With Love From Ma Maguire (66 page)

‘Is that so?’

‘It is.’

Paddy began to stride back and forth about the room, his lips moving in what looked like silent prayer. Then he swivelled on his heel in the scullery doorway. ‘Father?’

‘Yes, Paddy?’

‘Do me a favour – stop here and watch the kids. I have to get down to that infirmary and see for myself. I can’t just sit here waiting. Long enough they’ve left me sat here waiting for a tram that never comes. I’ve got to do something.’

Father Mahoney put his head on one side and raised his arms in an imploring gesture. ‘But what can you do, man?’

‘I can be there! I can be with my son, whatever happens!’

‘I’ll drive you down,’ offered Charles. ‘Go up and change your shoes and wash your face, then I’ll give you a lift. Go on! There’s nothing to be gained by arriving with your face tear-stained.’

Paddy dabbed at his eyes, looked down at his carpet slippers, then left the room by the stairway door.

The priest turned on Charles as soon as the coast was clear. ‘Why did you come here? Will you put the finishing touches on what you started? Are you come to interfere at this desperate grievous time?’

Charles stood his ground. He wasn’t afraid of this black-coated New Testament thumper, this flightless crow that cawed doom on everything it imagined to be beneath it. ‘Do you think you’ve cornered the market on charity just because you wear the collar back to front?’

‘Indeed I do not. But I don’t trust you, Mr Swainbank.’

‘Then that’s your privilege. Why aren’t you on your knees counting beads for Joey Maguire?’

Bernard Mahoney’s tongue flicked nervously to touch his upper lip. This was a man of strong mind and great intelligence. ‘Ah. So Maguire’s the name, is it?’

‘Yes. Maguire is his name. Why aren’t you praying for him? Isn’t that your job? Instead of attacking me, shouldn’t you be talking to God or the Virgin – or perhaps another of your pot saints? And in case you still think it’s your business, I didn’t come here to hurt Paddy, Molly, or anyone else.’ He paused, his eyes sweeping up and down over the man’s short body. ‘Yes, nod your wise old head – make your judgements – because they are of no significance. I don’t need you to stand between me and what’s supposedly right. None of us really needs your kind. You hang on to people by playing on their guilt, adding up sins like a dossier for blackmail, making them ashamed of the slightest human thought, need or desire. That’s the only way you can hang on, by moral blackmail. And all the time, there’s a boy lying in hospital with his throat cut and the life beaten out of him! So get your priorities right, priest, before too many others start to see you for what you really are. A total bloody sham!’

Charles walked out of the house, his whole body shaking with shock, anger and a strange relief. He was trembling at the thought of what had befallen Joey, felt he might never recover from this latest tragedy. Yet the relief at knowing Janet was safe – that was so sweet as to be almost another pain. But beneath these two emotions flowed a river of rage, a torrent that no dam could ever hold. At its deepest point, it was cold and clear, would be easy to direct at a specific target. Fenner. Yes, old Marcus would get his dues. Yet the hot anger, the shallower and more immediate fury, had caused him to turn on the priest, to make of him a whipping boy, a bullseye to practise on. But the man had made Charles feel doubly guilty and he needed no reminder of his various crimes, certainly not from the Catholic clergy. All incense and not much common sense, they were!

‘I see you’ve a conscience then, Mr Swainbank.’

He didn’t turn, didn’t bother to answer the figure in the doorway.

‘God bless you and stay with you, my son.’

Charles swallowed hard and fixed his gaze on a lighted window across the street. ‘I’m . . . I’m not of your faith, Father.’

‘We are all born under the one sky; we all walk the same good earth on the same one-way journey. Like yourself, I have little time for the divisions between us, so let us not fight. You will do the right thing, Charles Swainbank. I may be just a daft old priest, but I’ve brain enough to spot a good man in a crowd.’

Charles cleared his constricted throat. ‘Is this some kind of apology, then?’

‘What do you want, man? Blood? Out of an Irishman? Better to try the paving stones! And I am praying for that boy—’

Paddy pushed Father Mahoney to one side and joined Charles at the car. As they pulled away from the house, Charles noticed the old man’s hand raised in blessing. ‘Not a bad stick, is he?’

‘Eh? Oh, you mean our Bernie?’ He blew his nose noisily. ‘Salt of the earth, that one. Spent two years in no-man’s land, so I’m told, blessed them all whether they were Catholic or Protestant, German or English, came back with a leg full of shrapnel and enough stories to write a book. Are you coming in the hospital?’

‘No. I’ll go home, Paddy. I can always use the phone to find out how the boy is. Just hold together for everyone’s sake.’ He bit hard into his lower lip. ‘But mainly for your son.’

Paddy’s voice broke as he whispered, ‘If I have a son any more, Charlie. I know how quick yours went, I know what you must have gone through. It’s bloody awful, is this. No rhyme nor reason without your kids, is there?’

‘No.’ He watched Paddy as he ran through the front door of the infirmary. If what Lucas said was right, if Paddy was truly dying, then this could finish the man. None of it bore thinking about. And there were things to do, arrangements to be made.

He drove quickly through the town centre. What price a life? He knew the answer now. Father Mahoney probably wouldn’t approve, but Charles had his own gods to appease. And wasn’t it in the Book somewhere – an eye for an eye? He smiled grimly. Jim Higgins wouldn’t get his eye back, but he’d been given something in return, a little house, a second chance at marriage from the look of things, from the way he and Carrie Fishwick were getting along. So the owner of the loom had paid in the end, just as surely as Fenner would now.

Charles shivered as he travelled through the countryside towards Briars Hall. He’d never had a stomach for killing, had always been glad about avoiding the war by staying to manufacture vital cloth. And he would surely make a mess of it, get it all wrong. So, he must do as Fenner had done, take the rich coward’s way out, appoint anonymous killers.

As soon as he arrived home, he made for the study and picked up the telephone. When the connection was made, he spoke briefly to the party at the other end. ‘Alice? Read any good wills lately?’

He heard a sharp intake of breath, though no answer was forthcoming.

‘I suggest you get out of the way pretty damned quick, my dear. The money to travel will be with you tomorrow.’ He slammed the receiver into its rest. Why had he done that? Because she was his brother’s wife, because he wanted her safe? He shook his head. No. He wanted her frightened to death. But he would need to move fast, or Fenner would be on his guard.

He made a second call. ‘Lucas? The contract. Can you arrange the same for me?’

After a slight pause for consideration, the answer came. ‘Yes. A couple of thousand plus expenses.’

‘Fair enough. You know the party – he who instigated the original?’

‘Easy enough to find, I’d say.’

‘When?’

‘Within a week. Will that do, sir?’

Charles sighed. ‘Yesterday wouldn’t be soon enough. Understand?’

‘Consider it done. I’ll contact you by Monday, let you know how things are progressing.’

The line went dead. Charles stared down at the instrument, this tool he’d used to condemn a man to eternal damnation. Had he been a fool, putting Alice on edge like that? She’d probably have her dear husband across the Channel by morning. Still. Lucas’s cronies would find him wherever he went. And there might be something to be said for having him killed abroad, well away from Lancashire.

He phoned the hospital, his hand shaking so violently that he almost dropped the receiver. Joey’s condition remained critical, no visitors except family.

Charles stared through the window until dawn arrived with its false promises, all azure sky and birdsong. When he finally slipped into a fitful doze, the words continued to echo through his tortured brain. No visitors. No visitors except family.

They brought home what was left of him at the end of November. Paddy was drunk, of course, needed help to get up the stairs before his son’s broken body could be wheeled into the house. Ma saw to everything, arranged for a bed in the kitchen, organized furniture so that most items might be squeezed in. Molly watched the horsehair sofa disappearing off down the street to some poor family, the sofa already moved once to accommodate Ma’s bed in the front room. That piece of furniture had been in the best room years ago, when Molly had first moved in with her mother after her dad’s untimely death at Pretoria. It had meant something, that sofa. But it was gone now. Not that it really mattered. She was like a zombie these days, going through the motions of being alive, seldom speaking or listening to anyone. She sat now on one of the straight-backed chairs, elbows on the table, chin resting on folded hands.

Ma and Bella Seddon lifted the twisted creature out of the wheelchair and struggled to lay him flat on the bed. ‘Won’t he go any straighter?’ puffed Bella. ‘His knees are up to his chin – we’ll not get the lad comfortable this road!’

‘He must lie as he is, I fear. ’Tis the paralysis. Just swing him over on to his side, Bella. That’s it. Good boy, Joey. Who’s a lovely boy, then? If only you’d give us a smile or a word—’

‘Parrots are called Joey,’ said Molly to no one in particular. ‘Like talking to a bird.’

Janet entered the house with Joey’s bag of pyjamas and towels. She had followed the ambulance in a taxi and she rushed to her brother’s side, anxious to be of assistance. ‘Is he all right?’ Her voice was taut with fear and pity.

‘He’ll never be right. They said that plain enough at the hospital, didn’t they? Never walk, never talk again.’ Molly’s voice was completely devoid of expression. ‘He used to be all right, though. All my children were born perfect, not a mark on them. If he hadn’t had that shop, he’d still have been all right. But there you go . . .’ She smoothed her hair then sat back, arms folded tightly as she watched the three women trying to settle Joey in the bed.

Ma turned from the task. ‘Are you going to carry on sitting there like a secondhand wardrobe up for sale? Molly Maguire, I’d take the flat of me hand to you just now – except it’s otherwise engaged! Get off your backside and away to warm up the lad’s soup!’ She tutted her anger when Molly failed to move. ‘Janet – get Joey some soup from the scullery – it’s on the gas ring. Bring an old towel to make do as a bib—’

When Bella Seddon had gone home, Ma went through to the scullery to help Janet prepare the meal of slops, leaving Molly alone with Joey for the first time since the accident.

Molly stared at the wreckage, taking in every last detail, her mind strangely detached from what she was seeing. One eye was permanently closed, the lid drooping after severe haemorrhage in the brain. His limbs were stiff and rigid, legs jackknifed, hands clenched and at an unnatural angle to the spastic arms. But the ugliest thing was the mouth, forever wet, wide and gaping, the skin around it red and roughened by the constant drip of saliva which seemed to spread in a never ending river all over his chin and down to the chest. A scarlet line around his throat made him look like a handmade monster, something built out of bits with the head sewn on last. He was revolting. And whoever he was, he certainly was not Joseph Arthur Maguire.

She jerked her head away from the sight, instinct dictating that she must escape. But where? The best room was now Ma’s, the scullery was too small. Upstairs? With Paddy raving about his son? Huh! And this was her kitchen – hers! Not Ma’s, for all she paid the rent. Molly was the one confined to this room, the one who would likely be condemned to sit here with this thing, this doubly incontinent object that required changing every five minutes. And why should poor Michael and Daisy give up their sofa and be forced to live with the unacceptable?

After Joey was fed and the two young ones were in from school, Ma called a conference. ‘There’s no need to ask you to the table,’ she said scathingly to Molly. ‘Since you’ve never moved from breakfast!’ Janet was duly dispatched upstairs to fetch her father who started blubbering the instant he set eyes on Joey.

‘You can stop that before you start!’ chided Ma. ‘We’ve a deal of sorting to do. Yes, you can stay,’ she told the little ones. ‘This is your life as much as it’s ours and as you can all see . . .’ She waved a hand in the direction of the sofa. ‘Nothing will ever be the same as it was. That, Molly, is a fact.’

They sat round the table, all four of them, the younger pair hovering by the dresser.

‘Right,’ began Ma. ‘We’re moving. Janet and I have decided on it, for we shall need more room with me-lad-o to take care of. To begin with, we re-open all the shops. Paddy, you will pull yourself together, hire a boy and continue with the bikes—’

‘I couldn’t go in there again! Not without him, not without Joey!’

‘You are going! Molly – you and I will run the kitchen between us. We’ll take turns about – stay with Joey one day, go into work the next. I have arranged extra help both in the shops and at home. Mrs Seddon will give a hand here for a small consideration—’

‘No.’ Molly looked Ma straight in the eye. ‘I’m not stopping here with . . . with him. He’s not Joey. I don’t know who he is, but he’s not my Joey . . .’

Daisy frowned. ‘Then why is he in our house? Don’t talk so daft, Mam! Course it’s our Joey.’

Ma decided to let this pass for now and she turned her attention to Janet. ‘You and Ronnie’s mother can see to the haberdashery, pick up on the curtains when you’re ready.’

Janet nodded her assent. ‘Mam – we’ve been shut down weeks now. Please – we have to get on with life!’

‘Life?’ Molly shrugged her shoulders carelessly. ‘How can we have a life with that in it?’

Michael tugged at his mother’s sleeve. ‘Mam! That’s my brother. He can’t help the road he is.’