With Love From Ma Maguire (42 page)

‘How long have you been out of bed?’

‘Oh, an hour or more. I have to make an effort, Charles. It isn’t easy, not without my boys to cheer me on. But I still have you and you’re more than worth it.’ She blinked rapidly as his face swam out of focus. ‘We need to talk, dear.’

‘We are talking.’

‘I meant we should really talk. About the future.’

‘I see.’ He touched her hand. ‘You sound very . . . serious. What is it?’

‘I’ll try not to cry, Charles. The days for weeping, for myself at least, are long past. Yes, death is a serious business, but it must be faced sensibly. The loss we have suffered will lessen my time with you. No – I beg you – don’t tell me I am going to recover. I’m not a stupid woman and I should prefer to be treated as intelligent until my senses desert me completely. That is going to happen, Charles. Gradually, I shall stop being myself. My hearing, sight and balance are already affected and it’s getting worse. However, while the recognition of one’s own imminent ending is a test of sanity, it does not deaden reason completely. Not at this stage. My powers of reason will no doubt disappear in their own good time.’

‘Amelia . . . please!’

She held up her hand to cut off whatever he was about to utter. ‘I just want you to know that I don’t blame you for the death of our sons. I think that’s very important for both of us. We feel so guilty when a loved one dies – things we ought to have done, ways in which we might have prevented such tragedies. When a child dies, all that is intensified because life has somehow got disordered. Parents die before their children. That is so regularly expected that it’s become an unwritten law. Please don’t blame yourself, Charles—’

‘It’s hard not to.’

‘Yes. Yes, I expect it is. So it will take an act of mind, even an act of will and faith to change your attitude towards yourself. I must have made it so much worse those first few days when I screamed at you constantly. But in blaming you, I was also blaming myself – because that’s how close a family we have always been. If I hadn’t confined myself to bed, if I hadn’t given in so easily and so early to my illness – don’t you see? I accused myself of being a neglectful mother. Not now, though. Neither of us is to blame for what happened. I’ve a lot of time to ponder, so I’ve done the thinking for both of us. Absolve yourself, Charles . . .’

He took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his streaming eyes. ‘So I must face losing you too?’

‘Yes. But that will be so much easier than losing John and Peter.’

‘No! No, it won’t!’

She placed a transparent hand on his knee. ‘We shall work to prepare you for this.’

‘How? There’s no way . . . none . . .’

She drew as deep a breath as tired lungs would contain. ‘Life does not begin or end with us, my darling. When we go, someone takes our place. It’s the ultimate proof that each of us is totally dispensable. So, the future is always protected in one sense. However, preparation for the time after us cannot be a bad thing.’

‘How do we get ready for this?’

She could see that this was cutting him deeply, breaking through his brusque reserve, that down-to-earth manlinesss he employed as a cover for emotion, a defence that would surely crumble once he was truly alone in this enormous house. She feared for him, knew that he should rather break down now while she was still around to comfort him. If he continued to sit on his feelings, wouldn’t they build up like the heat in the earth’s core, then find a weak spot through which they might escape? She could not leave him to such madness, must do all she could to preclude it, force him to feel pain now! ‘We get ready by examining what is left,’ she said quietly.

‘What’s left is sweet Fanny Adams!’

She smiled at this outburst. ‘No. What’s left is a strong young man with three mills and a great deal of property.’ There was a long pause while his face receded then returned as she narrowed her eyes to encourage the arrival of a clearer picture. ‘You must remarry,’ she whispered at last.

‘What? Never! There was only one wife for me, Amelia. I couldn’t find another like you.’

‘Don’t the locals have a saying – ‘a change is as good as a rest”? For goodness sake, Charles, anybody might think I’d suggested you go out with a pistol and commit mayhem! The nicest compliment you could pay me would be to take another wife. A happy marriage often breeds a second after the death of a partner. And we have been happy, darling.’

He fought back the tears as he spoke. ‘I have been more than content with my lot, Amelia, more than lucky. But I couldn’t go through it again, I simply couldn’t do it! I don’t want any more children, don’t want to watch them grow, couldn’t bear to hope that they’d match up to John and Peter, that they’d be healthy . . . that they would survive . . .’

‘In time, though . . . ?’

‘No! I am sorry if this upsets you, but I refuse to think about remarriage! The only thing I know is that I shall not marry again.’

She leaned her head against the curved arm of the chaise.

‘Alice came to see me today, complained that you have threatened to cut poor Cyril off. Is this true?’

‘Where did she park her broomstick? On the roof? Oh, I’m sorry, love. No, I can’t cut him off, not completely. He still has a share in the profits . . .’

‘But you would if you could?’

‘He’s a buffoon!’

‘Exactly.’

‘What? I thought you were Alice’s champion?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘No. I felt sorry for Alice because she could never put a foot right in your father’s opinion. I did not like your father, didn’t care for the callous way in which he treated Harold and Alice. But I agree, Cyril’s hardly the most presentable of beings.’

‘A slight understatement—’

‘Be fair, Charles. The boy is interested in accountancy and will probably succeed in his own area and in a limited way. But Alice is determined that her son should inherit the Swainbank mills. After all, there would appear to be no other heir. So, if you don’t intend to remarry, then who will get the mills?’

He stared at the floor.

‘Charles?’

‘Yes dear?’

‘Who?’

He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that bordered on the impatient.

‘Will it be Molly Dobson’s child?’ Her voice was soft. ‘It’s all right, Charles—’

He shot up from the stool, mouth agape, hands waving uselessly by his sides.

‘Oh sit down – do!’ she said. ‘Stop attempting that very poor imitation of a windmill and pass me some water.’

He complied like a large dumb child, stumbling across the edge of the carpet as he handed her the glass. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, stooping to mop up the spillage with a handkerchief already sodden by tears.

He returned to his seat, head bent in an attitude of shame and despair.

She took a sip of water then pushed the glass into his hands. He placed it on the floor and sat staring down into it, every sinew aching as he took in what she had just said, digested the significance behind her words.

‘I’ve known for a long time, sweetheart. Your mother was too vindictive a woman to keep a gem like that to herself. She found it out by listening at doors, hearing you arguing with your father. Yes, she enjoyed my fear, told me she was letting me know “for my own good”, advised me to keep an eye on you in the future. It hurt at the time, but I would not allow that terrible mother of yours to come between us. I have never, before or since, had the misfortune to meet anyone quite like your parents. Sorry – I know you loved your father, but I found the pair of them to be remarkably unlovable.’

‘Oh, Amelia—’

‘I’ve known about Molly for a long, long time.’

‘What? You mean she actually told you – knowing that you might lose the child, her own grandchild?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Why would she do such a thing?’

Amelia shrugged painfully thin shoulders. ‘If your mother had a favourite, then it was Harold – merely because he looked like her. Beatrice was an unhappy woman in an unhappy marriage and she believed in fair shares for all. If she was miserable, then she spread it around a bit, made sure everybody suffered.’

‘But that’s inexcusable!’

‘Your mother never asked to be excused, Charles. Don’t forget, she was married to a much older man with a very short fuse on his temper. This was all a part of paying him back. I’m not apologizing for her – I’m merely trying to explain why she was so vicious.’

He rose from the stool and paced about in front of the window. ‘Good God – if she were still alive, I’d . . . I’d—’

‘No! Please – no more hatred! I lived with that for long enough! Don’t make me die with it! Your mother was shaped by circumstance, just as we all are—’

‘It’s me I hate! Me!’ He pounded his chest with a closed fist. ‘I loved you, Amelia, yet I went out and . . . and . . .’

‘Took some comfort? Does it really matter at this point? This knowledge is not new to me – it doesn’t hurt any more. Only your suffering can hurt me now.’

‘It wasn’t just comfort! Oh my God – how can I explain this to my wife of all people? Believe me, I loved you! Always, always, I loved you!’

‘And you loved Molly too.’

‘I don’t know! Yes . . . for a while, a very short time.’

‘Do you think of her now?’

‘Sometimes. Yes, yes, I think of her. I don’t want to, I try not to . . . She hardly knew what was happening. I betrayed your trust, hers, my father’s. Above all, I sickened myself.’ He turned and flung his tormented body at Amelia’s feet, burying his head in her lap.

She stroked the thick brown hair. ‘Tell me – was it a boy or a girl?’

‘Both.’ His voice arrived muffled by the rug. ‘She had twins.’

Her hand paused momentarily. ‘So you have a son and a daughter, Charles! What more could you want? Bring them here! Let me see your children!’

‘I can’t.’ He leaned back on his heels. ‘They don’t know they’re mine. She married a chap called Paddy Maguire and he believes the twins are his.’

‘But Molly knows they aren’t.’

‘Probably. The boy is . . . well, obviously not a Maguire. But Molly found her safety, her own way of coping. It is not going to be easy to claim them, to prove that they are my children.’

‘But surely you have supported them?’

‘Only indirectly. Remember Ma Maguire – used to look after Father’s leg—?’

‘One of his mistresses, wasn’t she?’

He shook his head. ‘Oh no, she was never one of his women. That’s a separate story altogether, a very long one. Father worshipped that impossible creature, set her on a pedestal, even wrote poetry about her—’

‘Poetry? Old Richard?’

‘Yes. Theirs was a real love story. Anyway, Ma’s son married Molly without knowing about the pregnancy. But Ma knew. She came down to the mill and “sold” her son to my father, used Paddy to protect Molly’s name. You see, Molly was adopted by Ma after the death of her parents – almost a daughter, in fact.’

‘What was the price?’

‘A future for the unborn child – or children as it turned out – then a weaving job for herself and some comfort for the family until the children were due to leave school. That’s where the promised future comes in – they are to have a couple of shops in the town centre.’

Amelia’s head nodded slowly. ‘How will Ma explain these shops?’

‘A legacy from Ireland.’

‘Difficult. What a mess, Charles!’

‘Exactly. In order to reclaim those children as mine, I have a hell of a lot to prove.’

‘I can see that. Obviously, you’ve given this some consideration?’

‘A little, yes.’

‘Thank God we are finally open and honest with each other! When you just now admitted your association with Molly, I thought we would be bringing home a needy child, someone Molly would be glad to give over to better prospects.’

Charles bit his lip while he pondered. ‘He probably wouldn’t be suitable anyway.’

She swung her legs over the edge of the sofa and raised herself into a sitting position. ‘Who wouldn’t?’

‘Joseph . . . Joey.’

‘Your son.’

‘Joey would never make a Swainbank. He’s an alleycat from the sound of things. Plenty of nous, earns money wherever he can—’

‘Sounds like your father. What about the girl?’

He passed a hand across his forehead. ‘Pretty as a picture, but a girl nonetheless. If I were to nominate one of them, it would have to be the boy.’

She stood on uncertain feet, then began the perilous journey towards her bed. Charles rushed to her side, knowing only too well that he must not offer immediate support. This little lady intended to keep her limited independence for as long as possible. He pulled the covers over her body, noticing that the swelling on her stomach had increased, as if the filthy thing were feeding off her, nourishing itself while depriving her of vital sustenance. He hated this pale invader, this insidious and cowardly killer that sucked away life without showing its hideous face until the end, until its victory was assured.

She sank into feather pillows, her breath shortened by the recent small exertion. ‘What makes a Swainbank, Charles?’ she managed at last.

‘Breeding.’

‘He has your blood.’

‘Yes, but it’s been diluted. I can’t bring a lad from the slums and turn him into a gentleman overnight.’

‘Molly was a spirited and intelligent girl, my dear. If your blood has been diluted, then at least it wasn’t polluted as well. Yes, I rather liked Molly. And so did you.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘Are you tempted?’

‘Of course I am! It would be . . . interesting to observe him at first hand, find out what he’s really made of.’

‘And it would hurt poor little Molly all over again. I’ve thought about her often, Charles, wondered, hoped she’d been taken care of, compensated—’

‘Yes.’ He looked tenderly at the ashen face on the pillow, so frail and damaged, so ill. ‘All these years . . . all these years, you’ve known what I am.’

‘I have known, yes. That you were a good husband, a very honest man. I wasn’t going to waste my life blaming you for one mistake. If I had, then your mother would have been delighted.’

‘Thanks, Amelia.’

‘It’s nothing.’ She achieved a tight smile. ‘Just think about the future, about that boy. And the girl too. A creature cannot be at fault or substandard simply because it’s female.’ Her face suddenly twisted with the agony she had fought so long to hide. ‘Get me the nurse, darling. I need some relief from this . . .’