept incoherently.
But Margaret was frozen, staring up. No sign of Sue. The smoke thickened. Sue! Susan! Where are you?! she screamed. Georges tiny hand found hers.
What are you doing here? Go home! Go now! Margaret begged, frantic.
But her son didnt budge, transfixed. Then he too lifted his voice loud and raw, a sound Margaret had forgotten. He was calling for Sue his Auntie Sue, who made cakes, bought sausage, told stories and taught him how to draw horses. Sue was good at drawing a yellow pencil in her hand would conjure slender, powerful horses necks, flared nostrils, deep, dark eyes, a mane wild as wind.
Thats a horse, George. Can you say it? Hor-se! Sue would prompt, but hed just watch her face.
Shed tell him about distant seas, places with elephants and whales. George loved the whales they were big as ships, blue as ink, gentle as kittens. He wished he could meet one someday.
Sue! Suuuue! George shouted, stamping and sobbing.
The firemen arrived, hoses hissing. Margaret clutched her son, smoothing his head, but he broke free, dodged away toward the burning pigeon loft. Suddenly, a figure scooped him up Sue, soaked through, skirt clinging to her shaking legs. Her fringe was singed, her face black with soot, eyebrows nearly gone yet smiling, happy as a child.
Where do you think youre off to, rascal? Im right here! What were you shouting, George? Say it again, love! Margaret, what was he yelling?
Sue-nah My Sue, George murmured, clutching her neck.
Alright, enough with the tears fires not funny! barked the same man. And you, madam, need a doctor. Look at your hands!
Sue nodded. Shed see a doctor, sure, but what mattered most was that George had spoken their George, her Margarets son!
She carried him home, Margaret fussing for her to put him down. Sue kissed the boys nose, cheeks, danced a little jig.
We need a party, thats what! Sue announced, then went pale, collapsing onto a stool. George, fetch me some water, will you? Margaret, everythings gone black for a moment
Sue coughed, her hands trembling.
Dont worry, Sue, youre just rattled! Sit, Ill put something on your burns. There there we go.
George babbled comfort as well, petting her hair. Sue smiled, trying to seem brave, but the pain crept in. George burst into tears.
Whats this, little man? Why the tears? Sue whispered.
Im scared youll be gone, like Dad he mumbled.
No, love, no! I have to stick around to help raise you, havent I? Your mums always at work, but one day shell study and get a fancy certificate! Theres loads to do, George, loads
Sue dozed off, this time just sleeping, sometimes smiling in her dreams.
Margaret watched over them, George nestled beside her, stroking Sues head.
You know, shes still young Margaret thought. So much living left to do, studying, loving, children of her own and heres Sue, hiding away like a mouse in a hole
She smiled then, grateful. George had spoken not the citys doing, too big and impersonal for that, but the people. Sue.
In the middle of the night, Sue woke, gulping water.
Sue, does it hurt? Margaret asked, sitting up in her dressing gown.
My throats dry, and everything smells like smoke still, Sue croaked.
She was quiet for a moment, then shared, softly, My dads in prison, Mags. Whod want me now? He was a jeweller, got caught nicking things thought he could give me the world. Its laughable now. Ive got nothing Mums gone, the council took the house for Dads debts. I ended up on the streets. Even mates turned up their noses daughter of a thief, she must be dodgy too They didnt know I never had a clue! Dad would meet people in his room, doors shut tight. I was just playing with my dolls, drawing I wanted to go to art school even went all the way to London, to the Tate. You cant imagine, Maggie, how wonderful that place is! All I wanted was to paint, remember I had whole sketch books. Threw them in the bin. Why keep them? Theyd only remind me Im cursed. Didnt get into art school, they said I wasnt good enough. Gave up then Sue coughed, Margaret gently topped up her glass. Cleaning streets thats my calling now. But you, you find something better, raise George up! I admit, in that burning pigeon loft, I thought maybe I would just let the smoke take me. But I was scared. I dont belong anywhere, do I? Might as well just vanish.
Margaret squeezed her eyes tight, then, coming to herself, hurried across and carefully hugged Sue, stroking her head and kissing her sooty hair. That smoky smell would linger, a reminder.
Silly Sue! All those books youve read, trying for college but you dont see the obvious. You didnt give yourself life, so you dont get to end it either. My gran once, lying frail, looked at me and said, I wish I had just one more monththeres still so much to do Collect your papers, Sue, and try again! Margaret insisted.
I cant! Ive forgotten it all, lost every sketch. Honestly, whats the point? Sue waved her hand, wanting to push Margaret away but couldnt, pressing her face into Margarets palms, frowning to hide her tears.
The point is, you matter, Sue! To yourself and to young George! Weve unofficially adopted you, thats that. Were not letting go! Want more water, or shall I tuck you in? Margaret shivered, the window leaking damp. Rain on the way, probably.
Ill lie down. Do you think do you think I matter, even a bit?
Margaret said nothing. She didnt need to.
When the time came, Sue did apply for art college. She was nervous and glum for a week, skipping breakfast, sketching late into the night and tearing up her work, scribbling bits from books, then waking before dawn to rush out, kissing a sleepy George goodbye on the head. He hung about in the yard, peering over the gates, waiting for his Auntie Sue.
Dont wait, love! Too early! Margaret would tell him, but George stubbornly watched.
The very day results were posted, Sue was accepted didnt even need to check the list. She came home beaming, solemn but triumphant, then hugged George.
Theyre giving me a room at the halls, Maggie. But honestly, Id rather stay with you two! Sue announced, pulling George into her lap.
Are you off your rocker, Sue? Go, no arguments! And guess what, I got offered a job remember Mrs. Harper, the one who made Georges little suit? She needs an extra pair of hands, promised to teach me the trade. So well be moving, too.
George shot a look at Sue, gripping her hand tight. She had to stay close she knew whales and horses and all sorts of incredible things.
Alright. Ill come round for tea. And you, Maggie, will sew me a dress one day, alright? For now stick the kettle on! I brought proper doughnuts. No holding back!
She plonked a paper bag on the table, sugary, warm and meltingly fragrant.
Sue watched as Margaret gingerly tried one, blowing on it, sharing a bite with George. The boy squinted with delight.
Thanks, Aunt Sue! George flung his arms round Sues neck, dusting her with sugar; the laughter and sweetness filled the kitchen. They needed each other. George needed them most and the future was just beginning.
…Five years later, Sue got married and had Mary. George, now a teenager, watched her with the dignified air of an older brother.
“A girl…” hed say mock-seriously.
“The best girl in the world!” Margaret would reply.
They grew up side by side, George and Mary. At eleven, Mary decided she loved George. At thirteen, she was heartbroken watching him snog cocky Rita Smith. By twenty, shed sworn off falling in love entirely.
Meanwhile, George, slowly but surely, got on his feet, growing wings no one could see. He dreamed of work where he could be his own boss. In the restless 90s, he nearly went off the rails thank heavens for Sue, who got him a job delivering books for a small publisher where she did illustrations. There, George found his calling. He haunted bookshops, watching what caught peoples eye, learned who read what. He hung round Foyles, marvelling at how the shop changed readings, displays where you could browse yourself. The vibe of it all. But his own publishers books never made it onto those shelves.
Our thing is childrens magazines, stuff that lasts a day, two tops. Kids scribble on them, read, bin them. The big stores dont bother just newsagents and stalls, the old boss, Mr. Stevens, would shrug.
But George made connections, befriending Gail, the kids section manager at Foyles, with old-fashioned manners and a kind word. Soon enough, his magazines were proudly on the shelves.
Three years on, George was made editor-in-chief Sue had made him promise to finish uni after his time in the army, like youre meant to! Mary joined the design team. Nepotism? Maybe, but no one really minded after George, wrung out and battered by life, finally proposed to Mary and she said yes. Then came the whispers about family business in the office.
So what? Ill get the kids in next! George would laugh. Then well all be happy.
Sue and Margaret would share a look, nodding in agreement George had turned out a good lad, and werent they all blessed to have found each other? Needed each other, family by choice, not just by chance.
