With Love From Ma Maguire (14 page)

‘I don’t know, I’ve not thought. He’s only been gone two days and buried already – it’s not decent. We should have sat with him—’

‘Over Christmas and two children to consider? Arthur would never have allowed that and you know it. So. What next?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Christmas Eve tomorrow—’

‘Don’t be worrying about that now, for the neighbours have seen to the shopping and you will both eat here. I mean after Christmas, love. Whatever will you do about the rent with no proper wage coming in?’

‘I don’t know.’ Nor did she care, from the sound of her voice.

Philly took a deep breath. ‘I want you both to live here with me,’ she said. ‘There’s the extra bedroom and we’ll open up the parlour to give you a place to be a family.’

‘Eh?’

‘It makes sense, does it not? The house has three rooms upstairs, so you and Molly can share, leaving Paddy with the smallest one.’

‘But . . . but I can’t pay any rent.’

‘Did I mention rent, now? Did you hear me asking . . . ?’

‘No. But I’m not living on charity, even yours.’

Philly pursed her lips in frustration. ‘You can help with the shop, take the cart out if you like – and there’s the compensation fund, you will surely be given something . . .’

‘I’ll get a job off Swainbank. I worked there before, so he’ll likely have me back, I were a good tenter. I may be newly widowed, Philly, but I’ve got me pride. That’s your business, the medicines and—’

‘But you’ve always helped me!’

‘That were different, that were for extras! I’m . . . I’m the head of a family now, like it or not – and I’ve to earn keep for me and my daughter.’

‘Will you move in here, though?’

Edie stared hard and long into the fire. ‘Aye. The one thing as terrifies me is being on me own. Oh, I know I’d have Molly, but it’s not the same as having somebody older, somebody to turn to. He were always there for me, you see—’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t, lass.’ She shook her head thoughtfully. ‘You go up to any woman in this street and ask her how much her husband earns. She’ll likely tell you she’s no idea, ’cos she just gets what she’s given and he keeps the rest. Most of these men look on their wives as servants – they never think to hand over more money when kids are born. So, the wives go on, another mouth to feed, then another, having to make the money stretch from here to bloody Manchester. After a few years, there’s no love lost and no respect given, ’cos they’ve grown that far apart with him at work or down the pub and her tied to the kitchen. Aye, you wonder why the women gossip over the backs. Gossip’s cheap, all they can afford, it’s their entertainment.’ She lifted her head proudly. ‘We weren’t like that. I got the full packet and he took what he needed, different every week according to what he wanted to do. If I needed more, he’d give me some back. We never lost our . . . dignity, me and Arthur. I’ll not clap eyes on his likes again.’

‘No.’

‘It weren’t . . . exciting or nothing, but it was . . . good.’

‘I know that, Edie. I’ve eyes in me head. There’s many a time I’ve been glad of Arthur’s reliable ways. But we’ve got to go on, make the best we can. I think he would have liked us to stick together.’

‘He would. I’ve no family and neither has he. So. It’s thee and me then, Philly Maguire?’

‘If you can put up with Paddy.’

Edie smiled sadly. ‘Nay, lass. This is his house. It’s him as’ll have to put up with me. And I’ve noticed how he’s kept his eye on little Madam for me. Oh aye, I’ve not been completely blind these past days. I reckon we might make something of him after all.’

Paddy put his head round the door. ‘She wants to go to church, light a candle for Uncle Arthur. I know he weren’t a Catholic, Auntie Edie, but it’s the same heaven, isn’t it?’

Edie’s tears flowed anew and she opened her arms to the small boy, pulling him tightly to her knee. ‘Go and light your candles, lad. It’s the same God for all of us, the same heaven.’ After the children had left, she raised her haggard face to Philly. ‘And the same hell, eh? Here on earth . . .’

Philly ran to her side. ‘No! We might be different, but beneath it all, we’re Christians and despair is a mortal sin in anybody’s book, girl. If it had been you gone and Arthur left, do you think he’d have looked on the world as a bad place? No, he would not. There was hope in Arthur, always hope. Remember? How he’d say, “Never mind, lass, it’ll all come out in the wash with a bit of soap and a few prayers”? He never missed a meeting, never gave up even though he worked on hands and knees under the ground every hour God sent him. We’ve a business, Edie. There’s lemon and thick spanish to boil for coughs, oatmeal and comfrey to mix for poultices, your famous hand-cream to make! There’s ever tomorrow, don’t forget it.’

‘I’ll try, Philly,’ sobbed the grieving woman.

‘Of course you will.’

‘Will it get better, easier?’

‘Yes. After a while, you’ll just think of him with gladness in your heart. But it takes time, Edie. Everything takes time . . .’

He hadn’t seen much of her over the past few years. She sometimes walked through the market on a Tuesday, noticeable by being a head taller than most other women, stalking about as if she owned the place. His leg still plagued the hell out of him, but he sent the lad for powders now, wouldn’t dare expose himself to that anger in the street again. And she’d kept herself so well protected, moving the old woman in, now her neighbour, so there was no point trying to reason with her over the doorstep. Bloody women! Especially that one with her airs and graces, well above her station, she acted. Why, she was nothing but another Irish fishwife, all mouth and flaming cheek, all dark hair, alabaster skin and filthy temper.

He paused at the corner of Market Street and took the watch from his waistcoat pocket. Well, he wasn’t going to hang about for ever like a lovelorn idiot; she was likely at the shop anyway, though she did stock up on a Tuesday . . .

‘Good afternoon, Mr Swainbank. How’s the leg?’

Dear God, you never knew where you were with this one at all! Was that a part of being Irish, he wondered obtusely. They were supposed to be a bit fickle, rather changeable and unpredictable. Was this the same who’d hunted him out of the shop five or six years ago?

She rested a large basket on her hip and looked down at his cane. ‘Is that for decoration or support? Did you lose your tongue, now? Come on, man, it’s older and wiser we are now, the both of us. Isn’t that all long forgotten? I’ve been giving the powders to your man—’

‘Aye. For a price.’

‘Well now, you can consider that your bit of charity, for your extra pounds go to help the poor of School Hill. You heard of last week’s disaster, I take it?’

‘I did.’

‘My neighbour was taken. At times like this, Mr Swainbank, I always feel we should try to forget past quarrels. Life is extremely short.’

He coughed. ‘The wife has moved in with you?’

Her eyebrows shot upwards in amazement. ‘And how did you know that when we only yesterday told the landlord?’

‘He’s a friend. I told you before—’

‘Ah yes.’ She faltered now, because wasn’t this evidence of his continuing interest? Surely, by now he had someone else, some other woman with whom he could while away his time? ‘I’ll be on my way, then. Look after that leg.’

‘Wait!’

She turned and stared at him, noticing the grey in his whiskers, the many lines around his eyes. ‘What?’

He moved closer, shifting his head around in order to ensure that no-one of import was nearby. ‘It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous and so do you. But I’ve never got you out of my mind, not completely. It’s like . . . like an obsession.’ His cheeks glowed as crimson as those of a young boy making his first declaration. ‘Philly, I’ve never told a woman that I—’

‘Then don’t do it now, please. Especially here in Market Street with the world and his horse passing by.’ Her pulses were racing. Yes, it was still there and no, he was not the only ridiculous one. ‘It’s no good, Mr Swainbank—’

‘No good?’ His teeth were gritted. ‘How do you know it’s no good? And traffic like this doesn’t run just one way. I must have felt something coming back from you to me—’

‘You were mistaken, sir.’

‘No.’ He removed his hat to display a shock of thick greying hair. ‘I have not been mistaken, Ma Maguire. Since that first time when you walked into the manager’s office, I’ve known you were for me. Do you realize that if I could divest myself of my wife and ignore my sons, then I’d . . . I’d—’

‘Marry me? I’m already taken.’

‘By an absentee?’

‘The Faith allows no divorce. I am married for life—’

‘And therefore safe from me?’

She would never be safe, not from him and certainly not from herself until one of them died. Why, though? How could she feel so desperately drawn and yet so reviled? Then she remembered her granny, wise old bird, not a tooth in her head, yet with the wisdom of Job. ‘
Philly, we all get the one special temptation. Look at Jesus now. Did he not go with Satan into the wilderness and Him the Son of God Almighty? And Satan asked Jesus did He want the whole world, promised Him all the land and sea including Ireland, he did. Your special temptation will come across the waters, for I can see there’s little here for you
 . . .’ Philly swallowed hard, dragging herself back into the here and now. ‘I’ll always be safe from you. Although you struck me once with your stick, I know that it is not in your heart to injure me again. I wish I could say you displayed the same concern for those who work for you.’

‘Just tell me, tell me once that you feel something for me. That will have to be enough.’

She steadied herself against the wall. ‘I will not lie any more, because there is no use in doing that. You are a handsome man and I always thought of you as . . . presentable. I don’t like you and never will, but . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘There was something. With you, I always felt . . . matched. We could have had some fights, discussions at best. I sometimes had the cheek to imagine I might alter your ways, make you a better person. And . . . the animal thing, whatever that is, was there too.’ She lifted her chin defiantly as she spoke these terrible words. ‘But I’m a hard creature, Mr Swainbank. There has been nothing between us because I decided, I made sure.’

He brushed a hand across his eyes as if removing a tear. ‘You’re an honest woman, Philly. That’s what attracted me, though God knows I’ve cursed you as a liar. Do I give you the satisfaction of knowing how unhappy I am? Will I tell you how drab my life is without you?’

‘No. But you will give a thousand pounds to the miners.’

He threw back his head to laugh, then stifled the sound with a gloved hand. ‘If ever a son of mine brings home a girl like you, I’ll kill him! You’d have the shoes off my feet, wouldn’t you?’

‘If they fitted and suited a poorer man, I would.’

He held out his hand and she shook it solemnly. ‘Give to the poor and get your reward in heaven, Richard.’

‘Oh, Philly—’

‘I know. It was never to be, fine sir. Now give me back my hand and we shall part as near friends as we can ever be. Look to your wife and children and I shall respect you for that, at least.’

She walked away with her eyes blurred by unshed tears. He wasn’t worth weeping for, surely? But there was so much sadness in the man, so much raw suffering . . . perhaps he hadn’t had love ever. Perhaps he didn’t know or understand what he did to his workers. Were they educated, these rich people? Could they not see what was about to happen, that the poor would unite, rise and bring everybody down like a house of cards?

Yes, it was coming, that day of reckoning. The Welsh miners were agitating and the echo had already reached Lancashire.

She turned at the corner for one last look at him. Had it worked then, that curse? So old he looked, so unbearably miserable. Was his house suffering because she had laid ill-wishes at his door? Surely not. Surely that was all a nonsense?

Their eyes met across several hundred yards and she suddenly shivered. A blinding knowledge entered her mind, a dreadful feeling of premonition. It was hard to define, yet she felt that the link between herself and him was forged in spite of her, outside of her. Somehow, his house and hers were fastened . . . were both houses cursed? She shrugged away the silly thought and made for home. As the English would say, it was all a load of Irish, nothing to take notice of, nothing at all . . .

Part Two

The Twenties

Chapter 4

It was all her fault. If only she’d said less about conditions in the mills, then Molly might have gone for a job with a sight more dignity, a little bit of self-respect at least. But no, Ma Maguire had to open her mouth as usual, open it wide enough to put both feet in and a pair of size twelve boots on top. Aye, there was more pride in tending a mule than there was in what Molly was doing now, bowing and scraping, fetching and carrying up at the big house. Swainbank’s house too, with Madam in charge. From the sound of that one, it now came as no surprise that Richard had looked elsewhere for comfort and company. Ma sighed heavily and turned away from the parlour window, flicking a duster over the table before having a last look round. This had been Edie’s room, piano sold for more space, fire grate used at last for its proper purpose, Edie’s sewing box still sitting to the right of the brass fender. No fire now, though. No Edie, no Molly . . . She closed the door firmly behind her.

In the living room, she spread a heavy blanket over the octagonal table and got on with her makings, poultice mixtures and liniments for this week. It was hard without Edie, hard in more ways than one, because she’d been better than a help. Edie had been her friend and comforter, the only person in the world who truly understood her. Except for him. And the thing between him and her was what most folk round here would call daft, because nothing had ever happened, just a word now and then in town, a raised hat and a slight bow as he passed.