With Love From Ma Maguire (12 page)

Philly knelt nightly before her statue of the Virgin, a smile of thanks on her lips, a prayer of absolute gratitude in her heart. The boy was well at last. Hadn’t he won all the races and learned his lessons, wouldn’t he make a fine man? It had still not occurred to her that Patrick was simply taking the line of least resistance, that he would continue to do as he was told as long as it suited his needs, not one moment longer.

The main source of trouble with the two children was Molly, which surprised both women immensely. She had been a biddable baby, a sweet and charming child with a nature as sunny as a long midsummer day. But now she was suddenly a rebel, both clogs dug well in every morning because for the first time since birth, she and Paddy were separated by their schooling. Everyone said she would ‘get used in time’, but few had made room in their calculations for Molly’s sheer determination. Time after time she escaped from the chapel school, walked the length of a main road and charged into Paddy’s classroom. If he could go to the Catholic school, then so could she.

In the end, Arthur, a dedicated chapel man, decided to look into it. He had no real prejudices and was quite willing to allow Molly her way, but Edie stepped in. ‘You’re what? You’re letting her go to St Peter’s? Whatever for?’

‘Because she wants to. They said she can stop out of the religious lessons, though I don’t mind if she—’

‘Arthur Dobson! We’ve never crossed swords before, but we shall now.’

‘But why? What’s wrong with her going to the same school as her little friend? They’ve never been apart before. Have a heart, Edie.’

She folded her arms beneath the ample bosom and raised her eyes to heaven as if seeking divine assistance in the face of such stupidity. ‘Look, Arthur. That there lad has had his own road since birth. She’s happen cottoned on to it, thinks she can do the same by creating. Well, she can’t. I won’t have her spoiled like him, that I won’t. Little upstart, thinking she can have her own road by throwing the odd tantrum and shutting herself upstairs.’

‘Nay, Edie—’

‘Look. If she’d been a lad, I’d likely have tanned her backside before this. That’s my daughter, Arthur. I’m the mother, I’m the one as has to see to her. If we’d had a son instead, then happen you would have had more of a say. But girls is a mother’s responsibility and I’m seeing to it that she grows up decent and with a bit of respect for what’s asked of her. She will not go to the Catholic school. Not that I’ve owt against them, only you’re chapel and I’m not bloody bothered.’ She held up a hand. ‘And don’t start on about me swearing – if I were going to reform, I’d have done it a while back.’

He sank into the wooden rocker under the window, hands folded together as if in prayer. ‘She’s unhappy, lass.’

Edie strode across the room and banged the teapot on to its stand. ‘Unhappy? Unhappy’s a thing she’ll have to get used to. What’s down for her, Arthur? A bit of reading and writing followed by years in a mill then kids of her own to worry about. It’s a matter of discipline, I think they call it. Sooner she learns, the better for her.’

‘And you won’t budge?’

‘That I won’t!’

Molly crept out through the back door and shut herself in the new tippler netty, tears of fury just about held back by gritting her teeth hard. Mam didn’t love her. If Mam loved her, she’d let her go to school with Paddy and all them nuns, so important they looked in their long black frocks and veils. And she’d be able to go into the church on holy days, look at the stained-glass windows and listen to the singing. Her own church was boring, just a bare room, songs about Jesus and picture slides showing drunk men coming home to hit their wives and babies. No statues, no nice smelly stuff in a big tin hung on chains, no feller in a long frock at the front giving out round bits of bread. There was little excitement at the chapel, just a bloke carrying on about drinking and smoking, as if she cared.

But she’d been. Only once, but she’d been all right to a do called Benediction, smuggled in by Paddy when they were supposed to be playing on the rec. Oh, they were lovely, them songs. Summat about Tantum Ergo, all in a foreign language, everybody bowing and scraping as if it was dead important. And when they walked at Whit, all the brewery horses done up, banners flying in the breeze, statues held high by big proud men, little girls in white dresses and veils, brass bands and bagpipes . . . ooh, lovely, it was. Big, colourful, soul-stirring. And at the end, when they got to the centre, some man would sit on one of the stone lions under the clock, waving a flag while thousands of Catholics sang ‘Faith of our fathers, holy Faith, we will be true to thee till death.’ Grand, it was. Course, Paddy walked, but she was just a spectator with the rest. On a lucky year, they paid sixpence for box seats at the edge of the pavement, but she usually saw it all from her father’s shoulder.

What now? Mam had put her foot down, so there’d be no point carrying on about it. She was only little, was Mam, but she always got her own road one way or another. Molly leaned against the whitewashed walls, heedless of the warnings she’d had about coming in covered in flakes of paint. Well, she’d just have to wait till she was thirteen. At thirteen, you left school and did what you wanted. Then she’d marry Paddy in that lovely church and walk every Whit. That would put Mam’s nose out of joint and no mistake. Till that time, she’d better get on with it, be like Paddy and pretend to be good.

‘Molly?’

She put her head round the door to find Paddy hanging over the back gate. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

‘No. We’ll just have to wait till we can get wed.’

‘All right.’ He didn’t look terribly worried about any of it. ‘Coming out, are you?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Away from me mam. She’s after me with brimstone and treacle again.’

‘Oh. Didn’t you get dosed at Easter with all the street?’

‘Yes. Our classroom was rotten that week, I think she’d done everybody in it. If you’d lit a match, we’d have gone up like a bomb. That’s what Skenning Freddie says anyroad. But she’s after giving me an extra lot, so I’m off.’

They fled down the back street, Molly happy because she was with Paddy, he happy because he had escaped, however temporarily, an extra spring-cleaning. They sat on a pile of bricks at the edge of a small recreation area commonly known as Butler’s rec. Nobody knew who Butler was and few cared, never giving a thought to a man who had bequeathed this small island for children to play in.

‘There’s no fun,’ moaned Molly, her little mouth down-turned. ‘And we’re still not seven, so we can’t go nowhere. There’s been nowt at all since Mother Blue’s funeral. That was great, eh?’

‘I liked her,’ mumbled Paddy. ‘She made me laugh. Mam’s about as much fun as a punctured ball, never laughs no more. They were always fighting, her and Mother, but I reckon Mam misses her.’

‘My dad says that was the finest send-off anybody ever got. All them black horses with feathers, crowds following – it was a bit like the walks only sad. Your mam went all to Liverpool, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. Some nuns’ house, trying to find out how old Old Mother Blue really was. It come out at ninety-seven after they’d reckoned up. That means she were born in 1812. I can’t imagine being nearly a hundred years old, can you?’

‘How do you count so fast? Are you still top of the class?’

‘Naw. Can’t be bothered. I like reading books though, history books.’

‘What are you going to be, Paddy? A teacher?’

He shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I’m not going down the pit and I’m not going in any mill. Me mam says I’ll have to work outside on account of being weak in the chest. I’m fed up with being weak in the chest, but if it keeps me out of the pit, I shan’t be right bothered. Happen I’ll do summat with horses. I like horses.’

‘Shall we have a farm, Paddy? Our own farm with pigs and cows and hens? And statues like what your mam has on her dresser and church every Sunday, proper church with candles? And nobody to tell us where we can go and where we can’t . . . ?’

‘And no brimstone and treacle.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Thank God it’s near Christmas and nowt to pick. She had me tramping three moors looking for comfrey a few weeks back, said the walk would do me chest good.’ He stood up, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his knee-length breeches. ‘I get a bit fed up with it. The house stinks of that balsam she makes and I daren’t say nothing to her if I feel a bit ill. She sent me to school last week with a hot potato tied to me ear with a scarf, said she could tell with me face I had earache again. Course, I threw it away before anybody saw me. Same with all that bacon fat wound round me throat not long back – honest, I stank like Sunday’s breakfast. She puts that much goose-grease on me chest . . .’ He pulled her towards the pavement. ‘If I stop out any longer, she’ll be looking for me.’

As they made their way home, each could hear the sound of child-calling from the close-linked alleys and streets. Every youngster recognized his own mother’s call and it was not too long before they caught the familiar cry, ‘Padd . . . eee? Padd . . . eee?’

‘Brimstone and treacle,’ he muttered quietly.

‘Better than chapel,’ said his companion. ‘Anything’s better than chapel . . .’

On Wednesday, 21 December, Paddy sat in class with the rest, everyone feeling slightly relaxed because school would close that afternoon. It had even touched the nuns, this festive spirit, and the lads at the back seemed to have got away with singing ‘one on a trolley waving his brolly and one with a fat cigar’ when it came to the three kings bit. It was near dinner time; once the sing-song was over, he’d be able to get out for a bit of fresh air. Smells got to Paddy. The close proximity of four dozen young bodies, many of them unwashed, almost made him gag at times. Not that he was a great one for washing himself, but he was glad he didn’t pong like some of them did, all cabbage water and mucky socks.

Then he heard it above the singing, the frantic calling in the street, ‘Special! Special edition! Read all about it!’ but he took little notice as he was happily absorbed in making spit-balls out of paper, seeing how many he could make stick in the girls’ hair.

As ‘Silent Night’ struggled its way to a discordant end, Sister Concepta bustled in and engaged in a short whispered conference with Miss Miles, after which the nun held up her hand, a signal that demanded and invariably achieved total silence. ‘Does anyone here have a relative in the Pretoria mine?’ she asked, her voice unusually gentle. Several hands, including Paddy’s, shot into the air.

‘Come out those of you with a father in that mine,’ she said. Two boys stepped forward. ‘And those with a brother – or a female relative working on the surface?’ Three further children crept to the front of the class. ‘Patrick Maguire?’

‘It’s me uncle – Uncle Arthur from next door.’

‘Then come out here with the others. The rest of you will continue as normal until recess.’

They were led out into the corridor and down to the headmistress’s office where they stood in a line before her desk. Without more ado, Sister Concepta opened her top drawer with a key and took out a large metal box. To each astounded child she handed a full silver shilling. ‘Go home now, children, for you will be needed this day above all days. Give comfort to your loved ones, help your mammies with the family and take as much joy as you may from Christmas.’ She turned away from them, but they could tell from the shaking of her shoulders that Sister Concepta, immovable, unlovable, indomitable, was weeping.

Not one of them dared ask questions. After whispering their terrified thanks, they fled from the school and into the street. Paddy and two of the others immediately collared the lad who was selling the special edition. ‘What is it?’ asked Paddy, though he knew the answer. Even at six years of age, these children knew what to dread.

‘Pit’s gone up,’ replied the boy.

‘Gone up?’

‘Aye. Exploded – you know? Boom?’ He walked away to continue selling the bad news.

The small group of frightened infants looked at one another for a second or two, then each set off homeward as fast as little legs would move.

Paddy’s house was empty, so was next door. He flew down to Skenning Freddie’s and found the shop closed for the only time within his memory. Perplexed, he walked back to wait for Molly who would be home soon for her dinner. Then fat Mrs Halligan from across the road staggered out to the middle of the cobbles. ‘You’ve to come in ours, you and Molly.’

‘Why?’

‘Because . . . because I said so. And don’t go telling nowt to that poor lass . . .’ She turned and wobbled back inside the house, a hand to her eyes. Paddy sank on to his doorstep, a lead weight in his chest. Uncle Arthur? He was the nearest thing to a dad Paddy had ever known, kind, generous, full of stories about getting stuck in the pit, about miners always helping one another like Christians should, about canaries and gas, pit ponies . . . And then there was Molly. For what was probably the first time in his young life, Paddy actually thought about someone else. He was her dad! Uncle Arthur was Molly’s dad! Sometimes Paddy felt a bit mad about not having a father like most other kids, so how would Molly feel about suddenly losing one? Still, he happen wasn’t dead. It might be only a few of them.

When Molly got back, he explained away the sudden change of dinner time venue, saying that the two mothers had gone to see a herbalist for some stuff. Mrs Halligan smiled at him across the table. ‘And you can both stop here and help me with the baby this afternoon.’

‘Why?’ asked Molly, eyes wide with amazement.

‘It’s me legs.’

Molly nodded. She knew that Mrs Halligan suffered from something called ‘melegs’ because she was often called upon for messages and errands. While the little girl played happily with the baby, Mrs Halligan took Paddy into the scullery. ‘Be brave, lad. It looks like they’ve all gone.’

‘All of them?’

‘Most, anyroad. Seems as if her’s heard nowt anyrate.’ She nodded her head towards the kitchen. ‘Keep it that way, son.’

‘I will.’ He brushed a tear from his eye. ‘Where’s me mam and Auntie Edie?’

‘Gone up Westhoughton to the pit-head. There must be thousands on ’em up there by now. I don’t know when they’ll get back. Don’t cry, lad. For Molly’s sake, hang on till we know for sure.’