With Love From Ma Maguire (28 page)

Course, Bella Seddon was lurking about, head poking out of the next gate, eyebrows raised as Molly collected her sheets. She tore them from the line almost angrily, suddenly remembering her own mother standing exactly where Bella stood now. Aye, Edie Dobson had been a different kettle of fish altogether, nothing like this know-it-all.

‘Bit late with it today, Mrs Maguire?’ The voice was coated with a false sweetness. Molly gritted her teeth and shoved the pegs deep into her pinny pocket.

‘They’ll be past ironing, I shouldn’t wonder. Happen you’ll have to damp them.’

‘Aye, happen I might.’ Ooh God, why couldn’t she mind her own business for once? Bella Seddon had been trying to take over from Ma ever since the stroke. Not that there was any danger of her managing it, oh no. There was only one queen in this street . . .

‘How’s Ma then?’

‘Fair, ta.’

‘Want a hand with the folding?’

‘I’ll manage. Janet’ll do it when I get in.’

Mrs Seddon stepped out into the narrow alley. ‘Is she talking yet?’

‘Our Janet never stops talking, never has.’ Molly, knowing she was being deliberately obtuse, allowed herself a tiny smile.

The woman’s brow tightened. ‘I meant your mother-in-law.’

‘No. No, she’s not talking.’

‘Walking at all?’

‘No.’

‘Eeh dear.’ The shaking head was suddenly bowed as if in deep mourning. ‘Such a fine figure she was, too.’

‘And will be again, Bella Seddon. It’ll take more than a bit of clotted blood to put a stop to our Ma.’

‘Aye.’ She backed away, heeding the warning contained in the use of her full name. After reaching the safety of her own domain, she paused on the clog-flattened step. ‘How about the kiddies?’

‘They’re all right, thanks.’

‘But . . . but the fruitman, Mr Greenhalgh – he said they’d been up to a bit of bother on St George’s Road—’

‘Mistaken identity, I think that’s called, Bella Seddon. My children are not thieves. Truth is, they were down at the fish-market getting a nice bit of finny haddy for Paddy’s tea.’

‘Oh aye?’ The head shot forward, causing the row of steel curlers that peeped from beneath a scarf to clank together as she declared, ‘And I’m a monkey’s granny!’

Molly fixed a wide imitation of a smile on her face. ‘Oh dear. Well, we can none of us help our relatives, can we? And it wouldn’t do for us all to be organ-grinders.’ She turned and walked away with her bundle, leaving Bella Seddon with her jaw dropped so far you might have driven a coach and four across her bottom lip.

Molly entered the house and leaned against the door after slamming it loudly. These street-wars, almost a relic from previous centuries, still prevailed on School Hill and she was sick unto death at times of being stuck in the middle of it all. Ma had to get better, she really had to. If Bella flaming Seddon took over, then life wouldn’t be worth living one day to the next. Why, that one would treep you out that black was white and wet was dry. Not with Ma though. Bella Seddon had seldom argued with Ma over anything. She daren’t. Nobody did.

Almost immediately to the right of the front door was the entrance to Philomena Maguire’s room, a room the old lady hadn’t left for two months now. Not that Ma was really old, but life had got to her somehow, dried her up and finished her off before she’d even got to sixty. Molly shook her head slowly before walking across the kitchen and placing her washing on the table. Ma had started all this, setting herself up as boss of the neighbourhood, making sure everybody abided by her rules and reached her standards. Oh well. Molly had better have a look at her, she supposed. Between Ma downstairs and Paddy upstairs she was practically off her feet, running about like a scalded cat dawn till dusk, day in and day out.

She opened the door to what had been the best room quietly in case Ma was asleep. But she wasn’t, of course. The face was shrivelled and dry while claw-like hands, one curled permanently into a clenched fist, rested on a woven yellow quilt. Philomena Maguire’s hair, once her pride and joy, was thinly spread now over the pillow in grey wisps like a fine cloud partly blown away in the wind. But the eyes had not changed. Although one was nearly closed, the lid frozen at half-mast, all the wisdom, wit and humour of the old country were visible in those bright blue depths.

Molly carried a straight-backed chair to the bed. ‘Oh Ma,’ she whispered as she sank on to the seat. ‘I wish I could help you. It’s not the same without you and your blarney all over the house. The kids are playing me up again, trying me on for size. Our Michael’s a scream – I can hardly look at him some days. You know how I am, Ma, can’t keep a straight face to save me life. Then there’s that old bitch next door – ooh, I’m sorry – I know you don’t like language. But she’s driving me twice round the bend, is that one. She’s watching the kiddies for what she calls behaviour and she’s had the rent man out twice. That was your job, Ma. You kept the street decent. She’ll turn it into a free-for-all, I shouldn’t wonder.’

The left hand on the bed moved and Molly reached out to grip it. ‘I know we’ve not always got on, Ma, I know we sometimes don’t see eye to eye, but I do love you. Funny how you can live with somebody for years and never say how you feel, isn’t it? But I’d never have made it without you after me mam died. Fighting with you has been part of me life – aye and losing most times. If only you could write. Even though it is your best hand gone, you’d happen have scribbled the odd message with the other. We should have found time to teach you some reading. What is it, Ma? What is it?’ The old lady’s mouth was twitching as she strove to speak and Molly bent her ear close to the pillow.

‘B . . . br . . . o . . . o—’

‘Try! Please, keep trying!’

‘M . . . my—’

‘Yes?’

‘My . . . bro . . . o—’

‘Your brooch? The one with the tiger’s eye? Blink once for yes, Ma.’

The left lid winked slowly.

‘Is it in the box?’

Again the eye closed. Molly reached under the bed and brought out a heavy miniature chest. No-one ever touched this. Ma’s box was absolutely forbidden territory – even her only son would never have dared to interfere with its private contents.

Molly smiled as she fingered the carved lid. ‘We’re back to Uncle Porrick, are we? I remember you telling me about the leprechauns and the tiger’s eye. Didn’t Uncle Porrick say the little people would come and help you if you wore the brooch? Shall I get a bowl on the table same as he did, leave it out so they can call in for a swim?’

‘N . . . no . . . !’

‘All right then.’ Molly prayed silently that the poor old thing was not going to put too much faith in this brooch. After all, there’d been enough novenas and masses said, enough prayers to move a mountain never mind a sick woman. If prayer couldn’t do it, then some stupid Irish folk tale never would.

The key to the box was on a chain with an Immaculate Conception medal round Ma’s neck and Molly unfastened the clasp hesitantly. It seemed strange, going in the box like this. As if . . . as if Ma wasn’t here any more. After undoing the lid, Molly paused, a hand to her throat. The chest was filled to the brim with papers and small leather pouches. Her fingers crept round one of these and felt the coins inside. ‘Ma,’ she gasped. ‘Is this . . . money?’

‘L . . . eave . . . lea—’

‘All right, don’t worry, I’ll not touch it. But where . . . I mean whose . . . ?

But that look was in the sharp eyes again and Molly removed several sealed envelopes before finally closing her fingers around the brooch. ‘Here it is. Will I pin it to your nightie?’

The eye signalled yes.

Molly replaced the contents, locked the box and pushed it under the bed before fastening the chain, with its key and medal, around her mother-in-law’s throat. ‘You’ve got secrets in there, haven’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll not let on to Paddy. If he knew you’d money, he’d make a miraculous recovery and we wouldn’t see him again until he’d drunk the lot. Aye, once he gets over this fever, he’ll find his thirst again, I don’t doubt.’

She looked down at the brooch, turning and twisting it in her fingers. It was a large item, about the size of an infant’s hand, all silver filigree except for the centre where the tiger’s eye glowed yellow, smooth and rounded. ‘I hope this helps you, Ma.’ She pinned the brooch to Ma’s high-necked nightdress and immediately the old lady’s eyes softened and filled with grateful tears.

‘I’m doing all I can.’ Molly patted the waxlike right hand reassuringly. ‘Doctor says you’ll likely talk a bit in time, though he’s not all that sure about your hand and your leg. Still, we keep on doing the exercises, don’t we? Mind, I’m wondering whether we’re going about it the right road, because I made them up meself. Only it stands to reason that if we don’t jiggle you about from time to time, then you’ll go to waste. Tell you what – how would you like our Janet to come in and read to you? Happen she could teach you some of your letters for when you’re better. Would you like that?’

‘Yes.’ The left hand closed over the brooch. ‘Yes.’

‘Well!’ Molly’s face beamed. ‘That was clear enough, wasn’t it? I reckon you’re on the mend, Ma Maguire. And may God help Bella Seddon the day you walk out over that doorstep.’

‘Mo . . . ll . . . ee—?’

‘Yes?’

‘G . . . good . . . g . . . g . . . girl.’

Molly stared down at the poor diminished creature on the bed, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. ‘I’m not a good girl, Ma. There’s things about me you don’t know – things I hope you’ll never know. Just hurry up and get better.’ She rubbed the end of her nose on the heel of her hand. ‘Paddy’s took the fever again. I don’t know what they think they’re doing at that blinking hospital, only he’s no better. Mind, I think he brings a lot of it on himself – he’d be best out working. Smashed the bedroom up good and proper this time, he has. I’ve hid all the best stuff in your little room, shoved it in the bottom of your chest of drawers. I’d have nothing left worth keeping else.’ She sighed deeply. ‘He’ll never be no different, I know it. Not that he was up to much before – aye, that’s one thing you and I have agreed about, isn’t it? But whatever he’s got comes back over and over, plagues him out of his mind at times. And when he’s well he’s drinking, so it’s all the same whichever way.’

She leaned forward and straightened the top quilt. ‘I’ll do your heels and your back with some spirit in a bit. You know, I’m sure he’d pick up if he could get some work. When I tell him to go and look for a job, he curses me for mithering. I don’t know what to do. Happen I’ll get took on as unskilled in the mill – I can fold and knock the sizing out of quilt fringes, do a bit of cleaning . . .’

The left hand closed about Molly’s wrist. ‘N . . . no . . . nee . . . d. No.’

‘But Ma . . .’

‘No!’ There was energy in this monosyllable.

Molly rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘Where did you get all that money, Ma? What’s it for? How long have you had it – they’re sovereigns, aren’t they? Did they force your husband to pay up at last?’

Ma Maguire gazed steadily at her daughter-in-law. Even if she had been able to speak up, she wouldn’t have told, not just now. No, the time wasn’t right yet. Not quite.

After Molly had left, Ma lay staring at the ceiling for a long time. The words in her mind had come back, most of them anyway. Sometimes she looked at a thing and couldn’t quite remember the name for it, then it would jump into her head at an unexpected moment. Silly, it was. How could she look at a chair without knowing it was a chair? Still, life was a little clearer now. But what use was it to know that a chair was a chair if she couldn’t speak? Might as well be an elephant or a giraffe, anything with four legs. Chair, table, bed, curtains. All arranged in her mind, all collected and relearned. And not an ounce of use without a voice.

She was sick to death of the sight of this room, it was beginning to feel like a prison cell. She had counted the flowers on the wallpaper a dozen times, firstly to get her brain working, secondly to use them as a rosary while she remembered her prayers. And the damp patches over the window were getting on her nerves too; that idle son of hers needed a boot on the backside to persuade him to put the house to rights, for as sure as damnation awaited sinners, the landlord would never spend another halfpenny on these dwellings.

The landlord. She concentrated for a long time, sweating with the effort of remembering his name. How long had she lived here? For ever! He owned a mill, that she recalled vividly. Yes, the mill stood at the end of the street in another street. Now. What was the name of that street? No, it wasn’t a street she was looking for, it was a man’s name. Which man? Concentrate! The landlord. Cows. Something from a cow, that’s what he was called after. Milk? What else? Cheese? Cream? She smiled a lopsided smile of victory. Leather. His name was Leatherbarrow and he hadn’t much hair, just a few long strands pulled across his head to fill in the gaps.

The box. Aye, she knew what was in the box all right. It was to do with Janet and Joey and she’d have to see to it soon. She drifted away, her hand clasping the tiger’s eye.

‘Hello there, Philly!’

‘Uncle Porrick!’ The young girl ran across the muddy yard to greet him.

‘See what did I fetch for you.’ The big man opened his pocket and drew out a small package. ‘From the little people.’

‘Is it?’

And he told her the story of the dish left out, the tiny footprints on the table, the brooch left for his favourite girl.

‘Can I keep it for ever, Uncle Porrick?’

‘You can indeed. In times of trouble, you just turn to it and the little people will come.’

‘Always?’

‘Always and anywhere.’

They never had come. Even so, Philly had worn the brooch in times of stress, just to feel nearer to such a grand man, a man who took time from a busy life to tell stories to a young girl. Ah but she’d give her right arm for the sight of Uncle Porrick again. Yes, her right arm had been given at last . . .

The door flew open. ‘Granny!’

The two times blended together and Ma found herself in bed, half-paralysed and with the damp patch still over the window.