With Love From Ma Maguire (5 page)

Philly leaned heavily against the table. ‘Is the sore wet?’

‘Aye, I think so.’

‘Yellow? Does it smell?’

‘It does, even through his clothes it stinks to high heaven if the weather’s on the warm side.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Then it wants drying, not drawing. Tell him no baths unless he leaves the leg over the side and out of the water. I’ve a powder for this somewhere . . .’ She opened a dresser drawer. ‘Here we are. Keep a clean dry dressing on and plenty of this. It likely can’t be cured, but we might ease it.’

‘Thanks, Missus.’ He grabbed for the package but she held it back.

‘Who is your master?’ she asked quietly.

‘Swainbank. Mr Richard Swainbank.’

‘Is that right now? Did you hear that, Edie? Mr Swainbank’s got a weeping leg.’ She turned her attention to the man. ‘That will be one guinea, please.’

‘What?’ He staggered back. ‘A guinea for a bit of powder?’

‘I should perhaps make it two. It’s not a matter of powders, young man. It’s a matter of mills full of cockroaches and children without fingers. Twenty-one shillings, please.’ She held out her palm.

‘You’re a hard woman,’ he said as money and parcel changed hands.

‘Am I now? Well, when your master’s in need of more powders, tell him to drop in and see me. Say I don’t deal with servants. Nothing personal, nothing at all, for you’re a fine credit to your mammy, so you are. I’ve just a notion to see your master and look what can I do for the leg. After all, I can hardly treat what I don’t see. Understand?’ She smiled grimly, casting her mind back to their last meeting, him behind the desk and her standing like a child awaiting the strap. Should they meet again, she’d have the upper hand and he could do the worrying!

He nodded, placed the powder in his pocket and the hat on his head, then said a curt farewell to both women.

As soon as he had left, Edie grabbed Philly’s arm and burst into gales of laughter. ‘Hey – what I said before . . .’

‘What? Don’t make me laugh, we’ll both be in labour . . .’

‘About . . . about you never doing a mischief . . . to nobody . . .’

‘Well?’

‘I take it back, Philly. Six weeks’ rent money for a bit of powder?’

‘The powder and the money were not the point, Edie . . .’

‘I know! But I still take it back, though!’

As the time for her own delivery drew near, Philly cut down on her house-calls. Those in need of medicines came to her, while births and layings-out were temporarily taken care of by other neighbours after intense instruction. She was well satisfied with her own progress, for hadn’t she always been as strong as an ox? But Edie worried her. At thirty-four, she was carrying her seventh baby, the only one to have gone full term. Philly knew that come what may, she had to be up and about for Edie’s confinement.

She sat in her comfortable home one balmy August evening, a half-finished baby garment in her lap, thinking how lucky she was. Her home was beautiful by most standards, larger than the rest too, having an extra downstairs room called the parlour. This was seldom used, but it was good to know it was there all the same. Seamus’ money remained untouched; the doctoring and selling of cures brought in enough to pay rent and food bills. Yes, she was just about happy, contented with her lot. How many women found a job they could do at home and a good neighbour to help in the business? Between them, she and Edie had a good thing going, a trade they could continue after both babies were safely born.

Then suddenly Arthur was at the door, his face white with fear except where the coal-dust had eaten its way into skin to mark it for ever. ‘She’s started,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve put her on the sofa, for I’d never risk stairs with her like that. What shall I do?’

Philly struggled to her feet. ‘Stay here and make some strong tea. And get yourself a large Irish out of the scullery whether you’ve signed the pledge or no.’

‘But—’

‘Ah, away with your butting! If you want occupying, black-lead my grate for me. It’s no place for a man, Arthur. There’s nothing you can do for her now.’ Then she picked up her bag and ran as fast as her condition would allow.

When she entered next door, she found Edie squatting in front of the fire with the baby born in her hands. ‘Just a couple of pains, Philly! That’s all I had, just a couple!’ She began to cry, her whole body heaving with great sobs of pure relief. Philly took the child and gently forced her friend to lie on the rug. It was a perfect girl, round and plump, pink and screaming fit to crack plaster on the walls.

As she finished cleaning mother and baby, Philly felt her own first stab of labour. But she paid little heed to the fierce warning in her back, for she had an afterbirth to deliver and a baby to put to breast. When all was completed to her satisfaction, she stroked Molly’s downy head and looked down at her exhausted neighbour on the horsehair sofa. ‘It’s my turn now, Edie.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve started. And please apologise to Arthur, for my waters have soaked the rug.’

‘Oh, Philly! Why didn’t you tell me? Who’s going to help you, lass?’

‘Ah now, don’t excite yourself. We Irish can give birth in a field and carry on picking praties, so we can. I’ll help meself, Edie.’

It seemed a long way home, such a slow and painful journey that she might have counted one brick’s width with every step. Once inside her kitchen, she grabbed Arthur. ‘Listen to me now. You’ve a fine daughter and I’m just about to have a son to make the pair. But I’m not happy with this pain – it’s too strong too early. I’m sorry to spoil your special day, but would you kindly go down for the doctor?’ Then she fell in a dead faint at his feet.

The poor man didn’t know where to turn first. He was desperate to see his wife and child, yet he had this woman on his hands and a doctor to fetch. He flew next door and looked at his daughter. ‘She’s bonny, Edie. Only I have to go for the doctor, see—’

‘Why? We’re all right—’

‘Aye, but her next door isn’t. Her’s on the floor like a bundle of rags, white as a sheet too.’

‘Run, Arthur!’ Her voice cracked as she screamed, tears of fear and panic welling in her eyes. ‘For God’s sake, run!’

‘I will, lass. Thanks for giving me such a grand babby . . .’ He grabbed his cap and fled.

Philly dragged herself across the floor while red-hot knives tore ruthlessly at her insides. She’d never had a child before, but she’d seen enough to know that this was all wrong. A terrible scream was wrung from her weakening body as the pain increased to an unbearable intensity. Mercifully, she knew no more until a dark shadow loomed over her. ‘Doctor?’ she managed.

‘That’s right, dear. Lie still now.’

‘I can pay! I’ll give you double if he lives!’

She felt herself being lifted on to the table, heard the doctor saying, ‘Support her head, Mr Dobson.’ Then a sweet smell entered her nose, choking her until she faded away to a place without pain.

She came to in her bed, the doctor perched beside her on the edge. He smiled kindly. ‘Well now. There’s a first for me and for you, young lady. I never delivered a child by surgical means on a kitchen table till today.’

Her head swam. ‘Surgical means?’

‘Your son was born by Caesarean section, Mrs Maguire. Just like the king of Rome was delivered.’

‘You . . . cut him out of me?’

‘I did. It was a first for Mr Dobson too. He made a grand nursing assistant. If I ever need a good man in the operating room, I’ll look for a coalminer.’

‘But . . . but why?’

‘Well, your baby was not coping too well. There were some signs of distress . . .’

‘Distress? What went wrong?’

He patted her hand. ‘Best not to dwell on that, I think. He’s very small, Mrs Maguire.’

‘Will he live?’ Her hands gripped the sheet. ‘Please say he’ll live, for I’ll have no more!’

‘It would be unwise for you to have more. Shall I send in a nurse? You’ll not be up to caring for him yourself for a time, not while you’ve stitches to heal.’

She nodded slowly, her mind still drunk with ether. ‘Get a nurse. And give me my child.’

With trembling fingers she held the delicate infant. He was unbelievably tiny, far too small for the clothes she’d made. But he was breathing well and making some small effort at the breast. And in that moment, Philly fell in love for the first time in her life. Her lips moved in silent prayer to the Blessed Virgin. In spite of the acute pain in her abdomen, her only concern was that this small creature should survive. ‘If I don’t make it, Edie next door will have him. She knows his name and will rear him Catholic even though she hasn’t the Faith. Aye, they can be raised as twins, for they have the same birthday. But this one will do his best to live,’ she pronounced finally. ‘He has my determination.’

An hour after the doctor had left, a nurse arrived. She was a kind and matronly figure, a woman obviously used to caring for babies. Philly handed her child into large, welcoming arms. ‘Bring me the bottle of water from the table,’ whispered the new mother. With sobs choking her voice, she baptized her infant son with this priest-blessed fluid. ‘Patrick Joseph Maguire. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’

‘Amen,’ said the nurse. ‘But there was no need, lass. We’ll have him chasing girls in no time.’

Philly smiled weakly. ‘Yes. But just in case, Nurse. Just in case . . .’

‘All right, Mrs Maguire. Now, get some sleep and I’ll mind the little feller . . .’

‘Give him a drop of boiled water till my milk comes in . . .’ Her voice was fading.

‘I know my job, love.’

Philly mustered enough final strength to fix the woman with a look of iron. ‘And so do I. So mind him well.’ Then she fell, exhausted and grey-faced, into a sleep that would last for many hours.

One of Philly’s first visitors, once she was well enough to receive while still enthroned in her bed, was the chief reporter from the
Bolton Evening News
. The paper’s real interest lay not so much in the events of recent days – many people endured and survived surgery in conditions that were less than sterile. But Ma Maguire’s fame had spread like wildfire throughout and beyond School Hill. Wasn’t this a healer, a woman of good sense and vision? Hadn’t she cleaned up a slum almost single-handedly, didn’t she make good medicines from simple weeds and herbs?

Ma answered the man’s questions with her customary terseness, aware however that this small piece of advertising boded well for the future of her business. Her baby had lived. For him she must do the same. No. To survive would not be enough. For Patrick, she must make a decent living. And so, towards the end of the interview, she smiled pleasantly and offered advice for the paper’s readership. The man left with a pot of balm for his wife’s corns and a bottle of licorice-flavoured tonic to keep him awake at his desk. Philly fed her hungry baby and crooned a Gaelic lullaby. Everything was going to be fine, just great . . .

Dr Flynn arrived, black coat discarded in deference to the heat, shirt sleeves rolled, handkerchief mopping his wet brow. ‘This is a stinker of a day,’ he breathed. ‘How’s the wound?’

‘Mending in spite of the weather,’ she answered. ‘And I tell you now, I am out of this bed tomorrow, Doctor. How many weeks am I here? Me legs feel like they don’t belong to me any more!’

‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ he snapped with mock severity. ‘You’re lucky to be here at all.’

‘Why?’ Her face was serious now. ‘Tell me why, for it is all beyond my understanding. I’m a fine big woman, strong as a carthorse – never a day did I ail till this. So why?’

Dr Flynn passed a wise eye over this intelligent though rather impatient patient. ‘There was no alternative. The cord was around the child’s neck and the afterbirth had separated from the wall of your womb.’ Yes, he could tell her. Most women would cringe at such outspokenness, especially from a man. Matters as delicate as these were seldom discussed even among females; birthing was an event to be whispered about, a mystery to be kept securely shrouded and hidden. Though not from this lady . . .

‘But . . . but . . .’ Philly’s face was white. ‘How did you know? How could you tell?’

‘I couldn’t,’ he replied honestly. ‘Not at first. But I knew you were dying, Mrs Maguire.’

‘Dying?’

He nodded quickly. ‘You were showing all the signs of going into a fit. Even if you had survived it, you might have suffered fits for the rest of your life. We lose a lot of mothers due to stressful pregnancy. I . . . we were just lucky. I recognized your symptoms. As for me-lad-o here, I’d no idea of his trouble until I actually got my hands on him.’

‘Dear God! How can I ever thank you, Doctor Flynn?’ She held out her hand and shook his outstretched fingers gravely. ‘’Twas a fine thing you did, a wonderful miracle.’

‘After what you’ve managed with these people, Ma Maguire, it was no more than you deserved. For long enough I’ve handed out lectures on hygiene – might as well talk to myself. But you’ve got them on the straight and narrow. For that, I shall always be grateful.’

‘Oh dear, Doctor—’

‘What is it?’

She pulled her hand back and placed it against her cheek. ‘The babies I’ve delivered and never a thought to this kind of carry-on. What if I get a mother like myself? How will I know?’

‘You’ll know. It’s not a common condition.’

‘Aye. Yes, yes, I suppose I have learned something. Out of every evil comes a little good, eh?’ She sighed deeply and lay back on her pillows. ‘So we nearly died, the both of us. Mind, he’s fine now, screaming fit to burst when he’s hungry. But to think that I was all right one minute and at death’s door the next. It’s a funny old world, is it not?’

‘It certainly is.’ He turned to leave, then hesitated in the doorway. ‘By the way, I owe you for a couple of stomach powders. That’s powerful medicine you make, Ma Maguire.’

She began to chuckle, a hand against her belly where the scar still stung. ‘On the house, lad. And if you ever need doctoring, you know where to come.’

‘Yes. Yes, I certainly do.’

Patrick Joseph Maguire was ruined from the day he was lifted gently into the world and placed in a padded wicker basket out of draughts and well out of danger. His birth had been without effort and he seemed to expect the rest of his life to continue in similar vein. He screamed when hungry, hot, cold, wet or dirty. After a while, he learned to scream when there was nothing to scream about, especially when Philly was busy at her chores. Each time she lifted the tiny infant from his cradle, she heard the words she’d spoken so often to new mothers, warnings about spoiling the child, about making a rod for a family’s back. Yet she still lifted him, though all the while she suspected that he was seeking entertainment, that she was a mere plaything to while away boring hours and minutes. Thus she continued, a happy slave to his whims and fancies, forever guilty because she’d failed to give him a ‘decent start’. He thrived beautifully, nourished frequently on breast milk and an over-abundance of love. And it wasn’t just Philly’s fault. Arthur Dobson, who had been present during the operation, made almost as much fuss of Patrick as he did of his own daughter. As the little boy grew and became stronger, he spent much of his time next door with his borrowed father. Edie watched all this and said little, though she worried for her friend. The lad had been born weak and sickly, but this ruination would reap its own reward in time. She felt no jealousy at Arthur’s interest in the boy, for he lavished love in equal amounts on both children. But Edie took care not to spoil her daughter all the same. One screaming brat between the two houses was enough, in her opinion.