With Love From Ma Maguire (56 page)

‘We’ve nowt worth pinching.’

‘It’s all relative, Joey. To some people, you are quite comfortable, chairs to sit on, a table to eat at.’

Joey thought about this for a while. Where were they going anyway? The man had said home, hadn’t he? Wouldn’t they be making for the bobby shop if there was trouble on? He dragged himself upright. ‘Mr Swainbank?’

‘Yes?’

‘How did you get your money?’ His voice trembled, but he still managed this impertinent question.

‘From my parents.’

Again, Joey pondered. ‘And where did they get it?’

‘From their parents.’

‘Right back to crofting?’

Charles heaved a great sigh. ‘Probably. Look, I’ve had this lecture from your grandmother and from others like her. Yes, somewhere along the line we took charge, appointed ourselves collectors and dealers. It’s all in ledgers at home, records of how many cottages we called at, what we paid the weaver. But somebody had to do it, Joey. Somebody had to lift the industry out of the houses and into bigger sheds.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s the way of the world! I could quote the Industrial Revolution till I’m blue in the face, but the simplest explanation is that the cottagers were starving. Each weaver, usually the father, had to depend on his own family of spinners, some of them very small children and old ladies. He could never get enough yarn. Do you realize what my ancestors went through?’

‘Never thought on it.’

‘Well, consider it now, Joey. Cotton was forbidden at one time. A man could go to prison for burying his mother in a shroud that contained cotton fibres. By written law, a body had to be buried in fleece. Wool was the thing. Keepers of flocks didn’t want us Lancashire lads getting fat on vegetable wool. So we fought unfair laws, taxation, farmers – even the weavers stood against us later on in history! You know, a very few hundred years ago, you would have been fined a year’s wages for the shirt you now wear. My family helped achieve the freedoms we now take for granted. Imagine – we might still have been forced to wear just wool or linen!’

‘Like I said – I never thought—’

‘Very few do bother to think.’ He took a large cigar from his waistcoat, nipped the end with silver cutters, then lit it slowly, filling the car with rich blue smoke and the perfume of expensive tobaccos. ‘What would have happened without the mills? The town you know as Bolton would have remained not much more than a large village, no pavements, no shops, few schools or churches. Yet we are hated for bringing prosperity to a town that otherwise would have continued a Tuesday cattle market with a bit of fish brought in from the coast occasionally! Ma Maguire and your sister have each reminded me of how bad my family was, how many fingers were lost, how many heads of hair. But do they thank us for the Market Hall and the finest civic buildings in England? Never! They don’t pause to think about the alternatives.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘And has the world ever been a kind and gentle place? Right back to Roman times – and before that too – there have been the bosses and the workers. My lot is no easier than yours. It’s just different – an accident of birth.’ Yes and some births were more accidental than others, weren’t they?

Joey stared at the large house ahead. ‘Is that . . . is that all yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bloody hell!’

Charles laughed heartily. ‘Bloody hell is right, lad! Because it takes some looking after and is no use to me any more!’

For the next hour, Joey was mesmerized as he allowed himself to be led through the mansion, room after room of opulence, priceless rugs and hangings, furniture the likes of which he’d only ever seen in books or films. They ended the tour in Charles’s small study, each bent over ancient manuscripts, accounts covering a hundred and fifty years or more. There were original mill plans, drawings of Kay’s flying shuttle dated 1738, pictures of Hargreaves’s spinning jenny of 1767, documents frail and yellow with decay. Joey was a slow reader, but he learned for the first time how these inventors had suffered for their genius, many of them driven from Lancashire to do their research in Nottingham because local people, fearful for their livelihood in the domestic industry, smashed each new machine as soon as it was built. He read about weavers who would accept only hand-spun cotton, about the bravery of Arkwright and others who set up mills in spite of acute animosity. ‘It wasn’t easy then,’ he said eventually. ‘That there Samuel Crompton could have made a fortune, but he never.’

‘That’s right. They named streets and roads after him, but some men need to be dead before their greatness is appreciated.’

Joey gazed round the book-lined room. ‘I suppose what you’re saying is you’re a worker just like the rest?’

Charles held out his hands. ‘No callouses, no arthritis. Earlier Swainbanks had the ruined hands – I get the benefit of their sweat. That’s how it works. If you do well in your shop, won’t you give your children a better life, a house with gardens? The only difference between us, Joey, is that you’re just starting out while I’m following on. But how will you feel if your workers turn on you and call you a bad boss? Because they will! Once you get a new semi-detached on Crompton Way, a car, a telephone – don’t you see? They’ll curse you for what you have become. A success. Success is something they will not tolerate. While you’re a worker, one of them, you are loved, cared for, unionized. If you alter your status, then you walk alone.’

‘I don’t care! Somebody’s got to run a shop, else where would everybody buy their stuff?’

‘With the money they make in my mills. And if nobody ran the mills—’

‘Aye. Aye, I see what you’re getting at.’

‘The very simple politics of very simple economics, son. So don’t hate me, Mr Joseph Maguire. In a couple of years, you’ll be in a house of your own, making a life for your children. If you hate what I am, then you must by the same token hate what you are about to become.’

Joey glanced up at the mantel clock, just for somewhere to look so that he wouldn’t have to carry on meeting that strangely familiar near-black gaze. Then he noticed the time. ‘Hey – me mam’ll be out of her mind! She’s done potato pie with peas and I never miss that!’

‘Is there peace between us, Joey?’

‘I reckon so, aye. And thanks for showing me your house – it’s right grand. But the other thing . . . Miss Leason . . . I’m sorry and I’ll do what I can for her. We’re going to paint her house—’

‘No need, lad. If I know Sarah, she’ll be like a fish out of water down there. I’ll put her in one of the lodges.’

‘Oh. Well, I hope it’s a big house. She’s got about forty thousand cats.’

‘Really? Then you and Janet can find good homes for most of them and I’ll get the other few thousand neutered.’

‘Her won’t thank us, Mister!’

‘Sarah Leason never thanked anybody, Joey. She’ll give us all a hard time, but hard times are part of life. Anyway, it’s time she started doing as she’s told. Drove her parents to drink, so I’m reliably informed. There’s a woman who’s stuck to her principles – can’t help admiring the silly old bat.’

‘Then . . . you won’t tell on me?’

‘No.’

‘Thanks.’ He heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief. ‘Er . . . will that feller take me back to our house?’

‘He will.’ They moved towards the door.

‘Mr Swainbank?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry about your Missus and all – the lads too. It were a bad do, that lot.’

‘Thank you.’

They progressed through the high-ceilinged hallway, Joey studying the humourless faces of dead ancestors as they looked down gloomily from the staircase wall.

‘Miserable lot, aren’t they?’ said Charles. ‘They all look as if they’re suffering from terminal constipation – especially my father. He’s the one on the end, the newest. I haven’t had myself done yet, though I’m tempted to wear a silly hat for the occasion, cheer things up a bit.’

Joey held out his hand and gripped Charles’s outstretched fingers. ‘You’re all right, you are. Thanks for helping out over Witchie. She will be happier up here in the country.’

‘Witchie?’

‘Oh heck.’ Joey hung his head. ‘That’s what folk call her.’

‘Is it? Well, that’s what you get for being a bit different, Joey, for having a mind of your own. Remember it.’

‘I will.’

‘Just you be sensible and stay out of trouble. I’ll be down to your shop – my housemaid would love a new bicycle.’

Joey grinned from ear to ear. ‘You’re on, sir! I’ll put a nice one away for you – it’s not going to be cheap!’

‘Nothing ever is, son. Nothing worth having . . .’

The car pulled away and Charles walked through his lonely house, making immediately for the kitchen where warmth and friendship awaited him.

All the way home, Joey Maguire remained thoughtful. He was a right clever bloke, that Swainbank, knew his stuff plain enough. And there was a lot in what he said, a lot of solid sense. By, it were a good job he weren’t doing anything about the other, though! No way could Joey have looked into those black eyes and denied what he’d done to Witchie.

He settled back to enjoy this luxurious journey. Charles Swainbank had treated him with a kind of respect, as if he expected the shops to do well, as if he recognized a man who would make a success. One day, there’d happen be a car like this, a chauffeur with a peaked cap, a stairway with paintings climbing up the walls. Janet could have a fur coat, Mam could get her portrait done in a ball gown – she was still bonny, was Mam. If it all came quick enough, Michael and Daisy could go to proper schools and Dad – well – happen they’d buy Magee’s brewery to keep him happy!

They stopped outside number 34. ‘Here we are, sir. Stay put, I’ll get the door for you.’

Perkins held the door wide while Joey stepped on to the pavement. ‘Er . . . ta,’ said the boy, embarrassment in his tone. ‘It were good of you to fetch me home, like. Only I’m not sure of trams and buses from up yonder—’

‘It’s nothing, sir. Glad to be of service.’ The uniformed man stood and watched as Joey entered the end house. What a turn-up, eh? As sure as he lived and breathed, Perkins recognized that walk, knew the face almost as well as he knew his own. He climbed into the driver’s seat. Surely the rest of this family had noticed the resemblance? Perhaps not. Not the younger ones anyway. People only saw what they needed to see. Whatever, he would keep his counsel, hold the thoughts close to his chest. If the master wanted things known, then all would be revealed in time. But Perkins had seen Master Peter’s double this day and he sensed that Charles Swainbank had found a basket where all the eggs could lie until required. The lad might be from the wrong side, but he was definitely a Swainbank.

Inside the house, Joey was being assaulted from all quarters.

‘What did he want?’ Janet hopped from foot to foot, eyes bright with anticipation. ‘Did he say I’m a good tenter ’cos I’ve mastered all me knots? Did he tell you I know some patterns?’

‘We didn’t talk about . . .’

‘Where’ve you been?’ Molly’s face was white. ‘This pie crust must be like concrete—’

‘What were you thinking of to get in a car with him?’ Gran’s voice was stern. ‘The neighbours are four to a door and eyes on stalks! Bella Seddon has been sitting this last hour on the upstairs windowsill with the head out in the street. If she polishes that glass any longer, she’ll surely wear it through! She’s had the leather dropped twice and the bucket only missed some poor innocent feller by inches and him half drowned! Have you no sense but to go and set tongues wagging like a row of dogs’ tails? This will be the talk for a month now!’

Michael pulled at his brother’s jacket. ‘What’s it like in that car? Can I have a ride? Will he take me next time?’

‘Did he send me some sweeties ’cos I’m poorly?’ This from Daisy who looked about as poorly as the next robust five-year-old.

‘Where did he take you? Where?’ Ma Maguire dragged Joey to one side.

‘To his house.’

‘To his . . . ? Oh my God!’ Molly collapsed into a chair. ‘Whatever for?’

Joey looked meaningfully at his little brother and sister. ‘I can’t say now.’

Ma and Molly turned to each other. ‘Send them upstairs, Ma,’ said Molly, her tone heightened by anxiety.

When the two protesting youngsters had been dispatched, everyone joined Molly at the table.

‘Well?’ Janet kicked her brother gently. ‘What did he want?’

Molly’s hands twisted this way and that on the white tablecloth. She couldn’t stand this any longer! What if he’d told Joey? What if Joey knew that Paddy wasn’t his real dad? She longed to send Janet away . . . but no. If he was going to come out with it, they might as well all be together.

‘Did you leave your tongue up to the big house?’ Ma’s sarcasm hid her fear. Had Swainbank changed his mind and told the whole story? ‘Or is your head turned completely by what you saw?’

‘No.’ He cast a scathing glance at his annoying grandmother, then his head dropped with the shame he still felt. ‘It’s me own fault, I know it. He wanted me over the bother.’

‘What bother?’ Molly gripped her son’s hand tightly. ‘Tell me! Tell me now!’

‘Witchie Leason used to be his neighbour. Anyroad, he found out what I did – I reckon she must have told him to teach me a lesson. So he’s going to look after her in future, give her somewhere to live near fields.’

‘And that’s all?’ gasped Molly. ‘Nothing else?’

‘It’s enough, isn’t it?’ he cried. ‘Frightened me to death, he did. Then he showed me all around, taught me about cotton and being a boss—’

‘Did he now?’ Ma leaned back, arms folded against her chest. ‘Giving you big ideas, is it? Filling your head with nonsense and how to get rich quick?’

‘No! They never got rich quick, Gran! He showed me, laid it out on a desk. We’ve had it all wrong – he’s just the same as us! All of them are just the same as us!’ He hadn’t the words, couldn’t express things as clearly as Swainbank had. ‘They were common folk like everybody else, Gran. And—’ he struggled to remember. ‘They built the Market Hall and churches . . .’ There was more to it, but he hadn’t the skill to cope verbally with what he really meant.

‘They built graveyards too, lad.’ Ma’s voice was quiet. ‘Graveyards with their names on them, plots of land given generously to the town for the burying of the industrially murdered.’