With Love From Ma Maguire (38 page)

After spitting back at the harassed cat, Janet examined some of these volumes before walking through to the back living room. The condition of this was so bad that she had to steel herself before stepping inside. There was cat-soil on newspaper, fire-ash raked out well beyond the hearth’s boundary, a table covered in rotting food and dirty clothing. And there were cats and books everywhere, messes piled upon messes.

Instinctively, Janet set to work on the ashes, using the bucket to carry the debris out through the cluttered scullery and into the yard. After five trips, she was exhausted, but the grate was empty. She placed bag and bucket under the table, screwed up the worst of the decaying foodstuff into an old paper bag and dumped it in the ashpit down the yard.

Although her fingers itched to tidy the rest of the room, she forced herself not to begin. For one thing, she wouldn’t really know where to start and for another, Miss Leason might well take umbrage at such high-handed behaviour. Perhaps the old lady liked living in a mess, happen that was how she wanted it. And people had a right to live how they pleased. Yet Janet felt that Miss Leason really didn’t know how to take care of herself, hadn’t had the right education for it. After all, she’d likely been waited on right up to her mam and dad dying, wouldn’t know the first thing about lifting a hand to housework.

Anyway, something had been achieved, because a fire would be wanted sooner or later and nothing could have got burning in that choked-up range. It was posh too, the fireplace, moulded patterns on the oven door and little plaques set into the surround, all flowers and leaves on them. With a bit of leading on the black bits, it would be really pretty, welcoming and homely on a cold night.

Just as she was about to leave the room, Janet noticed that a box beneath the table had been overturned, probably by herself as she pushed the bucket under out of harm’s way. Well, there was no point in adding to the mess – she’d better stand it up before she left. Her heart almost stopped when she picked up the container, because it was stuffed to the brim with money – notes and coins packed in any old way. She gathered up the scattered contents and piled them back inside, shoving the money well down so that it would not spill again. There must be hundreds – thousands even!

When the rotting cardboard treasure chest had been replaced, she straightened, her mind still not fully capable of taking in what she had just seen. All that money and the door not locked? She shivered. There it stood under the table, ‘Crawford Biscuits’ fading on the side, a dozen or so five pound notes sticking out of the seams where the sides were giving way. Why? Why did Miss Leason keep all that money here when it should be in the Post Office? This wasn’t safe – it wasn’t right!

She stepped back into the hall, realizing that the floor in here was parquet, zig-zag blocks of wood covered in fluff and grease-spots. ‘Oh dear,’ she muttered. ‘What a shame! What a blinking stupid shame!’ The front room likely had the same floor – it would look lovely washed and sanded down then a bit of polish on it. Aye, this was a posh house, flags at the back and wooden floors at the front just like the rich folk had. And Miss Leason was rich, wasn’t she? Oh yes, she could afford to get this house set to rights if only she’d put her mind to it. ‘For God’s sake!’ Janet exclaimed now to the surprised mother cat. ‘Even if she’s a miser, soap and water costs nowt. And I’d have you lot cleared out for a kick-off!’ Janet was not a cat person. Was she a dog person? She raised her eyes to heaven before going outside to collect her charge.

Yorick greeted her joyfully as she untied him and led him out to the pavement. He had just suffered ten minutes of sheer hell. Surely he wasn’t being brought back here to all those sharp claws, all that flying fur? Gratitude as deep as this must be demonstrated, so he walked nicely by Janet’s side, keeping pace, maintaining a satisfactory distance to heel. She grinned at him, somehow understanding how he felt. ‘Good boy,’ she said.

He woofed politely. They walked homeward and dinnerward, Yorick pausing just once, very apologetically, to leave a marker on a lamp post. After all, if he should ever pass this way again, he’d be wanting his bearings. And anyway, being a ‘good dog’ made him feel all warm inside, like after finishing Ma’s porridge in a morning. They turned into Delia Street and he held up head and tail with something approaching pride. It promised to be not a bad life after all.

Sarah Leason, after pummelling Ma’s leg and arm in much the same way as she might have massaged a healing horse, pushed the hair from her own damp face and helped Ma into her chair by the window. ‘Great show,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you up and running in no time now.’

‘Good.’

‘Right. Now say “a pound of onions, please.”’

‘A pou . . . nd of oni . . . ons please.’

‘Again!’

The elocution lesson continued for another five minutes, then Sarah pulled an envelope from her pocket. ‘This was given to me a few weeks ago by my next door neighbour, a Mrs Mathieson. Pleasant woman, made good scones and had an affection for cats. Died last Thursday, unfortunately. Used to be housekeeper up at Briars Hall. Remember her? Something to do with feet?’

Ma nodded. So old Cissie had gone at last.

‘Anyway, she instructed me to pass this message on to you in the event of her death.’

‘I don’t re . . . ad.’

‘Yes. I’m aware of that. There was a verbal message too, for you to trust me to open this and tell you its contents. But if you’d rather someone else . . . ?’

‘No.’ Ma studied Sarah Leason. A rough and ready soul, a lady deep down, kind, dependable, definitely not a gossip. ‘You do it.’

‘Sure?’

Ma jerked her head quickly. ‘Where . . .’s Molly?’

‘Shopping.’

‘Read it.’

Sarah tore at the envelope and skimmed the contents quickly.

Dear Ma,

You was always good to me over me feet and I have not forgot. I was there the nite of all the bother only I never dared say. The boss pays the rent here and I have not got nowere else to go to. So I will be in the grave when you get this Ma.

Molly come in dirty and I told her off. Master Charles come in all mucky to. There were nowt I cud do over it with the job. I never had no mony of me own see. His clothes was spoilt.

Later on he went in her room I saw him come out. It were gone one in the morning. She were crying but I never went neer I am sorry Ma.

She had them twins what I have seen in town I know they are his. It has sat in me mind all the years but I were to scared. Ma beleeve me this is the only thing I can think to do about it. I never said nothing. So nobody else thinks them kids is his.

Pleese find it in your hart to forgive an old woman. But I wood not rest in the grave till you got this letter. From Cissie.

‘I knew they were from a different batch,’ muttered Sarah before reading the letter to Ma.

A single tear ran down Ma’s cheek. ‘P . . . oor Cissie. I knew. I al . . . ways knew. No nee . . . d to tell me. Poor C . . . issie.’

‘What? You knew the twins were his?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Paddy? Does he know?’

‘No.’

‘And Molly?’

‘Thinks it’s her se . . . cret.’

‘Well.’ Sarah screwed the note into a ball and pushed it deep into her top pocket. ‘Best get rid of this, then. What a bloody pickle, eh? Does Swainbank know he has these two children?’

‘Yes. He kno . . . ws.’

‘Bloody hell fire!’

‘Wh . . . at?’

Sarah began to pace about the floor, her black Wellington boots quietly padding to and fro between Ma’s chair and the bed. She pulled a hand through stringy grey hair and turned to face her friend, this poor dear woman whose family had made her so welcome in a world that still remained alien. ‘His boys are dead, Ma! They were both killed a few weeks ago in a car. Never did like bloody cars. Rather trust a good horse any time . . .’

‘Sa . . . rah?’

‘Only found out myself a couple of days ago, didn’t realize the significance to you. Now, I’m not saying for one minute that he might start taking an interest in the twins, but forewarned is forearmed. Are you in pain, Ma?’

‘No.’ Her face was white and strained. ‘Do . . . es Molly know his bo . . . ys are dead?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘She said nothing to me. But there again, this is not the sort of thing she’ll want to draw attention to, is it? If she’s had this secret for fifteen years, she’s hardly going to blurt it out at this point. This is complicated. Tell me, does Molly know that Swainbank is aware of the children’s existence? Did she tell him she was pregnant?’

‘N . . . o. I told him, just me on m . . . y own. But Joey loo . . . ks like him. Mo . . . lly will be fright . . . ened.’

‘Surprised Paddy never noticed.’

‘Padd . . . ee sees what Padd . . . ee wants to s . . . ee.’

‘True.’ Sarah continued to pace the room. ‘There are several possibilities here. Firstly, Swainbank may not give a damn about Molly’s kids. After all, he is supposed to be gentry and I know well enough about that sort of thing with my own stupid family. Secondly, he may decide to have more children – after all, Amelia’s not forty, so it’s still feasible. And young Harold had a son, you know, so there is a rightful heir.’

‘B . . . ut Molly may be worry . . . ing.’

‘Indeed she might, but there’s nothing we can do about that, Ma. Not without telling her you’ve known all along. What would that do to her? I really think you should have let her know before now. Before she married Paddy. That might have been easiest all round.’

‘I want . . . ed to leave her s . . . ome pride!’

Sarah laughed mirthlessly. ‘And what’s pride worth, Ma? Is it worth all this agonizing now? I imagine that Molly too is suffering, hypothesizing about the future, wondering whether or no he’s seen the twins and recognized his family’s features. And here you sit with a burden an ox couldn’t shift, filled with guilt because you failed to protect Molly against this eventuality. Yes, it’s a rum do. Don’t know how to advise you. Except to say best do nothing. Nothing’s been done for years, so I don’t see the benefit of a change in tactics now. Just hold on and wait. And don’t let this impede your progress.’

‘No. I sha . . . ll have need of stren . . . gth now. Things to do. Ma . . . ny things to do.’

When Sarah had left, Ma sat for a while as if drawing breath after a race. This was it, then. The time was here and now. The time for her to begin working on a new set of lies, to lay the foundations for a Maguire business. Aye, and built on Swainbank’s money too. Should she tell Molly the truth now? No, best to wait like Sarah said, best leave well alone. If only she could get to Mr Barton! The shops would be available any minute for the twins to run. There was so much to explain, like getting Molly to help the children start the shops, like discussing what kind of shops they would be, there was stock to buy, there were deeds to sign.

Was it best to leave it all, forget the shops, give the deeds back? After all, the opening of a couple of shops in Bolton would draw Swainbank’s attention, help him remember that he had supported the twins. But if the deeds were returned, that too would bring Molly into his mind, make him wonder . . . It was a maze, an endless maze with no escape from the centre. So she must go ahead. With all of it, just as she’d always planned.

Mr Barton had better stick to the story come the day. She didn’t want Molly and the kiddies finding out from him where the money was really coming from. If anybody should ever be forced to give away the truth, then it should certainly be herself.

Janet fell in at the door. ‘Where’s Miss Leason? Has she been?’

‘Been and go . . . ne.’

‘She must have gone the back way, ’cos I never saw her. Guess what? He can walk proper, like a real dog.’ She patted Yorick’s yellow head. ‘I’ve trained him.’

‘Good.’

‘What’s wrong, Gran?’

Ma sighed sadly. If Harold had left a lad, if Charles had managed to forget Molly and the babies . . . Surely it would all work out? There was no cause for concern, none at all. A mill owner had lost his sons, but that should not affect the family of a part-time drover. They were registered Maguires. And a Maguire was not a Swainbank, just as day was never night.

‘You all right?’ asked Janet again.

‘Yes. Up and about soo . . . n.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you, Gran.’ Janet dropped to the floor beside Ma’s chair and sat hugging her knees. ‘I’ve been in Miss Leason’s.’

‘Why?’

‘I took her bag and bucket back – she was always forgetting them. Anyway, she wasn’t in, so I put them under the table.’

‘Good.’

‘I knocked a big box over. It was full of money, stuffed to the top. I’ve never seen so much in my life. Why doesn’t she put it in the bank, Gran? Me dad always said she had plenty after the sale, but I didn’t know she kept it in the house stuck in a biscuit box under the table.’

‘She doesn’t belie . . . ve in banks. Doesn’t believe in any . . . thing except her moo . . . rs and her horses. And her cats.’

‘But it’s just sitting there! Anybody could take it, anybody!’

Joey, who had left his heavy handcart on the corner while he got a drink of pop from the scullery, pinned his ear to Gran’s door and listened hard. In a biscuit box under the table, eh? Christ, what he could do with a nice pile of money.

‘Why doesn’t she get the house done up, Gran?’ Janet was saying now. ‘They’re posh houses down Lever Lane, there’s only a few rented. Hers is the worst, yet she’s all that money doing nothing.’

‘She’s not inter . . . ested,’ came Gran’s stumbling reply.

Joey stepped back silently. He could find a use for it, he could that! A nice house, a car, some proper boots and clothes – no! People would notice, it would take brains to cope with a windfall like that. He’d emigrate. He’d get boat tickets for America and force Janet to come with him. They could have a ranch – he’d get a horse like the cowboys had in the pictures, go for a drink in the saloon, ride over the mountains and look for gold. Or they might go to New York and make a fortune, or to California and get Janet in the films – she was bonny enough . . .