With Love From Ma Maguire (53 page)

Molly, her face reddened by temper and embarrassment, stalked across the room and pulled a white tablecloth from a drawer. With quick movements that expressed her state of mind, she began to throw knives and forks on to the table. It had always been Ma’s house, Ma’s table, Ma’s flaming street. Yet Molly had been the one who’d kept things going, cleaning, shopping, washing and ironing day in and day out, never a moment to herself. And him upstairs with his stomach and his thumb . . . A thought struck her suddenly. ‘Where’s your dad? He was for coming down to the shop today.’

Joey shrugged. ‘We never saw him, did we?’

‘No.’ Janet placed her bag at the foot of the stairs and came to arrange the table properly. ‘Don’t get wound up, Mam,’ she whispered.

Molly turned to her son. ‘Happen you’d best get out and look for him. He’s got a few shillings and if he meets up with Bobby McMorrow, there’ll be trouble from here to Barrow Bridge. The police have had enough of your dad’s caperings.’

‘Aw Mam – I’m hungry! I’ve been stacking shelves and counting stock all afternoon.’

Janet lifted salt and pepper from the dresser shelf. Now was as good a time as any to try for a level of peace with Joey. ‘I’ll go with you. There’s no pubs open, so we might just catch him before the bother starts.’

‘And we’ll save you some pie,’ promised Ma.

Molly stared past them all to where Daisy sat on the sofa. ‘Dear God!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘She’s gone blue! Daisy!’ While Molly remained riveted to the spot, Janet and Ma forced the child’s stiff body into a prone position. Her lips were pale with chill, though the evening remained fine and warm.

Paddy was forgotten in the frenzy that followed. Janet filled hot bottles, Joey ran for the doctor, Molly and Ma heaped blankets and coats on to the tiny form. An icy sweat broke out on Daisy’s cheeks and Molly began to wail.

‘Hush!’ chided Ma. ‘This child is not for death – believe me, Molly. She has much to do because she is chosen.’

‘Don’t you start with all that now! Mumbo-jumbo, it is, a load of rubbish and at a time like this too! Can’t you see she’s hardly breathing? Janet – shove them old bricks in the oven and fetch a couple of towels to wrap them in once they’re warmed. Oh God – where is that flaming doctor? Daisy? Daisy, love? It’s your mam – can’t you hear me? Look at her little face! Daisy!’

Joey and the doctor burst in at the front door. ‘Leave her with me,’ ordered the black-suited man. ‘Go – all of you – into the other room. This child needs all the oxygen she can find.’

The four of them went reluctantly into Ma’s bedroom, each locked in private thought as the crisis hit home. Daisy was universally loved; wherever she went the child brought laughter and happiness with her pretty smiling face, those little songs and dances and that disconcerting way she had of suddenly becoming grown-up while only five years old. Daisy had learned to read and count long before she started school. A child of great promise, sometimes a dreamer, sometimes present in body though not in mind . . .

‘It’s my bloody punishment,’ muttered Joey through clenched teeth. ‘Why her, eh? Why not me?’

‘It’s nowt to do with you.’ This from Janet who wept quietly in a corner. ‘I started the row when we both came in, I got her all worked up and worried.’

Molly, perched tensely on the edge of the bed, cursed herself inwardly for the dishonest woman she had been. Now her precious baby was suffering. Would God pay Molly back in this cruel way, punish her so viciously for pretending that the twins were Paddy’s? Would He reach down His almighty arm and snatch the most loved, the most adored of all her children?

Ma gazed through the window, her mind reaching out towards a heaven she was doubting for the very first time. If Daisy had been granted the gift of second sight, surely it should not hurt like this? Granny Gallagher had never fallen sick with her sight. Was the sight a sickness then, an illness that varied in degree from one to another? No! This was a fever. The child had something identifiable, no doubt, some childhood disease that would pass after running its course.

The doctor opened the door. ‘Mrs Maguire?’ Both women leapt to their feet. ‘Come with me, please. It would be best if the young ones remained here.’

Doctor, mother and grandmother looked down into Daisy’s ashen face.

‘She’ll be fine,’ said the man, placing his stethoscope in the brown leather bag. ‘It’s something we don’t know a lot about, a mild type of epilepsy.’

Molly staggered back, her face as pale as her daughter’s. ‘Fits? My Daisy’s never had a fit in her life.’

The doctor placed a steadying arm around Molly’s shoulders. ‘They’re not real fits, love, not the sort to leave her thrashing and foaming. It’s just that she . . . well . . . goes away from time to time. Haven’t you noticed that? And you’ll find that she won’t even fall down – she’ll simply stand where she is, lose a few seconds, then carry on as before. Unfortunately, these shut-downs can happen anywhere without warning – even in the middle of a busy street. She must have someone with her at all times. And she shows no sign at all of brain-damage.’

‘Brain-damage? Is that what’s down for her? Not my little flower, not my Daisy! No! No!’

She fell into the man’s strong arms, her whole body racked by sobs.

He patted her back in a comforting way. ‘Look, Mrs Maguire – I’ve seen kiddies with this condition come out of Oxford and Cambridge with qualifications that would shame the rest of us. It’s nothing, nothing at all. In time, she’ll even learn to manage these episodes – predict them, if you like. But just now, the main concern is for her safety. Keep her away from the fire and the kettle, get young Michael to see her back and forth from school.’

‘It’s not fits,’ said Ma quietly. ‘My family does not have fits. Daisy has a vision beyond ours, an ability we’ve lost or failed to develop. When she goes missing, she leaves the rest of the world trailing behind. We are the losers, not Daisy.’

Molly raised her face to look at Ma. ‘You old fool! She’s ill – can’t you see?’

‘Then my grandmother had the same disease.’

The doctor nodded. ‘Yes, it can be hereditary.’

Michael stumbled in at the front door, muddied from head to foot after a day’s fruitless fishing and paddling in the Croal. ‘I fell in, Mam. Hey – what’s matter?’ he asked, concern about the unusual situation plain on his dirty face.

Molly detached herself from the doctor. ‘Get up them stairs for a bath, Michael Maguire.’

‘Not till you tell me what’s up with her.’ He waved a hand towards his sister.

The doctor squatted on his haunches in front of the small boy. ‘What a pong, eh? You’re as black as the ace of spades, lad. Mind, the time to worry about a boy is when he’s clean. Now, your little sister’s had a kind of fainting spell and there could be more to come.’

‘Oh. Did she go all still again? Can’t budge her sometimes – like a brick wall, she is.’

‘Ah. So you know all about this, son. Will you look after her at school?’

‘I always do! Can’t have folk skitting her just ’cos she’s different. Our Daisy is dead clever, Doc. It’s just these turns what come and go, like. But I’ll see she’s minded.’

‘Good.’

‘’S nowt to worry over.’ Michael looked at his mother, the person he worshipped above all earthly beings. ‘I’ll get cleaned up. Are you all right, Mam?’

‘Aye. Go on, tough guy – take the scrubbing brush with you, ’cos that muck ’ll take a sight of shifting.’

Michael grinned and shot off upstairs to baptize the new bath.

The three adults turned to the sofa and saw Daisy’s wide eyes staring up at them. ‘He went and fell in the river again, didn’t he?’

Molly dropped to her knees and clutched the child’s hand. ‘Thank God,’ she mumbled. ‘He did that, Daisy. Can you imagine Bolton holidays without our Michael coming in wearing half the river bank? Part of our celebrations, is that.’

‘Where’s me dad?’

‘I’m not sure, lass.’

‘It’s so cold.’ Daisy looked at her grandmother. ‘Where is he? All that . . . all that shivering . . .’

‘Meat!’ yelled Ma, a look of triumph on her face. ‘I told you! All of you! Perhaps you’ll listen to me from now on! Stupid eejit, that Paddy Maguire. How did I come to have a son so . . . so . . . ?’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘Janet? Joey? Get yourselves in here this instant!’

The twins arrived together from the best room.

Ma looked everybody up and down before speaking again. ‘Right, the lot of yous. I may be a daft old woman with the head only half screwed on, but I reckon I know where Paddy is.’

‘Eh?’ Joey’s black eyes were fixed on his little sister.

Ma pointed to the sofa. ‘She’s seen him! Doesn’t remember, but she knows he’s cold. That’s why she was shivering, because her father’s in difficulty. You can laugh at me all you like, but Patrick Maguire is likely locked in the cold store behind Jones’s butcher’s shop. That’s where Bobby McMorrow works. The pair of them will be after a bit of extra beef this Sunday, mark my words! So away the pair of you, rescue your daddy before he freezes to death.’

The twins ran out and Ma glanced at the door. ‘Mind, he should keep well enough at that low temperature.’

The doctor coughed politely. ‘You believe that this child . . . ? No. She has what we call petit mal, Mrs Maguire. How you can put your faith in all that nonsense—’

‘Wait and see, why don’t you? Paddy will be back any minute to thaw out on the paving slabs.’ She took the man aside. ‘The girl goes out of her body. Just because you don’t understand it, you think it can’t happen. But it does. Paddy was cold and she felt it. And you call it what?’

‘Petit mal.’

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

‘Translated, it means little illness.’

‘Does it now? Well, we could be doing with a great deal more of these little illnesses, for they are a gift, not a curse.’

‘I won’t argue.’

‘No point, for you haven’t a leg to stand on.’

‘Ma!’ Molly’s voice was stern. ‘No more of it! Even if you’re proved right, I want no more! This is my daughter, not yours and I won’t have it said that she has visions. Are you hearing me?’

‘Yes. Yes, I hear you.’

‘I’ll not be shown up with it. And I won’t have her pointed at! I mean it, Ma. Any more of this nonsense and we’ll find a house of our own, just me and Paddy and the kids. I don’t want to leave you, but I will if you carry on. Daisy’s got little fits like what the doctor said. All right?’

Ma studied the firm set of Molly’s jaw. There came a point when arguing with Molly was useless. It didn’t happen often, but Ma knew that she must concede now. ‘Have it your own way,’ she said quietly. ‘What will out will out. In its own time.’

But neither of them was surprised when, ten minutes after the doctor had left, Paddy arrived home supported by the twins and closely followed by yet another policeman. Police in the house had become a part of life over the years, a part that shamed all except Paddy himself, who was usually too drunk to notice who brought him home.

‘You were right, Gran,’ puffed Joey. ‘Him, Bobby McMorrow and half a dozen dead pigs all locked up safe and cosy for the night. Is our Daisy all right?’

‘She’s fine.’ Ma looked at the policeman who lingered in the doorway. ‘Get inside here this minute! You make the place look untidy and in broad daylight too!’

The constable stepped inside. ‘Is she ill?’ He pointed to Daisy.

‘Just a turn, thanks for asking.’ Ma dragged Paddy over to the fire and pushed him into a chair. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘I require something of an explanation. So does this policeman.’

‘We was just sweeping up, me and Bobby, when the old devil went and locked us in the cold room.’

The constable took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Mr Jones, the butcher, says they were lying in wait to steal—’

Ma turned on him. ‘Steal? My son? What proof have you at all? Has he half a pig up his vest and him in the best suit? Would you care to go through the pockets, see can you find a few cowheels and a pound of tripe?’

‘No, but—’

‘Ah. So we’re back to the no-buts, are we? No but what?’

‘Well – it’s happened before.’

‘With my Paddy involved?’

‘Er . . . Mr McMorrow is under suspicion.’

Ma straightened. ‘Under suspicion? Bobby McMorrow should be under six feet of something or other. He is a bad influence and gives a poor impression of all decent Irish folk! His name is not to be spoken here . . .’

‘Bobby’s lost his job,’ said Paddy mournfully. ‘I’ll say his name, say it proudly, I will! Where is the justice? Won that war near single-handed, he did, over the top day after day . . .’

Janet and Joey fled to the kitchen. Once Dad started on about Bobby McMorrow’s personal triumph over the Kaiser, things often got too hilarious to bear. They stuffed pot towels in their mouths to stop the laughter, unaware that half their hysteria was caused by seeing Daisy well again, all rosy-cheeked and smiling on the sofa.

The policeman placed his helmet in the centre of the table next to salt and pepper. ‘Now look here, Mr Maguire. Past the eyeballs with you, we are. How many times have you been carried home near paralysed, eh? We’ve better things to do than keep hauling you out of hot water.’ He smiled in spite of himself. ‘Or cold as it turned out today. Mr Jones had no idea that you and McMorrow were in there.’

‘Left us there to die, he did!’

‘Rubbish! Now listen to me, Paddy. Look at me while I’m talking to you. One more foot out of line and you’re up with the beak for time-wasting.’ He glanced at Molly. ‘Can’t you keep him in, Missus?’

Molly bridled. ‘What do you want me to do? Fasten him in the wash-house or the lavvy, stick a ball of string to his pants so I can drag him out of the pub at closing? Or do I keep him sedated?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ The constable retrieved his helmet. ‘Only we’ve had more than enough! Twice we’ve fetched him out of the Temperance and him as puddled as a mad dog. Then there’s been all this trouble down the Masonic, him and a couple of other heroes asking for a lend of a trowel and a pinny—’

‘I don’t like Masons,’ announced Paddy to no-one in particular. ‘The anti-Christ incarnate, they are, with their handshakes and ho boys let’s roll up our trouser legs. Daft buggers—’