With Love From Ma Maguire (68 page)

‘I know! But it’ll change us, make us grow up. We’ll never be the same again, not after this. And it’ll all be over by Christmas, you’ll see . . .’

Charles wasn’t eavesdropping. It so happened that when Janet visited Sarah Leason, he was at the back of the lodge counting dead chickens after the local vixen’s latest visit. Silly creatures, foxes. They killed a dozen, yet took only one, neither rhyme nor reason to this mass slaughter. Still. It was probably caused by all these flapping feathers getting up the animal’s nose and driving her crazy. Just as the fear-filled chickens were driving him mad now. But Sarah would never let him take a gun to Mrs Fox. Though the old one grieved over her dead birds, she would doubtless insist that the responsible party should remain alive for the sake of what she termed ‘the balance of nature’. Well, Sarah’s idea of fairly weighted scales certainly involved a lot of blood and mayhem, that was plain.

Jim and Carrie Higgins ambled along the lane, arm in arm as usual. Now that Jim’s daughter was securely settled and his old father had passed away, they had complete freedom to come and go as they chose when Carrie wasn’t working. It had all turned out so well for them and Charles didn’t like himself for the stab of jealousy caused by the closeness and obvious happiness of their marriage.

‘Coming for a drink, Charlie? They’ve copped hold of a nice drop of Irish down at the Red Cat,’ yelled Jim.

‘No thanks. I’m up to my eyes in feathers and squawking hens. Have a double for me – and make sure you’re back before blackout. Cheerio!’ He watched as they disappeared along the road, each engrossed in the other, their world complete at last. After pacing the garden until the vixen’s entry point was located, he sat on the step to make notes about necessary materials. Not that he held out much hope. Once a female fox made her mind up, there was no keeping her out.

It was then that he heard the voice. ‘Miss Leason! There you are, a picture of what Gran calls rumbustious health. It’s just a quick visit, ’cos I’m off to London in a few days. Don’t tell Gran. You’re one of the few folk I trust enough to say ta-ra to.’

‘To London?’ Sarah’s tone was clipped. ‘Whatever for? It’s not a particularly healthy place to visit just now, Janet.’

‘Well, I want to get in the war, do my bit.’

‘Really? I should have thought you’d had enough of fighting. That family of yours re-creates Waterloo at least once a week – if my memory serves me correctly. Never before did I witness so much crossfire at a dinner table. How’s Yorick?’

‘Fine. Still a bit crackers, but not as soft in the head as he used to be. He thinks the Anderson’s a kennel, though. Keeps burying his bones under Dad’s emergency supply tins.’

‘And everyone else?’

‘Oh, he doesn’t bury people, Miss Leason. At least, he hasn’t up to now.’

‘Very droll.’ The sniff was audible even from the back door. ‘I suppose you might make yourself useful by getting a pot of tea.’

Charles remained seated on the doorstep while she walked into the kitchen, heard the hesitation in her step once he was noticed.

‘Oh.’ She coughed quietly. ‘I didn’t realize Miss Leason already had a visitor.’

Slowly he rose from the stone step and turned to look at her. For almost three years he had caught no more than a passing glimpse, but now his daughter stood within feet of him, corn-coloured hair tied back with a bow, huge grey eyes staring solemnly at him. ‘I’m not a visitor,’ he managed at last. ‘I’m just the landlord.’

‘I see.’

‘I was . . .’ He waved a hand towards the garden. ‘I was just trying to protect Miss Leason’s hens from the vixen. She must have young to feed because she keeps coming back, the resolute little madam.’

‘Yes.’ Janet filled the kettle and lit the gas, her face reddened by embarrassment. She simply didn’t know what to say to him, couldn’t think of a thing. All that anger and nastiness seemed to have evaporated, as if it were nothing to do with her, as if it had come from another time, another person. He was bigger than she remembered, so big that the doorway was filled, his head bent awkwardly against the low lintel.

‘Did I hear you say London?’ he asked, his tone deliberately casual.

‘That’s right.’

Charles walked into the tiny room and stood by the table, just about two paces away from her. London. For no reason at all, the rhyme sang in his head over and over, “London’s burning, London’s burning . . .”. Could he allow her to leave? If she got killed by a bomb, then all four would be gone. John and Peter, then Joey who was all but dead, poor soul. But this one? How might he stop her? Like the vixen, she was determined, possibly to the point of savagery if pushed. ‘It’s not . . . not a pleasant way to die, Janet. Falling masonry, explosions, fire—’

‘I know all about fire, Mr Swainbank.’

‘Ah.’ His head drooped slightly. ‘What will your parents say? Won’t you be missed, won’t they worry?’

‘They’ll worry.’

‘Then . . . why?’

‘There’s worried mothers all over the place. At least I won’t be fighting in the front lines or going up in a bomber. Worrying can’t be helped. And I don’t see why folk should bother more just because I’m a girl. Girls are tough, they can work long hours the same as men. Every bomb dropped is likely made in part by a woman.’

He drew a hand across his jaw. There would be no stopping her. The decision was made and once a Swainbank decided – well, nothing could change a strong mind. And the Maguires too were not without their particular brand of bloody-mindedness. ‘Going alone?’

‘With another girl. She’s leaving your mill to come.’

‘I see.’ He paused for several seconds. ‘Janet – about that fire and your friend who died—’

‘Yes.’ Her head nodded vigorously. ‘I’m nearly eighteen now, more grown-up, a bit of sense in me head at last.’ She swallowed hard and quickly. Pride was a bitter pill to consume. ‘I was wrong. I was fifteen and I was wrong, sir. It’s just that Ron was my mate from school – shared plasticine and books with him, I did. Him dying like that – it hurt me, ’cos I couldn’t see the sense in it. Oh, I know he was a clumsy great lummox, but everybody loved him. You couldn’t help liking Ron – he was as daft as a brush half the time. But even though I was so upset, I shouldn’t have gone for you, not in front of all the mill. Me gran and me mam both taught us respect, so did our teachers. And everybody knows now that it wasn’t your cigar. I’m sorry. I really am sorry for all the terrible things I said—’ She stopped as he swivelled away abruptly to face the wall.

‘Mr Swainbank?’

‘Yes?’

She waited for a moment. ‘You’re not killing yourself laughing over old Cowcart this time, are you?’

‘No. No, I’m not.’

Janet had seldom watched a grown man cry before. Except for Paddy – and his crocodile tears were usually more alcohol than saline. She took a hesitant step towards the distressed man. ‘Sir? Can I help you?’

‘I’m . . . I’m all right, love. Just a bad time, a very bad time . . .’

Her hands reached out to touch him, then dropped uselessly to her sides as she remembered who this was. Charles Swainbank, owner of three mills and a lot of houses, a big important man who didn’t really need anybody, let alone a bit of a girl off Withins Lane. Happen his tears were not connected with the recent conversation. Perhaps something else had upset him, something she’d touched on without realizing it. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Mister. I don’t know what I can do to make you feel better. But all I wanted to tell you was . . . well . . . you can’t be all bad after what you did for Jim Higgins, eh? And . . . and a man who cries can’t be hard, not inside. You’re never a cruel man, sir. I’ve been wrong about you . . .’ Her voice faded away.

Sarah Leason beckoned from the doorway. ‘Give him a hug,’ she whispered. ‘Every animal needs its fur smoothing from time to time. Go on – get hold of him.’

The old lady bit back her own threatening tears as she watched the daughter walking to her father for the very first time, saw how eagerly he turned to his girl, how tightly he clung. Never once had Sarah’s own male parent touched her, played games with her. Sarah’s existence had scarcely been acknowledged, yet here stood a man who would give his right arm to claim this child as his own. It was time. The old one knew it was time. This couldn’t go on, the poor man fretting himself to death because of a simple lack of communication, a few missing words of truth!

She backed away and closed the door against a sight too moving for her lonely vision. Sarah leaned against the back of the sofa, her shoulders tense as she raised her head to the ceiling. ‘If you’re there, get it bloody right this time,’ she snapped to the God she doubted. ‘Stop making such a damned pig’s ear of everything!’

In the kitchen, Charles drew himself away from the girl with reluctance. His affection might, after all, be misconstrued. This was a young woman now, someone strong enough to consider taking on the world, a fighting female with every intention of emerging victorious. Janet Maguire was not a candidate for unexplained manhandling. He gazed down at the straight eyebrows, the look of puzzlement beneath these perfect lines. A deep sigh shuddered its path along his calmer breath. The night of Joey’s attack, Charles had vowed to say nothing while Paddy lived, to remain in the background for ever if necessary. ‘Don’t go, Janet,’ he pleaded. ‘Please don’t go to London.’

‘Why not?’

He took her hand and enfolded it between his palms. ‘Remember your interview?’

She nodded quickly.

‘I’d just lost my boys. And . . . oh, I don’t know why . . . but when you walked into that office and gave me so much trouble, I realized how much I’d missed a daughter. Girls are . . . more argumentative, they have a special intelligence, a great deal of resilience and pride. You were the daughter I never had, Janet.’

Her face broke into a hesitant grin. ‘Me?’

‘Now it’s my turn to ask “why not?”’

‘Well . . . I’m ordinary. I never went to Bolton School for fancy education. There’s nowt special about me, Mr Swainbank.’

He smiled. ‘Oh, but there is. Look what you did for that business. Carry on there. This damn fool war can’t go on for ever – they’re only finishing off their tidying up from 1918.’

Janet shook her head again. ‘No. This is nowt to do with the Great War, Mr Swainbank. Far as I can work out, the German folk have been pushed past desperation twice over. The daft ones among them see this Hitler as a sort of Jesus. I know that sounds awful, but I’m sure they think he’s a saviour. Me dad says it’s mass hysteria, like Rudolph Valentino’s funeral, only bigger. They’re sad, the Germans. Most of them don’t want anything to do with this war, only he’s clever. He’s got them all riled up, made them join things, filled their heads with a load of Nazi rubbish. It’s a war on its own, a special war.’

‘And a very fierce one at the moment. Can’t you find another outlet for your energies? Must you go into the thick of it?’

‘Yes! There’s not enough for me to do at the Market. And Joey would have gone to war. I know him – well, I used to. He wouldn’t have carried on selling bikes and suchlike. Our Joey would have been one of the first to volunteer. Anyway, he’s had a bad accident, can’t walk, acts like a baby now. So I’m going in his place. And I’ve got to get away, else I’ll burst, honest I will! Gran’s had us all stuck together like a pan of treacle toffee since that night at the shop – nobody’s allowed to be alone for a minute – even me dad. The only chance I get to be on me own is when they all go to the same Mass and I’m allowed to stop with me twin brother. It’s awful. Gran even takes the dog to work for protection – it’s all out of proportion, specially since the war. I have to get out of it. There was a time when I thought I’d always stay with me mam, never leave home. But I must find out what I want and they’re smothering me! And if I don’t go now, then I never will.’

‘You won’t wait for peace?’

‘The war never waited for me, Mr Swainbank. It never asked me if I was ready, did it? There’s no life up here—’

‘We’ve munitions factories.’

‘Aye.’ She nodded wisely. ‘Full of old folk and others not fit to fight. I need . . . I need people, Mr Swainbank, people me own age.’

‘Hmm.’ He released his hold on her hand. She needed a boy, a suitor, someone to make her feel alive, give her a sense of future. ‘Won’t Sarah Leason tell Ma of your intention?’

‘No. Miss Leason can be trusted with anything. I’ll work in a hospital – it’ll be safe enough.’

Charles was suddenly aware that he was already halfway to giving his blessing, that he was letting his one and only child escape from him in this moment. Above all, he realized that she was going willingly into danger while looking for no more than excitement. Ah well. Perhaps she would be back within weeks. Terrified, traumatised, but home. ‘I’ll drive you down, make sure you’re settled,’ he said gruffly.

‘There’s no need—’

‘I know people, places where you might stay.’ Yes, he would find a way to monitor her safety. ‘I shan’t tell your parents what you intend, so don’t worry. The trains are crazy at the moment and I’ve plenty of fuel for business. Consider it my contribution to the war effort.’

‘Oh. All right then. It’s next Wednesday, half past six in the morning. And thanks, it’s very kind of you.’

‘Fine. I’ll pick you up outside the Man and Scythe.’

She pulled a wry face. ‘Built 1251, the place where an Earl of Derby waited for his head to be cut off,’ she recited parrot-fashion. ‘Learned that at school. Ever since then, I’ve not been keen on the Man and Scythe.’

He smiled. ‘Ye Olde Pastie Shoppe? Just a few doors down and seventeenth century? Would that be more appropriate?’

‘Thanks. There’ll be me and Lizzie Corcoran.’ He was doing so much for her, going right out of his way too. Why though? And shouldn’t she take a polite interest in him, ask a question or two? After all, he’d been so upset a few minutes back. She groped in her consciousness for something sensible to say. ‘How are the mills?’ was the best she could come up with.

‘Rayon,’ he replied, a touch of regret colouring his tone. ‘The only way to survive will be in man-made fibres. We’ve lost the cheap end of the cotton market, but then I’ve always done a lot of fancies. It’s the export side we’re losing. The government did what it could, put a levy on imports, but the Eastern countries are supplying elsewhere, markets that used to be exclusively ours. Cotton’s a silly business, always has been. Still at least I’ve been lucky, haven’t been threatened with closure for the duration. Things will revive after the war. But much of it will be this rayon and nylon.’