With Love From Ma Maguire (17 page)

‘What? You loved old Ma?’

‘She’s not old, Charles. She’ll never be old – even at ninety. That woman has bested me time after time, the only living soul who’s ever managed it. There were occasions when I felt I could have killed her, strangled her with my bare hands. But I’d have had to catch her first.’ He yawned and settled back into the armchair. ‘I couldn’t say it was love, but there again, I couldn’t say it wasn’t. But it was something I never got from another woman, especially your mother. Warmth, I suppose. Yes, warmth, a bloody good fight and loads of energy.’

Charles watched as the old man began to drift towards sleep, his own mind wandering back over an unhappy childhood in a house where love was never mentioned. Here, for the first time, he had heard his father speak of love, love for a woman. But not for his mother. No. No-one could ever love Mother because Mother cared about no-one, never had.

As he helped his father up the stairs, Charles found himself considering his own situation. Amelia was ill and fragile. For months he had not touched her, had maintained his distance in an effort to keep her calm and undisturbed. For how much longer could he endure this existence without the closeness of a woman?

He helped the old man on to his bed, then turned to go for the valet.

‘Charles?’

He swivelled on his heel. ‘Yes, Father?’

‘I never touched her. Ma Maguire – there was nothing—’

‘You don’t have to tell me that. It’s not my business.’

Richard struggled into a sitting position. ‘Are you happy with Amelia?’

Charles studied his shoes for several seconds. ‘I love her,’ he said finally. ‘It’s . . . difficult at the moment, but I’m sure things will improve once she’s up and about.’

‘But you’ve an eye, haven’t you? Like your old dad – come on, it’s nothing to be ashamed of! Oh, I’ve watched you looking at the parlour maid. Do you know who she is?’

‘No.’ He could feel his cheeks reddening. ‘I’ve no idea except that she’s Molly Dobson.’

Richard smiled broadly. ‘She’s Ma Maguire’s property, son. Like an adopted daughter, I suppose. That’ll be where Molly got her fire from. Have you noticed how she glares at your mother? If looks could kill, old Bea would be six feet under and gone to dust by now. Anyway, take care, Charles—’

‘I’ve no intention!’

‘Intention hasn’t a lot to do with it. I never had any intentions and look where I finished up. Three in cottages with a nice little income each, one I never got near who’s bled me dry, heart, soul and pocket. A king’s ransom I’ve paid just to stay on my feet and never even a proper kiss, just thanks for helping her bloody charities. And on top of that lot, I’ve got your mother. I shouldn’t take too much notice of intentions if I were you. Just keep your mouth shut and your trousers fastened, that’s all you can do if you want to stay out of trouble.’

Charles closed his father’s door and walked across the wide landing towards his and Amelia’s suite. They were quite detached if they chose to be, sitting room, two bedrooms, bathroom, even a little kitchen added on now. But with Amelia so ill, there was no question of detachment at present.

He met the maid as she came out of their quarters carrying Amelia’s dinner tray. ‘How is she, Molly?’

‘All right, sir. She’s had her soup and a bit of meat and veg. And she’s laughing more—’

‘Oh yes?’ He leaned against the wall. ‘You’ve not been at it again, have you?’

‘At what?’

‘Imitating all of us. Especially Mother and Cook.’

‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes, you sir! I’ve heard you when you’ve been setting the table, shouting at yourself with Mother’s voice.’

She placed the tray on a half-moon table and faced him squarely. ‘All right, I plead guilty. But I wouldn’t do it in front of family, sir. I only do it to cheer meself up when Old Bea . . . sorry, I mean your mother’s been getting at me.’

‘I apologise on her behalf, Molly.’

Her chin jutted forward. ‘She gets on me bloody nerves – ooh, I shouldn’t swear, should I? But she goes for me every time I put a foot wrong. It’s not fair . . .’ Her head dropped slightly. ‘Sorry. I mustn’t moan. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be in the kitchen buried under a pile of mucky pans.’

‘Oh dear.’ He shuffled about, trying hard not to laugh. ‘You mean there’s somebody in there – actually buried?’

She nodded quickly, mischief shining from her bright eyes. ‘We don’t even know her name, ’cos nobody’s clapped eyes on her since she first come. We know she’s there – the pots keep turning up clean. There’s a rumour that she even sings at times, like a bird in a cage.’

‘That’s terrible, Molly. Shall I send in a search party? And how will we know her when we do find her?’

She shook her head with mock solemnity. ‘It’s not when, sir. It’s if. You must look for red hands and a pasty face. Then there’s her eyes, all screwed up with being kept in the dark too long. Still, it’s either this or one of your mills, isn’t it? And now I’m out of the kitchen, I’d sooner have this than spinning, ’cos I like a nice house and a glimpse of daylight now and then.’

He thrust his hands deep into trouser pockets and stared at the carpet for several seconds. ‘What’s she told you, Molly? Did Ma Maguire paint a grim picture of us, leeches sucking the blood from our workers?’ He raised his head. ‘Do you think we keep them all shut in the factories against their will?’

She looked boldly into his face. ‘She told me to keep well away from all of you, said there’s not a one of you can be trusted except to make money.’

‘Then why are you here, Molly?’ His eyes travelled over the straight young body, pausing fractionally on the round and supple breasts, finally resting on her face. Yes, the word for Molly was happy. Her eyes twinkled like emeralds, especially here in the artificial light, while her hair glowed with life in its bronze-streaked waves. She was beautiful. Beside her, Amelia would look pale and anaemic – no! He must not think like this! ‘Why are you working for us when you’ve received such a clearly defined warning? Ma Maguire is very eloquent – I’ve heard her more than once.’

She inhaled deeply. ‘Because I’m bloody-minded, sir.’

He took a step towards her. That was the sort of answer he was beginning to expect from this very unlikely source. It was difficult to think of her as a servant, for she bowed to no-one. Bold, blunt and straight to the point, that was Molly Dobson. ‘You’ll go far,’ he said, his heart beating erratically as he looked into those deep green eyes.

‘Do you think so? ’Cos I don’t, sir. If I’m not back in the kitchen five minutes ago, I’ll not even reach the front gate on me day off. Cook’s all right, I suppose. She gives me leftovers to take home, but if she sings and I don’t dance, there’s hell to pay. I mustn’t collect any more black marks, sir.’

‘Black marks?’

‘Aye.’ She lifted up her hands and began to count on her fingers. ‘One, I don’t know a fish fork from a pudding one. Two, I wear me cap all wrong – rakish, she calls it. Three, I didn’t turn the antimacassars last Thursday. Four, I broke a soup dish and that’s a hanging offence. Shall I go on? Have we got all night?’

‘No, Molly. Don’t go on. Otherwise I shall never stop laughing. Tell me – how did you come to be so clumsy?’

She picked up the tray and arranged her features in a fashion she imagined to be serious. ‘It’s not easy, sir. I put it down to practice, meself. Years and years of practice.’

He watched her walking away, little head held high, rounded hips swaying as she minced along in an exaggeratedly careful way. He noticed darns where the heels of her shoes had rubbed against stockings, thick woollen stockings, cheap black shoes. Why, Amelia had a wardrobe full of things she never wore, outdated but still good, items that would doubtless be considered thoroughly passé by the time the pregnancy was over. Why not give the poor little maid some of those? Better still, why not fetch her a few odds and ends from the mills, fancies with a small flaw here and there, lengths she might make up herself in the sewing room? Molly was adept enough with needle and machine, a fact already proved by the many jobs she’d done here on curtains and cushions. Yes, he would do that, though he was still unsure of his motive . . .

He opened the door and crept in quietly to look at his sleeping wife, so pale and blonde, so absolutely untouchable. After tearing off his clothes with an anger for which he could not account, he lay beside her, scarcely disturbing the sheets in his effort not to rouse her. The child had to survive. And so, he thought as he drifted towards sleep, must Amelia. Because, although he dared not approach the stranger beside him, he still remembered her when she’d been real and tangible, an elegant lady on top and a bundle of fun underneath.

Slowly, silently, he turned to look at the light gold head on the pillow next to his, noticing how transparent and blue the eyelids seemed, how drawn and worried was the face, even in sleep. Why had he distanced himself from her so thoroughly? Surely he could still talk to her, enjoy her company, be her husband without making love? But no, it wasn’t just him. Amelia had somehow turned herself into a chrysalis, a human pod invented simply to protect the life it contained. She wasn’t Amelia any more, wasn’t accessible. His thoughts became jumbled and confused with the onset of sleep. Was Amelia wrapped around the unborn child, or was it her protection, her armour against a husband she had ceased to love? When had she last said the words, when did she last sing ‘Charlie is me Darling’?

Molly plagued his dreams, haunted every moment of his brief period of sleep. Dawn found him seated at the window, a cigarette in one hand, a brandy globe in the other. She’d be up and about soon, lighting fires, setting places for breakfast, polishing floors, doing whatever it was that housemaids did in the early morning. He drained the glass, allowing it to fall to the Persian rug as his hand slipped wearily towards the floor. No good would come of the way he was thinking just now. But Molly was alive and real, Molly was now. He glanced towards the bed, his eyes flicking over the motionless figure of his wife. Poor Amelia was a person of the past – and perhaps of the future. And now, right now, he ached with loneliness.

Ma Maguire studied her son’s hand closely. He’d never toughened up at all, this lad. Why, in the winter time, he had cracks in his palms deep enough to stand a coin in. That was one of his party tricks, or so she’d been told, performed to an uncivilized audience down at the Bull, a place he was far too young to frequent anyway. Not that there was any doing much with him. Like his father before him, he loved a drink and would doubtless continue to get one whenever he so pleased. Well, this was a mess and no mistake. The wax wasn’t working any more; nor was that most ancient of remedies – the application of his own urine – taking effect since things went so far. But how? And why him? Hadn’t he enough ailments to cope with?

When the lump had first appeared some months ago, everyone had called it ‘butcher’s wart’ and little notice had been taken of Paddy’s latest problem. But the molehill had become a mountain now and the poor boy was having to undergo the most savage treatments at the hospital.

She looked into his pale face. ‘TB, then?’

He puffed out his cheeks and blew noisily as she touched the tender raw spot. ‘That’s what they say. Bovine tuberculosis or summat. It’s with slaughtering, Ma. I told you I wasn’t cut out for it.’ He managed a grim smile. ‘Though me hand’s being cut out for it now, eh?’

She tutted impatiently at this flippancy. ‘But I thought you’d the cows tested for such things? Doesn’t some feller have a look at the herd before you slaughter it?’

Paddy nodded. ‘Aye and that’s good for a laugh and all. If they find TB blood in the front glands and clear in the rump, then they condemn half a cow. We burn the front and get the back ready for eating.’

Her jaw dropped. ‘So . . . so we eat the diseased beef?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That’s wrong, Paddy. Doesn’t it occur to these ignorant souls that the blood might circulate ever? Don’t they wonder at so many of us getting this illness?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just trying to save money and get round regulations, I’d say. There’s many a pound passed over so a mouth will stay closed, Ma. This fair world you go on about doesn’t exist, never has and never will—’

‘We’re all being poisoned!’

‘Not from Chase Farm, we’re not. They’ve burned the lot, fifty or sixty head all gone up in smoke.’

‘Swainbank.’ This was a statement, not a question.

‘Yes.’ He flinched as she refastened the bandage. ‘Christ, Ma, that doesn’t half hurt. I know I’ve not to take the Lord’s name in vain, but honest, this would make a saint swear. They keep scraping away – every time it heals up, they open it again and cut chunks off me. And when they pour that stuff in I can smell me own flesh on fire. It’s disgusting.’

‘Get and see old Richard. Tell him his cows have almost lost you a hand. With a bit of luck, he’ll see you right. Ask for compensation and a job on the estate . . .’

He smiled sheepishly. ‘I’ve already done that, only I spoke to Master Charles. I hear the old feller’s on his last and his temper’s not the best.’

‘Is he . . . dying?’

‘So they say.’

‘What of?’

‘How should I know? Anyway, Master Charles said he’d learn me to drive once me hand’s better. So as well as odd jobs, I’ll likely get a bit of chauffeuring now and again.’

She tied the ends of the gauze dressing. ‘And compensation?’

‘They’re looking into it.’

‘I’m sure they are, Paddy. I often look into a mirror, but not a lot happens except I grow older. Just you keep on at them—’

‘It might not have been their cows, Ma.’

‘And it might well have been theirs. Whatever, take some money from them, son, for I fear you’ll do little work for some time now. Did the hospital say when to go back?’

‘Three weeks.’ He threw himself into a chair, half-elated because he’d be doing no more slaughtering, half-worried on account of what the doctors had said. Not to him, oh no, never to him. But they muttered in corners, did doctors, went on about lupus bovine getting in his blood and killing him. Then they held him down, started scraping and tearing and messing about with creosote and acid till the place was near stunk out. Course, they kept a bucket handy now, because they knew he’d vomit every time. Aye, he’d come across some smells in his time, but the stench of his own skin and bone burning took the bloody biscuit all right.