With Love From Ma Maguire (58 page)

‘It is indeed.’

He turned the car round and made for Briars Hall, pulling in at the right of the main gate. This, the smaller of the two gatehouses, was indeed tiny, a pretty dwelling made of warm stone in a dusky pink shade except for all four corners where large blocks of sterner stuff supported the whole building. Mullions were also of this yellower fabric, while the windows they contained were stained and leaded, their patterns copied from various Tudor discoveries made in this part of Lancashire, finds thought by many to be the only genuine coloured glass from such early times.

Charles opened the solid oak door and sighed loudly as the ancient timber swung away from him. ‘It’s all disappearing, all the grace and elegance. Look at Smithills. Did you ever see a finer house than that, eh? It’s to be sold to Bolton Corporation, Sarah. Nobody can afford to keep these old places going, ceilings as high as church spires, roofs falling to bits, money needed every day just to make them habitable. No matter that you might have a Tudor sovereign’s arms in your window-lights, or Thomas Cranmer’s crest over the dining table – it’s all got to go. Still. No doubt Smithills will become a museum or a place for the public to go and poke round. Thank God Briars is not so important.’

‘It is to you – obviously.’

‘It’s my home. And now this is yours.’

‘How much a week?’

‘For God’s sake, Sarah . . . ?’

‘How much?’

‘A pound.’

‘Fair enough. It’s not the amount, you see – it’s the—’

‘Principle of the thing,’ he finished for her. ‘I know. I’ve heard that song before. Right. This is the living room – no hall to worry about. The kitchen’s through that door with a staircase leading out next to the pantry. Upstairs there’s a bedroom and a bathroom. Three sheds outside for cats and other company, nice big garden for you to run riot in. All right?’

She swallowed. ‘I know I’m a bloody old woman, more prickles than an injured hedgehog – but I can’t tell you what this means to me. Never did settle down there, you see.’ She waved a hand towards the road, the other arm coming up to wipe a little tear from her eye. ‘I’m country. This is what I mean, Charles. It’s fine to have principles, but look what mine cost! There’s only one word for where the townspeople live – and that’s hell. I was lucky in Bolton, bit of a garden at the front, an extra room, a bath. But what did I leave behind up here, what did I sacrifice in selling off the mines? That beautiful house, my horses, my freedom . . .’

‘Given your attitude to mining, there was no alternative! Good grief, woman, Paddy Maguire saved your life by forcing you to come to a decision when you got too old for the place. Why didn’t you call on me then, eh? I’d have given you a lodge! I know there aren’t many rooms, but there’s plenty of land and the big house nearby if you need help. Too proud, you are! Too proud for your own good!’

She grinned widely at this. ‘Where’s all my stuff?’ she demanded.

‘The Maguires brought it round. Perkins shelved the bedroom – all your books are in there – just. Don’t buy any more! Borrow mine if you want to read. Dishes and so on will be in the kitchen cupboards. Items of value – those Chippendale chairs, the good china, the Stubbs paintings – they’re stored up at the Hall.’

‘Hmm. So now I have to learn to live properly.’

‘Your cleaning will be done twice a week. Come to terms with it, Sarah. The days of splendid isolation are past. And you’ll get more privacy here than you did at the hospital. You’ll stay?’

‘Of course I’ll stay! I’m just not very good at being grateful!’

‘None of us is, especially we who have been privileged. It’s hard to accept help when none’s been needed, hard to take after giving charitably as you have done. But this is your turn. Grab it and be damned.’

‘I will.’

‘Bet you never thought you’d say those words to a man!’

‘Charles Swainbank! Do you have a priest hidden in a cupboard?’

He gazed about the room. ‘There are some priest holes around here somewhere . . .’

She chased him out of the house.

It was lovely. A beautiful fireplace with a large cat basket in front, two comfortable armchairs, a small sofa covered in chintz. The table was tiny, just big enough for one – two at a pinch: In the kitchen there was a gas cooker, a white porcelain sink, some substantial cupboards and another small table with a pair of stools. But it was the view that gripped her, trees and hedgerows, fields leading out to rolling moors, her own large garden with apple and pear trees, bushes of raspberry and blackcurrant, borders filled with wild flowers, a goat tethered to a sturdy pole, familiar cats sunning themselves in a small enclosure before a wooden hut. Home. Home at last.

Ma and Molly, each exhausted after the trip to Sarah’s new house, collapsed on to the horsehair sofa under the window in the kitchen. ‘She seems well enough settled,’ commented the younger woman. ‘Though I’d sooner not have gone. It’s as if he’s edging closer by the minute – coming in the shop, making up to Janet at work—’

‘What was the alternative?’ Ma leaned back, eyes closed against the bright electric lamp that now hung in the centre of the room. ‘Should we have let the twins go up alone? He might have liked that, Molly. All his family together on his estate – though I dare say Sarah would have kept a rein on things.’

‘Why should she?’

‘Because she knows the whole story. And before you start kicking the ball at me, Molly Maguire, it was Cissie’s doing. She realized the twins weren’t Paddy’s years ago, left a letter for me with Sarah Leason.’

‘But . . . !’ Molly’s eyes were round. ‘But she’ll be telling everybody! If she’s gone a bit doo-lally like they said at the hospital—’

‘Sarah Leason is no more doo-lally than you are. She knows when to keep her mouth shut, believe me. Just relax, for goodness sake!’

Molly rubbed a hand across her brow. ‘It’s all a bit much, Ma. I’m whacked out! The shop’s doing so well, I’m beginning to wish the customers would go away. Now this—’

‘Don’t be wishing any such thing. We’re open only weeks and a handsome profit showing already. Sure, things won’t always be like this, Molly, coming home to make stews and pies for the next day. Soon, we can take on staff and sit back. Then we’ll be away from School Hill, get a nice new house of our own.’ She placed an arm across her daughter-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Look, he’s going to see the twins anyway. Isn’t he like a daily dose of salts on Bradshawgate, running almost to time – every servant in his house must have at least one bike by now! And doesn’t he take his midday meal in my kitchen, him and his cronies exclaiming over how quaint it is with the bread rising before the fire? Then with Janet carrying on as stubborn as a daft donkey in the weaving sheds – well – he’ll get to them come what may.’

‘Oh, Ma . . .’

‘What?’

Molly’s head dropped low before she spoke. ‘Listen. I think we should tell them before he does, or before Sarah slips up.’

‘Whatever for?’ Ma pushed Molly away and looked into her troubled face. ‘Why on earth should we be thinking on those lines?’

‘’Cos I can’t stand it! I’m sick of watching and waiting, tired of looking at Janet when she comes in from the mill, wondering if she knows and what she knows! At the shop I’m on edge every time he goes anywhere near Joey—’

‘Shush, girl! Where are the children?’

Molly shrugged listlessly. ‘The twins are out with Lizzie and Ron – that pair from school as went in for weaving alongside Janet. I think the little ones are in the back yard dressing Yorick up.’

‘Ah, he’ll like that. Loves a nice frock and a bonnet – hey – do you think he’s one of them funny fellers? For heaven’s sake, give us a smile!’

‘There’s nowt to smile at, Ma! Nowt at all! I’d rather we told them now – get it over and done with—’

‘Molly! Get yourself all of a piece, will you? Have we not known all this for years, the both of us? Aye, we weren’t honest with one another, but each of us knew the truth. Can we not live with it a little longer?’

‘It was all right before! He had two sons!’

‘I know that. I’m not daft, Molly. But we must carry on taking our chances and hope he’ll keep quiet and leave the money elsewhere. If we do well in the shops, if we can get Janet out of the mill and into the business – then himself might see that we need him not at all. So don’t you dare say a word, Molly Maguire!’

The scullery door opened and in walked Yorick on his hind legs, a straw bonnet perched on his silly panting head, a garish frock trailing along the floor behind him. ‘Would you ever look at that?’ exclaimed Ma. ‘We should put him in the circus, for he’s crazy enough to do anything in order to keep the peace. Michael! Daisy! Get this poor beast out of the clothes. He puts me in mind of old Mother Blue, a terrible character who saved my life then stayed on to torment me afterwards.’ She studied her youngest grandchild. ‘Have you had any turns recently, child?’

Daisy unbuttoned the dog’s dress. ‘No. I’ve given them up,’ she pronounced. ‘I’m going to constant trait.’

‘She means concentrate.’ Michael was Daisy’s interpreter whenever she tackled bigger words. ‘She doesn’t want no visions and shiverings and she’s not having no fits.’

In spite of herself, Molly smiled. ‘That’s the spirit, Daisy.’

The child straightened as Yorick made off beneath the table with the hat and a mind filled with destructive intentions. ‘Do you mean Holy Spirit?’ she asked innocently.

‘No. I mean attitude.’

This chance to air a family joke was too tempting to resist. Michael looked at the dog, heard the ominous sounds of tearing. ‘No, Mam,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s not Daisy’s attitude – it’s your ’at ’e chewed!’

Yorick wagged bravely, spitting straw as he emerged from his hiding place.

‘You see, Molly?’ said Ma. ‘There’s ever something to laugh at—’

In the cool of that evening, Molly sat on an upturned orange box in the yard, a bucket of peeled potatoes at her feet. The two young ones continued to torment Alas-poor Yorick, but he was a patient dog, no malice in him. She watched their antics, her chest filled with a panic that approached sickness. It wasn’t just the twins that worried her – there was this pair too, little innocents that would suffer simply by association. Then there was Paddy. All the names under the sun she’d called that lad during the fifteen years of their marriage. Theirs was a common enough relationship in these parts, the woman seemingly strong and dominant, the man browbeaten.

She remembered Mrs Shipperbottom from number nine, long moved on now. The Shipperbottoms had been the star turn on a Saturday night, especially in the summer. Long hazy-gold evenings would be spent in the street, children playing and singing until well past bedtime. The ice-cream man always came on his bike-cart and the kids would perform their tricks for the promise of a penny cornet.

Then he would arrive home, little Mr Shipperbottom from number nine, too full of booze and bonhommie to notice how hushed the street became as he made his entrance. The door would be flung open and there she would stand, all six feet and nineteen stones of her, a yardbrush in her huge hands. While the women held her back, the poor little man crawled into the house and underneath the dresser for the night, his life saved yet again by the usual group of self-appointed guardian angels. At this point, most children would be sent inside, because Mrs Shipperbottom’s language was as colourful as a summer rainbow.

But that was all a part of the Shipperbottoms’ lives, a part they could not have existed without. The big woman would cry in the end, sit and weep copiously in a neighbour’s house while the yardbrush was taken away in case she might go poking under the dresser with it.

Molly glanced up at the clear blue sky. She hadn’t expected it to happen, had never let it show except in privacy between the two of them. But she loved Paddy, loved his foolishness, forgave him for his idleness. He was such a gentle man, not once had he hurt her knowingly. He annoyed her thoroughly – sometimes, she could scarcely bear the sight of him. But no love could be perfect, no marriage arrived without its troubles.

The fact remained that Paddy Maguire did not deserve this terrible thing that was coming to all of them. And not a hand’s turn could she do. If she ran away from it all, if she died – whatever she did, the truth would eventually come out. And all the forgiveness in the world, all the blessings from Father Mahoney – or even from the pope himself – none of it could wipe out the fact that she, Molly Maguire, was a terrible sinner.

‘Smile, Mam!’

She picked up her youngest child and held the little body close. ‘I’m doing me best, Daisy.’ That was all she could do. And it wasn’t going to be enough.

Janet was very lucky with her teacher. His name was Jim Higgins and he had spent all his life in the sheds, was a master weaver with a fine reputation because of his knowledge of the craft. Jim was a character, an exceptionally intelligent man with a wicked humour and a gift for music that endeared him greatly to his colleagues. During these fine autumn days, the workers did not always use the canteen, preferring to sit out in the mill yard while Jim played his melodeon or his fiddle. Completely self-taught, he won many prizes for these amateur talents and always drew a large crowd when he chose to entertain the spinners and weavers at Swainbank’s mills.

He and Janet sat now on the top stone step in the courtyard, sharing opinions and sandwiches until the others would return from shopping or from a quick lunch in the canteen.

‘What have you got today, lass?’

‘Cheese and home-made pickle.’

‘Ma Maguire’s pickle? That yellow stuff as makes you pull funny faces because it’s on the tart side? That yellow stuff as runs down your chin and isn’t very suitable for a fashionable young lady on account of it being a bit untidy, like?’

‘Yes. It’s lovely.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘What have you got, Jim?’

He hung his head sadly. ‘From a lad, I have been one of life’s unfortunates. And since Bridie died, I’ve been left to me own devices, Janet, a poor starving man with nothing but me talent to keep me warm.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘Bread and jam again.’