With Love From Ma Maguire (71 page)

Ma stared into the closed face. There was no point in further questioning. ‘Right. I’ll away and bring in the poor man. What’s his name?’

‘Paul.’

‘Paul? That’s a good Christian choice.’

‘He comes of a good Christian family.’

Janet placed herself in the centre of the rug while her grandmother went out of the room. Several minutes passed. She heard the car door opening, then, after a long pause, the sound of footsteps approaching the house. The front door slammed.

‘Janet!’

‘I’m still here.’

Ma entered the parlour with a bundle in her arms. ‘He’s . . . he’s yours?’

‘Yes. Four months old.’

The old lady gazed down into the white shawl. ‘I think . . . I think this is the most beautiful baby I ever saw. Look at the eyes! Near dark as Joey’s, they are. And such wonderful soft hair . . .’

‘He has his father’s colouring, Gran.’

‘I see. Yes.’ She sat in a fireside chair and rocked the baby back and forth. ‘And where is his father?’

‘Paul’s dead. I named his son after him.’

Ma’s face whitened. ‘I’m sorry, my love. Did he . . . did the poor boy live to see this child?’

‘No.’

‘Janet! Oh my dear girl! What have you been through at all? And why did you not tell us? We would have come for you, brought you home!’

‘Paul’s family looked after us. We’ve been well cared for.’

‘But you never even asked us to the wedding!’

Janet glanced down at her shoes before speaking. ‘That’s because there was no wedding. My child is illegitimate.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t need to repeat that, Gran. You heard me well enough. I’m a fallen woman, a woman with loose morals, a slut—’ Her voice cracked very slightly.

‘Never! Were you carrying on with a whole battalion?’

‘No!’

‘Just your man?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then how in God’s good name do you manage to be a slut? I’ve seen sluts. They hang around on Bradshawgate on a Friday night, permed hair and the legs stained with gravy browning and a line drawn up the back. You have not the qualifications to be a slut, Janet Maguire.’

‘Thank you.’

‘There is one thing, though. I noticed just this minute that you wear a wedding ring—’

‘That’s for the child’s sake. For the moment, I am a war widow. When the boy’s old enough, I’ll tell him the truth. I’m . . . very proud of his father. And young Paul has a right to know his true identity. More than that, he has a right to know his other family, his grandparents. They accepted me and loved me, they knew Paul was the father of this little one.’ She swallowed hard, showing some emotion at last. ‘I loved him, Gran! Oh God, how I loved him!’

Ma placed the baby on the rug, freeing tiny limbs so that he might kick and enjoy the warmth of the fire. ‘You come to your old gran, now.’ She held out her arms. ‘Come, Janet. There is no sin in loving a man, none at all. I am proud of you, so I am.’ Her arms closed around the trembling shoulders. ‘Tell me. Tell me all about it.’

They sank on to the sofa, the younger woman clinging hard to the figure beside her. ‘He was a fighter pilot. They flew missions, went out on escort with the bombers. Anyway, he just didn’t come back one night. I waited to hear from him, but when I got the call, it was from Piggy.’

‘Piggy?’

Janet nodded. ‘He flew the leader plane in Paul’s squadron. Anyway, he didn’t say much on the phone, just that Paul was not accounted for. I think that was the longest night of my life.’

‘I’m sure it must have been. Were you alone?’

‘Yes. I moved away from Mr Swainbank’s friends to be nearer to Paul’s base, took a little room of my own. Two nights later, Piggy came round. He told me he’d seen Paul hit. The last thing he shouted over the radio was a request for Piggy to tell Janet—’ She sobbed loudly.

‘That he loved you.’ This was not a question.

When she was calmer, Janet continued, ‘Mr Anderton came for me, took me down to the farm. They never once criticized me for being pregnant and unmarried. I think they were just glad that Paul was not completely gone.’

‘He didn’t know about the pregnancy?’

‘No. I was going to tell him after his twelfth mission. He’d been offered a training job. That was his last flight, Gran—’

‘In more ways than one. May the saints watch over his soul.’

Janet rubbed her eyes fiercely and pointed to the baby. ‘He’s Paul Anderton too. It’s on his birth certificate, I made sure of that. And I don’t really feel any shame—’

‘Nor you should!’

‘But I’ve been afraid of telling my mother.’

Ma nodded slowly. ‘You feel strongly about this identity business, then? Strongly enough to tell your son about the circumstances of his birth?’

‘Oh yes. I think everyone has a right to know who his parents are. Don’t you?’

‘But . . . but what if it hurts, Janet? What if it causes too much pain to the teller and to the receiver of such news?’

‘The worst hurt is not knowing. I’d hate not to know or to be told a pack of lies.’

Ma rose from the sofa and stared down at the wriggling infant. ‘So. If Paddy had not been your father, you would have wanted to be told?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think it’s time you and I had a little chat, my child. Time to get the history books straight, eh?’

‘Gran – what is it?’

‘Pick up your little boy and feed him. Sit by me and stay very close because you will need me now. And you’ll need the closeness of your baby. It’s a long tale, child. When I’ve finished, you’ll perhaps go back to the Andertons. But not before I’ve finished, Janet. This time, let me get it right once and for all . . .’

It was only two o’clock, plenty of time to get everything over and done with. She drove past the twin lodges, glancing at Sarah’s house where she had last spoken at length with Charles Swainbank, then looking across at the pretty little house where her work master now lived with his second wife. It was a frighteningly long driveway, every yard of it reminding her of who she was, who she had always been, the terrifying responsibility that went along with this new knowledge. New to her, obviously not to others.

But was it new to her, was it really new? There’d always been something between herself and Charles Swainbank, a line of communication that would scarcely have been expected to run from boss to apprentice and back again. The anger, the special silliness, ‘are you killing yourself laughing, Mr Swainbank . . . ?’ And the grief, that hitherto indefinable expression on his face when he’d looked at her.

Strange how she’d decided instantly and instinctively what to do. Old Ma had taken the baby gladly, asking no questions about her granddaughter’s destination. The car shuddered to a sudden halt. Maguire. Her name wasn’t Maguire any more. Gran wasn’t Gran, Paddy wasn’t . . . Oh no! Paddy would always be her daddy, her real true daddy. Just as Ma Maguire would ever be the best grandmother a girl could have.

She stepped out of the Singer and strode towards the imposing house, past the lions couchant, past the carved stone balustrade and up the six steps. No-one answered when she rang the bell, even after the second time. His large car was slewed at a silly angle to the right of the front entrance, skid marks in gravel marking its path. But he might be out, he had other cars.

Down the six steps she walked, then along past the front of the house and round the corner. Dear Lord, the place was massive! She counted eighty paces before reaching the back, where she was greeted by screams and shouts. The area at the rear of the Hall was partly cobbled, though they were playing on a flatter patch, stumps chalked on an outhouse wall, a large lady striding forth towards the bowler, hands on hips, head wagging angrily.

‘Now hang on, Mrs M . . .’ called the man with the ball.

‘Don’t you be telling me what to do, Mr Swainbank! You can’t bowl and be the bloody umpire and all – that’s not fair.’

‘You were leg before wicket!’

‘She was everything before wicket,’ shouted a younger woman. ‘We can’t see the wicket with you standing in front of it, Mrs M.’

The fat lady turned on this latest speaker and another man who stood by laughing helplessly. ‘Less of the cheek from you, Emmie Sharples! Jacob – whose side are you on, eh? I thought it was me and thee against these two. If you want to see the stumps, then I suppose you’d best draw them a bit bigger!’

Janet watched as Charles Swainbank approached the outhouse wall. He took chalk from his pocket and drew a set of wickets about seven feet high and as wide as the building. ‘What do you think, Perkins?’ he yelled.

The man who was Perkins threw back his head. ‘I reckon . . . oh Lord . . . I reckon we need a wider shed . . .’

This proved too much for Mrs M. With the cricket bat raised high above her head, she chased her employer, driving him round the end of the house and almost into the arms of the single spectator. Emmie and Perkins followed, all four of them pulling up abruptly when they saw the young woman.

‘Janet!’ shouted Charles. He picked her up and swung her round until both were dizzy. ‘Welcome! Welcome home!’ He turned to his companions. ‘This is that dreadful runaway I took to London five years ago. Nasty little ingrate, too! I found her a good home, but what did she do? Went off and lived elsewhere, not a word for over a year.’ He placed her gently on her feet. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine thanks, Mr Swainbank.’

‘Go and make tea,’ he said to the servants. ‘And a few sandwiches.’

Emmie, Perkins and a very sweaty Mrs M turned and walked away towards the kitchen door.

‘Don’t bother on my account,’ Janet called after them. ‘I shan’t be staying.’

His face fell. ‘Oh. I rather thought you might like a cup of tea, at least. You’ve never seen the house before, have you?’

‘Only from the outside. I used to visit Miss Leason and Jim.’

‘Ah yes. Sad business, the old girl popping off so suddenly. Her heart gave out in the end. At least it was quick, very little pain.’

They strolled along the side of the Hall, Charles taking the odd covert glance at this beautiful young woman. Her face was so . . . serene . . . so calm! ‘Your brother and your father too. I’m terribly sorry, Janet.’

‘So am I.’

They stopped beside her little red car. ‘Fine piece of machinery,’ he commented, just for something to say.

‘It belonged to a friend, a close friend. He died. His parents gave me this.’ An awful sadness coloured her tone. ‘I saw . . . a lot of death, Mr Swainbank. Boys younger than I was. Those who survived will continue suffering in their minds. War is so bloody stupid!’

He took a deep breath to cover a stab of pain, a great sense of regret and uselessness caused by her hidden suffering. ‘So. London was a handful, eh? I knew what you were going into, Janet. And I also knew that nothing would dissuade you.’

‘London is beautiful. The people – well, they defy description, really. So damned proud, so strong. I met the queen. She came down to talk to the patients twice, no thought for her own safety or any infection she might catch. Saw King George too one day, doing a balancing act on a pile of rubble where people used to live. Everybody was worried in case he got hurt, but he didn’t give a tuppenny damn. An ordinary man and woman doing an extraordinary job. The place is . . . in me now, as if a bit of it belongs to me. Or perhaps it’s the other way round – part of me belongs to London.’

Her accent was almost gone, only the odd flat vowel betrayed her true origins. ‘Going back?’ he asked as casually as he could manage.

‘That depends on a lot of things, Mr Swainbank. I’ve friends there now, ideas for starting up a business here and selling down there. That way, I’ll keep in touch with everything, won’t I?’

‘What sort of business?’

‘Fabrics, soft furnishings, other things to match like pottery and wallpaper. It’s all very much in the future.’

‘But for the moment you’re staying with Mo . . . with your mother?’

‘That’s right.’ She looked directly into his eyes. ‘Get in the car, please.’

‘What?’

‘I want you to get into my car.’

‘But where . . . I mean why . . . ?’

‘You drove me to London, remember? I trusted you to drive me, so now you can repay that compliment. Please! Don’t ask any questions! I just want you to come with me.’

He watched her hand as it came to rest on the door handle. ‘Is that . . . is that a wedding ring?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who did you—?’

‘Get in the car!’

Her face wore a strange mixture of expressions. The mouth half smiled, while the eyes showed mischief, shock, sadness and a kind of resigned happiness all at once. Slowly and not without a degree of reluctance, Charles climbed into the Singer next to this enigma who was his daughter. Like himself, she was a rapid driver, one who let the car do the work, a confident woman with an eye for the road and a mind on her eventual destination. Yes, she would get there. Wherever this little lady had decided to go today, tomorrow, for the rest of her life, neither distance nor obstacle would deter her.

‘We’re almost there,’ she said at last. ‘And you will do exactly as I tell you. Right?’

A shiver of fear touched his spine briefly. ‘What’s going on, Janet? What the hell is all this?’

‘Shut up, Mr Swainbank. Just bloody shut up for once, let someone else do the thinking and driving!’

‘Janet!’

The car shuddered to a halt. She turned to face him. ‘I’ve been away for five years. One of the things I missed is here, just around the corner. I’m sure you’ve heard of Rivington Pike?’

He nodded dumbly.

‘I’m going to walk right to the top, have a quick look at my home town. After five minutes, you will follow me. Have you got that?’

‘Yes.’

She touched his hand briefly. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. Stop worrying and asking why and where and what. I stopped asking those things almost a year ago. Trust me. OK?’

‘I’ll try.’

Janet Maguire stood at the foot of the hill and looked up at the lone figure next to the folly. Even from this distance, she could tell that the shoulders were hunched, that sadness, grief, even loneliness hung heavily around her poor little mother’s neck. With the agility of a young deer, she launched herself at the steep gradient. ‘Mam!’ she called as she paused for breath. ‘Mam! It’s me – Janet!’