When Janice Bailey Walked (From London Road Linked Stories)

The day Janice Bailey was released from prison was the hottest Friday on record in England. Even at eight thirty in the morning, heat waves rippled across yellow and brown fields and, as Janice walked away from the metallic clank of the closing door of Chorley Prison, her white pumps stuck to the black top, and birds sat silently in the trees.

She paused, remembering what she had been told: ‘Turn left outside the gate and keep going for twenty minutes until you come to the train station.’ The prison was off the bus route, so if no-one met you, you had to walk to the station in Chorley and catch a train to – where? London, Janice supposed. She hadn’t made any plans. What was the point? She was a fifty seven year old convicted criminal with no family – her parents were both dead and she’d never had children – and no prospect of a job. Who would want to hire her? She’d tried to ignore her release day, creeping nearer, because, if she had a choice, she would rather stay in prison.

Janice swung the Tesco’s carrier bag over her shoulder and started walking. The bag contained everything she brought with her five years ago: three £20 notes, her building society passbook which now held £1,113.23 (interest at 2%), a soft denim purse complete with Shining Red lipstick and a regular tampon plus keys to a flat she no longer rented and a photograph of a man she no longer loved.

A car sped past. Its draft cooled the sweat on the back of her neck, and it occurred to her how the last five years had sped by, how much had changed. Five years ago,in 2001, she had been driven up this very road in a paddy wagon, a week after the sentencing, when there was finally transport available to take her from the little prison cell in South Norwood to Chorley. Sitting there hand-cuffed to a woman police officer, she had resolved to kill herself at the earliest opportunity.

A flock of starlings flew across the road, chattering and calling, and then swooped up in a crazy, swirling pattern and settled on  a telegraph wire. The sudden movement unnerved Janice. How could they all stay together like that, in such a tight group? Where would they get water in this hot weather? The fields were parched, and withered corn husks sprouted from the bleached earth like hairs on an old woman’s head. She walked a little faster, feeling suddenly vulnerable. She might be a criminal – technically an ex-convict now that she was free – but she was also a plump, middle-aged woman on a deserted lane in the wilds of Surrey, and it would be good to get to the station quickly.

The station was a single wooden structure, open to the elements like a bus stop, with nowhere to buy a ticket. Janice sat inside, out of the glare of the sun, and breathed in the warm air to see how it tasted. This was free air, but there was nothing special about it. Why would there be? She could go where she wanted, when she wanted, but she was the same person out here that she had been inside, the same arms and legs, the same beating heart, only now she didn’t want to kill herself. Father Tom had helped a lot. She told him about Michael, how he had lost his job at the pub, how the drink had got hold of him, and about that last night when he’d come home drunk and attacked her. She took the photo out of her purse and looked at it. Michael had been good-looking once, Father Tom had agreed with her there. Dark, thick hair like a gypsy, the gold earring, the white teeth. Janice forced herself to remember – Michael jabbing the knife at her, her grabbing it and turning it on him. She remembered her rush of fury, the hard push, the dumb shock in his eyes. Manslaughter in self-defence. And it was true. She had known that night, that if she didn’t stop him first he would kill her, but now her guilt was like a wound that had healed but would never go away.

When the train arrived, she took a seat in an empty carriage by the window. Soon the conductor appeared, striding towards her to pluck the £20 note she held up to pay.  

As the fields flew past in a ginger blur, a mother and a boy of about three in a Bob the Builder t-shirt entered from the carriage up ahead and sat down opposite Janice. The boy kneeled up on the seat, palms flat against the glass, and the woman settled beside him with a book. The train jerked and the woman’s hands flew up to the boy’s back, not touching but ready to catch him if he should fall. He turned and grinned at his mother, and a shock went through Janice. She thought she might throw up. He looked like Aiden, Sandy’s son.
Aiden and Sandy had lived in the mother and baby unit at Chorley until Sandy’s time was up, two weeks before. Janice had received a scribbled postcard from Sandy three days after they left, saying they were going north to Scotland with Aiden’s father and that she’d be in touch. Janice didn’t expect to hear from her again. Sandy had a new life now, a fresh start, and a boy to raise, and the last person she needed was Janice.
Victoria Station was loud, the ceiling was high, and echoes slipped in and out of Janice’s head, making her temples thud. She walked along the platform, easily overtaken by the blond mother and son and other passengers, all marching fast, all with somewhere to go. She decided what to do. She would go to one of these fancy London shops, and steal something. She’d be arrested and taken to a police station. They’d probably hold her overnight, charge her with shoplifting, and maybe, with her record, they’d send her back to prison. Back to Chorley, even. There were still two mother-baby couples left in the unit, infants, and Janice could make herself useful there. But if not Chorley, then somewhere similar, a place where barred windows and the reassuring clank of metal doors meant safety with other women like her, people without family, a job, a home.

She turned left out of Victoria Station and walked along the street. People streamed past; on the pavement, crossing the road. She passed shop after shop: a cafe, a dry cleaners, a newsagents, a pizza restaurant. Buses roared, spewing exhaust fumes, taxis honked, motorcyclists zipped in between traffic, and a swerving cyclist yelled at her. Shooting pains flashed through Janice’s temples. She came to a toy store and ducked in through the big double doors, past the security guard who tipped his cap in her direction. The aisles were piled full of boxes; models to build, paints, jigsaws and robots. She picked up a 500 piece Buzz Lightyear jigsaw, slipped it into her carrier bag and, heart beating as loud as a pneumatic drill, approached the exit. Her pumps moved across the floor, one in front of the other, as she stepped closer to the exit. She put her hand up, pushed the heavy door open, and walked out. She kept going, listening for footsteps behind her, waiting for a hand on her shoulder and a voice saying, “Excuse me, madam, may I look in your bag?”

But nothing happened. She kept going, walking beside an image of herself reflected in the massive glass window of the shop, and still no one approached her. Inexplicably, her eyes filled with tears, as if someone had done something kind. What went wrong? Didn’t they have security? She took the plastic-wrapped box out of the bag and examined it. No electronic sticker. No price tag. No nothing.

Half laughing, half crying, Janice ducked into a coffee shop. She calmed down enough to order an orangeade, a jam doughnut, and a sausage roll. When it came, she ate with relish and immediately felt better. She didn’t have many choices. Time was passing, it was almost lunchtime, and she must find a place to sleep tonight. There was a halfway house, she knew, somewhere near Victoria Station. It was supposed to be a decent place, the landlady wasn’t an alcoholic or an absentee landlord, and Janice knew Sandy had planned to go there with Aiden when they first got out. Janice fished around in her bag and found the piece of paper with the address.

Fortified by the snack, she paid the bill, left the waitress a tip, and left the shop. She retraced her steps to the train station, and followed the directions from there. The roads turned from commercial to residential, tall white houses with black iron railings. One or two had round blue plaques with a famous person’s name and a date, and Janice thought of Sandy, who wanted to teach Aiden everything. He must learn about famous people and politics and art and how to earn money so he could make his way in the world. He was going to be a success, her son.

Janice remembered how, the first day Sandy appeared in the TV room at Chorley, a skinny little addict with thin yellow hair, the skin on her arms so transparent, she’d thought the girl near death, until Sandy turned around and Janice saw her great big bump. She was eight months pregnant. Sandy saw her looking and Janice had smiled, patting her own round stomach, and said that at least Sandy had a good reason for a bump, and from then on they were friends. Sandy went to the local hospital to have Aiden five weeks later, and Janice was glad she didn’t have to give birth in prison. Janice had been in Chorley for three years by then, and had a coveted job cleaning in the mother-baby unit. When Sandy came back, Janice took one look at the baby’s face and fell in love.

Janice borrowed books from the prison library to read to Aiden. In the unit’s separate TV room, she’d cradle him in one arm, hold a book in the other, and read until her throat was sore. When he turned eighteen months and started to speak, he’d pull her arm and say, ‘’Ook,” when he wanted a cuddle. Now, she refused to let herself think about the day they’d left, when he came to say good-bye.

She turned a corner and the houses became shabby. She passed a parade of scruffy little shops: Eski’s Sports, Hatton Garden Jeweler’s, Patel’s Grocery and Thelonakis Kebab, and then more houses, counting down by two’s, until finally she came to number 17, London Road. A detached, red brick Victorian house. Janice went up the stairs and rang the bell. Who would think you could be right in town and so far away from the traffic? Behind a wall, she could just see the edge of a patch of green. She’d stay here tonight, if the woman would have her, and tomorrow she’d go out again and steal something else, this time in a shop with better security.

The door opened. A short, stocky woman with gray hair tied back in a ponytail stood there. “Yes?”

“My name is Janice Bailey, I…” What should she say? I’ve just got out of prison? What if this wasn’t the woman who ran the place? She didn’t want to announce her shame to the world.

The door opened wider. “Come on in, love,” she said, with a smile. “I’m Nora. Sandy told me about you.”

“She did?” Joy flared in Janice’s throat. She stepped into the dark, stale hallway and followed Nora, who walked with a limp that made her long ponytail swing from side to side.

“You were with Sandy at Chorley, right? Come on through to the kitchen.”

Tongue-tied, Janice followed Nora through a dining room with five small round tables, and into a large white kitchen. The mention of Sandy, out here in the real world, seemed out of place and made Janice long for Chorley, for her cell, for Aiden.

“Now,” Nora was saying. “Cup of tea? All right then. You sit there.” She pointed to the pine table. “So tell me, have you got a job lined up?”

Janice stared. Who did this woman think would want to employ her?

“Because if you haven’t, you can help me here. My cleaner just left last week. Without a word, upped and went back to France. Sit! Sit!”

“Oh!” Janice sat down.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Nora said, giving her a smile. “Not this whole house by yourself. There’s Mandy on the third floor, a youngster, you can keep an eye on her for me. She’s only been here a week, and I’m not sure about her. Then on the second floor, Bitty and Isobel share a room. Bitty was reading languages at Oxford and dropped out.” Nora tapped her forehead. “Too clever for her own good, if you ask me. Then there’s Isobel. She gets a bit boisterous sometimes, but her heart’s in the right place. And my daughter Anna, when she’s not at boarding school, is on the top floor, in the attic. Everyone’s long term, I don’t do holiday lets anymore so they all clean their own rooms. So it’s just this floor, the kitchen, the dining room, and the common areas. Not too much. I’ll pay you the going rate. What do you say?”
The woman stopped for breath.

Janice thought about the stale smell in the hall. A bit of carpet freshener would soon fix that. She nodded.

“Good!” Nora placed a chipped white plate on the table and emptied a pack of chocolate digestives onto it. “Help yourself, Dear.”

Janice reached out and took one. Was she dreaming or was this woman mad?

Nora sat heavily beside Janice. “Oof! I’m not as young as I was. My knees are going and I just can’t do the bending.” She poured from a pale green teapot. “What about you? Your knees okay?”

“Fine,” Janice said, nodding.

“Good, then tell you what, let’s have our tea, then you can help me sort out Number One. Big room at the top of the stairs. Overlooks the garden at the back. It’s Sandy’s. I let it during the week to a couple of workmen, and they made a right mess. She’ll be back tonight.”

“Sandy?” Janice thought she’d misheard.

Nora leaned forward with an air of confidentiality. “It didn’t work out with the boy’s father. I knew it wouldn’t the minute he stepped in the door. I’m a great judge of character. That man’s got no time for the boy, I’ll tell you that. Her room can be your first job.”

Janice set the teacup down in the saucer with a clatter. “Nora, I don’t know what to say. I’ll work for you for nothing.”

“Whisht!” Nora waved Janice away. “You’ll do no such thing. A fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay.”

“Well!” said Janice. She pushed her chair out and stood up. “You stay here, and I’ll go and clean up for them.”

“Oh!” Nora gave a big sigh and rubbed her knees. “That would be lovely, Dear. You’ll find the cleaning things, everything you need, in the hall cupboard. Here’s the key.”

Janice leaned forward and took the long metal key Nora held out. The metal was warm in her hand. It would be hot work cleaning in this heat, but she didn’t mind. She would open a window.

                                            THE END

A note from Tessa
I hope you enjoyed When Janice Bailey Walked! I wrote this story – and others in the London Road series – over the course of a decade from 2002 to 2012.
Ten years after moving to the United States with my American husband, I found myself with two children in elementary and middle school, and a bad case of home sickness. I tried to ease my longing for England through writing and, happily, it worked. Every day, I immersed myself in the world of flawed but fascinating characters inspired by people I used to know and, every day, I was transported home. They were an absolute joy to write and edit, and I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them!
Please do sign up for my newsletter at tessasmithmcgovern.com to receive exclusive free stories, British trivia, new releases, flash sales, and more.

What Inspired the Story?
Some years ago, I learned that women often get longer prison sentences than men even when the crime is identical. That struck me as incredibly unfair and made me want to write about one such woman – Janice Bailey. This is her story.
When Janice Bailey Walked is the first story in London Road Linked Stories Volume 1, was first published in the Connecticut Review, and received the CT Press Club award for Best Creative Writing. This story, along with the other six stories in London Road Linked Stories Volume 1, were lucky enough to receive a gold medal in the eLit Awards and a Kirkus Recommended Review.

 

 

Tessa…captures our attention in the opening lines of each story, she has us by the collar until stories end. All of this in the short story format that so few writers have mastered as well. . .What endears us most to these beautifully crafted stories…is the manner in which Tessa provides a light in the tunnel that allows her characters to not only see alternatives but also illuminates the innate humor in life as we live it. Highly Recommended.
Grady Harp

Author of War Songs

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tessa Smith McGovern is an author and creative writing teacher (online) who teaches ‘Ace the Common App: Enhance Your College Application by adding ‘Published Author’ to Your Resume’.

When Tessa’s two children were at Staples High School in Westport, CT, she guided them in the creation of original, polished creative writing portfolios that fully expressed their personalities to help their resumes stand out. Colleges want students with grit who will change the world, and that’s what writers can do. Thus, each portfolio showcased qualities such as creativity, commitment to a passion, and the willingness to go above and beyond in the pursuit of that passion. Each portfolio was published and available on their resumes as a link for college admission officers to download and review.

Her son recently graduated from Boston College and her daughter is a JD/MBA candidate at Boston College.

Tessa is founder of award-winning eChook Digital Publishing which won a gold and a silver in the 2012 eLit Book Awards. She’s taught writing and/or digital publishing at the following:

Teacher, Writing Institute, Sarah Lawrence College, NY (2010-2016)
Co-founder/teacher at The Fairfield County Writers’ Studio, Westport, CT (2016 to present)
Workshop leader at Long Lots Elementary and Bedford Middle School, Westport, CT.

Her books include two Amazon best-sellers: the short story collection London Road: Linked Stories (British Short Stories category), and Cocktails for Book Lovers, Sourcebooks, Inc (Cocktails/mixed drinks category). She’s also host/producer of BookGirlTV which features interviews with popular authors such as Dani Shapiro, Jane Green and Pulitzer prize-winner Anna Quindlen.

Tessa was born in England, moved to the United States in 1993, and published her first short story in 1996. She’s currently working on a YA urban fantasy novel with talking animals that’s inspired by British folklore. She lives in CT with her family, a black lab, and a black and white Maine Coon who actually can talk.

For more information, please email tessasmithmcgovern @ gmail.com

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What Readers Are Saying

This author is talented. Her characters are sometimes appealing and sometimes appalling, but never boring. I hopes she keeps writing. She won’t make a fortune writing short stories, but she’ll attract a grateful following of readers hungry for well-written stories. I was so sorry to come to the end of this book and I would be happy to buy a sequel.
Whistlers Mom

Amazon Top 500 Reviewer

McGovern has a way with language and dialogue that is fully convincing and absorbing, you want to know more about every individual in this collection. Another collection of stories with these same characters would be a welcome follow up. Highly recommend for an interesting, quirky, and satisfying fictionalized account of boarding house living in a not so nice part of London.
V.E.

Amazon Customer

Uplifting stories who warm the reader’s heart and gives us all a little hope.
Jennifer Stolzenberg

Amazon Customer

What a great collection of stories. At first, I thought that only sixty pages is really short, but I would rather have a handful of excellent stories than double that amount where some of them are just filler. The writing is really skillful, the details of London life are vivid and everything flows perfectly. I really recommend this book, read it slowly and enjoy every page, it is worth your time.
Sanjin

Amazon Customer

When you think halfway house, you most likely picture some recently released gang members and tough macho guys full of tattoos and bad intentions, but this book is a breathtaking new take on an old stereotype. We meet a host of colorful and varied characters who all are residing at a halfway house in London. They are definitely not what you pictured and they all have a story to tell. The characters humanizing qualities lets you connect with each one in different ways and you will be sad to see the stories end. I truly enjoyed this book and liked the way the author was able to bring her own experiences of growing up in her parents halfway house, to the table and open our eyes to some more of what humanity has to offer.
JA Armstrong

Amazon Customer

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