With Love From Ma Maguire (2 page)

Philomena Maguire entered her house and sank slowly on to the cold stone floor, her back resting against the relative comfort of the wooden door. It had taken every ounce of her fast-diminishing courage to walk the length of a street where unfinished sentences hung on the air like icicles, each one snapping off abruptly as she approached. Caps had been doffed as she passed a lamp, but not one word of greeting had reached her ears. Now they began, cackling and chattering along the terraces, no doubt discussing how Seamus had left with his sack of possessions, probably embroidering the tale to a point where it might become legendary. Oh yes, she listened to them many a time while she did her washing on a Saturday afternoon in preparation for her week in the mill. Everyone’s dirty linen was aired over the backs while she scrubbed her own. Yes, they’d have Seamus’s parting words engraved in stone like a new set of commandments by this time. It was a disgrace, the final disgrace for a woman. ‘Can’t keep her man for two minutes on the trot’ and ‘’course, he left at the finish and who could blame him?’ For a second or two, she felt like beating a hasty retreat just as Seamus had, gathering her bags and making off for home. Aye, but to what? Mammy with her gimlet eye and even sharper tongue lashing out because another mouth – soon to be two – would require feeding? All those endless acres of marsh, no movement save for animals and children at play, backbreaking days of dawn milking, churning, mucking out, cleaning? No! Better the mill than that; better still the plan she had laid for the long term, an idea that might give her a business of her own once she got on her feet.

She stirred herself to light the lamp in the centre of the table. If the house remained dark, then those outside would have more gossip to serve up with the black peas for supper. In the brass-framed mirror over the grate, Philomena caught sight of her reflection and she listlessly dragged a few strands of cotton waste from her thick black hair. Another day over. She lowered herself into the good leather armchair and stared unseeing at grey coals. Whatever now? Oh, it had been coming anyway, the end of her time at the mill. Her belly grew bigger by the day; soon, she wouldn’t be able to bend and stretch to tend the mule and piece her ends. And she’d been so lucky with her job, for how many women became minders in charge of four part-time piecers after just a few years? It was probably on account of her being so hefty and strong. So much to give up, all that security! But with a baby on the way, no doubt the job must go. Which would have been all very well with a husband in the background, a regular income to fall back on.

And yet, her feelings were mixed like a ball of tangled wool just now. She was almost sorry he’d gone, sorry for the fatherless child, for herself with all the responsibility to shoulder. And she was concerned about the future, though she’d calculated long enough against this almost inevitable eventuality. But mingled with the mild grief, shining out like a silver strand among plain threads, was a strong sensation of relief. No more worries about how and where he earned his money, no more waiting for a knock at the door, no more watching as he heaved his drunken body across rooms and up stairs. Yes, she was her own mistress now. Alone. Completely alone in a street of strangers.

Oh, if only she’d turned to her neighbours more easily! Not a one of them would stop to help her now, she knew that. But she’d been so ashamed of Seamus and his carryings-on, all that buying and selling, things hidden all over the house, deals made no more than a whisker’s width inside the law. And the rows, those terrible endless arguments because she’d known all along that he saw himself as the poor man’s hero, stealing from the British to provide funds for his Fenian causes. How could she ever invite a neighbour in with the parlour filled to bursting at times with stuff he couldn’t adequately account for? Bolts of good brocade, joints of meat, pots and pans bought as a job lot from ‘some feller over to Manchester’. Each working dawn, he would load this contraband on to his handcart, carefully hiding it by spreading a blanket over which he always placed his wife’s ointments and medicines. When folk in the mill asked, ‘And what does your old feller do?’, she answered, as coolly as she could, ‘He sells my herbs and other things on markets and the like.’ Oh, Seamus sold things all right. Things that made their way as if by magic from Liverpool docks, things that got found before they were ever lost. Or before they were missed, that was more like it.

She shifted in the chair as the child kicked. Thank God for the man’s drunkenness at least, because she’d managed to filch enough from his pockets as he slept, a sum sufficient to preclude immediate worry about rent and food. He’d never a notion of how much or how little money he had, so she’d taken advantage of this particular stupidity. Over months, her store had grown to almost forty pounds which she’d hidden in a small box behind a loose brick in the wash-house. So, for a while at least, she would manage.

The noise in the street started up again. In and out of one another’s homes by the minute, they were. Pity they’d nothing better to occupy themselves . . . But no, there was a different quality to the commotion this time, the sound of fear interspersed with shrieks of panic and desperation. Whatever was going on at all? Still, she’d herself to see to, a fire to light, an unborn baby to feed . . .

Someone tapped hesitantly at the door. ‘Missus? You in there?’

She leaned forward and gripped the arms of her chair. ‘Who is it?’

‘Come out, Missus! Old Mother Blue’s gone missing again, likely up to her armpits in gin, shouldn’t wonder. We need some doctoring!’

She strode across the room and threw open the door. ‘Then fetch the doctor, child.’

A pair of dark brown eyes stared out of a pale, underfed face. ‘We’ve not paid doctor’s man for weeks,’ mumbled the boy. ‘And we can’t find Mother Blue.’

Philomena folded her arms across her chest. Oh yes, she knew of Mother Blue, right enough. A filthy old woman with a black cloth bag who went from door to door ‘doctoring’. The drunken fool in her navy straw poke bonnet caused many a mischief, going straight from laying-out to childbed with her hands unwashed, the nails decorated by rims of dirt, her numerous layers of stained clothing reeking of sickroom smells. ‘Then why do you come for me, boy? Answer, for I shall not bite. Though I’m still in want of a supper.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Why me?’

He swallowed, glancing over his shoulder towards a house across the street. ‘Because . . . because you’re a . . . a . . . wi—We know you make cures and that . . . Because me mam says as how you know things, like.’

‘I do. Sure enough, I know things. We all know things, don’t we now? But I’m not a witch, son—’

‘I never said—’

‘Indeed, you didn’t. You didn’t say a thing. So, let’s away and see what’s to be done just now.’

She took the startled child’s hand and led him home. The smell at the front door was enough to confirm her worst fears. How many more would perish of this dreaded summer sickness and May not yet over? The room was crowded with inquisitive neighbours and family members. Philomena pushed her way through to the couch where a pale woman lay, legs drawn up to her chest with cramp. A clawlike hand reached out. ‘Can anyone help me? The baby gone with it, now it’s taking me . . .’

‘What has she eaten?’ The whole room fell silent as soon as Philomena spoke.

‘Pobs,’ replied the little boy.

‘Bread and milk? Holy Mother . . . Look child, how many are you in the house?’

‘Seven with me dad.’

‘Then the six of you will remain upstairs except when it is unavoidable. Stay out of this room.’ She turned to face the small crowd. ‘Will one of you go into my house and fetch my fly killer? It’s an odd contraption made by my husband – a sort of rubber ball fastened to a stone jam jar. Don’t spill the contents on your skin. And I suggest that the rest of you go out of this place and pray.’

The visitors turned to leave, but she continued to shout after them, ‘Clean your drains every day, kill flies and burn old food. Put fire ashes down the closet morning and night . . .’

They were gone, melted into the dusk. Grimly, she rolled up her sleeves and set to work, washing the fevered woman on the couch, boiling a pan of water for drinking after it was cooled, searching dingy cupboards for necessary ingredients, then finally laying-out the tiny corpse of a baby girl.

She turned from these unpalatable tasks to find Edie Dobson standing behind her.

‘I’ve . . . er . . . fetched your contraption, Mrs Maguire.’

‘Thank you.’ Philomena took the item, a crude spray made up of tubes, jar and metal funnel. ‘It’s a bit hit and miss, but it kills a fair few of them.’ And she squirted the vile-smelling droplets into the room. ‘’Tis the flies bring the illness, Mrs Dobson. And in your condition, you had better be going home.’

‘But . . . what about you?’

‘I’ve had a touch of it, so I hope I’m still fighting. The mill, you see. I keep the house clean, but the spinning room’s a breeding place for this sort of thing. And I’m strong, Mrs Dobson. How many babies have you lost? Didn’t you give up your place at the loom to carry this one?’

‘Aye. But I didn’t know you knew . . .’

‘I hear things, I’m not deaf. But let me tell you now – if you want that child in your belly to thrive, keep Mother Blue out of your house.’ She turned to stare at the writhing figure on the couch. ‘The old woman delivered this last one, I believe. And I’ve no doubt she killed it too.’

‘I’d . . . best be off, then.’

Philomena followed her neighbour to the door. ‘Leave some things on the step for me, would you? Go into my kitchen and fetch pearl barley, some lime water and the arrowroot. I shall be here till morning.’

Edie Dobson turned on the pavement. ‘But what about your work, Mrs Maguire?’

‘Ah, no matter. I’ve been up many a night at a calf-birthing and with my own mother’s labours too. There’s no rest for the wicked, is there now?’

‘Right enough.’ Edie paused and studied this odd, tall person who had been labelled ‘queer’ and ‘witch’. ‘Only you’re not wicked, are you?’

Philomena smiled. ‘Ask my husband – if you can find him. Good night now.’

She sat for an hour with the delirious patient, spooning drops of boiled water between parched lips to prevent a total drying out. With no outward sign of revulsion, she cleaned away the constant messes and sponged the fevered body with cool cloths. At eight o’clock, she went to the foot of the stairs. ‘Master?’ she called. The man of the house, a thin, sad-faced creature, presented himself on the small landing. ‘I’ve placed a pan of boiled water on the stairs. You and the children will drink from it. If it tastes a bit sour, sure that’s only a drop of lime added in. You will eat nothing for two days.’

‘What about me work?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘If you want to give this sickness to your fellow men, then I cannot stop you.’

‘And the kiddies are clemmed – can’t they have some bread and milk?’

‘Not before Wednesday night. And no milk at all this week, for milk can be a killer. But a body never died for two days without nourishment. Keep the closet clean and let me know if anyone else becomes ill.’ She closed the stairway door firmly.

It was an endless night and from time to time it looked as if all might be lost, for the wretched soul on the couch had few resources to call upon. Malnourishment and poor housing had left her weak, while recent childbirth had also taken its inevitable toll. But by morning the fever had broken and a transparent hand reached out gratefully to encircle the visitor’s wrist. ‘I’m reet now. I’ll not forget thee, Missus. You’ve saved me, God knows.’

‘Not yet, I haven’t. You’re still weak as a kitten from childbed. Now, listen to me carefully. See these three cups? This is all you can have today. This large one is plain boiled water – take as much of that as you can hold. Then I’ve brewed up some pearl barley and here’s a nice lime drink. No food at all, especially milk. I’ll be back to see you after work.’

Philomena Maguire made her weary way across the street. It was five-fifteen and her shift would begin at six. When she opened the front door her breath was taken away by what she saw. A small fire burned in the grate, the copper kettle bubbled on the hob while the table was set with bread and Lancashire cheese for breakfast. She sank on to a chair, tears coursing freely down her cheeks. How did they know that the woman had survived? Ah yes, news soaked through walls in this street. If you sneezed twice, the clogger at the other end would get to know.

The front door opened and Edie Dobson’s head poked through the gap. ‘Are you alreet, lass?’

She dried her streaming eyes. ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Don’t fret thyself, for we shall see you right, Missus. “Pey” Peter’s going to take you to work on his cart, save you walking. Can I come in?’

‘No! I’ve the disease on my clothes.’

‘Oh.’ The young woman hesitated before continuing. ‘I’ll be baking today, later on, like. Will tatie pie and peas do you a supper? Only I know you’ll be busy seeing to Mrs Critchley . . .’

‘Mrs Who?’

‘The lass you’ve been all night with! Eeh, to think you’ve likely saved her life without knowing her name!’

‘Death and illness don’t know any names, Mrs Dobson. And I’ll be glad of your pie, just as I’m grateful for this.’ She waved an arm towards the fire. ‘The . . . the baby’s body is in a box in the back yard. I meant no disrespect, only to save the rest of them . . .’

‘Aye. It’ll all get seen to, don’t you fret. No need for tears, Mrs Maguire.’

‘My name’s Philly.’

‘Is it? Like a young horse?’

‘Yes. Like a young horse.’

‘Bet you feel ninety this morning though, eh? I’m Edie, by the way.’

‘I know.’

‘Oh.’ The small round face broke into a hesitant smile. ‘I’d best get going, then. See you later, eh?’

‘Yes. See you later.’

As she stripped off her clothes for a wash in the scullery, Philly Maguire found herself humming quietly in spite of tiredness and the sound shocked her to the core. Singing? When did she last have a tune in her? She looked round the whitewashed brick walls and all along the shelves where her bottles and jars sat. And in that moment, she recognized that she was happy because she was at home. Philly belonged, would make a place for herself. For the first time since her marriage, she had stopped feeling alone.