With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘And keep off the port!’ she snapped wickedly. ‘It’s killing you, all that good living. Here we die of starvation. Up on the moors, you’re seeing yourselves off by over-indulging. From the colour of your face just now, I’d say you’ve ten years at best left, Mr Swainbank. And a good riddance too!’

  ‘You . . . little . . . bitch!’

  She laughed heartily at this and he marvelled at such a courageous display of nonchalance. ‘I’m not little, Mister. And I’m no female dog to be running at your heel! Well now, did I upset you by answering back, by sticking out for me own rights? Isn’t that a desperate shame?’

  ‘You’ll never work in this town again!’

  ‘Away with your bother! I can take care of meself, Mister!’ She marched to the door then turned, hands on hips, eyes flashing blue fire. ‘A curse on you and yours, Mr Swainbank! And I bid you the worst of days.’ She nodded slowly. ‘I hope you live to rue setting eyes on me. But I suspect that you will not survive long enough!’

  She slammed the heavy door behind her.

  Richard Swainbank reached for his cane and threw it across the room. Bloody woman! How dare she? How dare she walk in here like the Queen of Egypt with all the colours of the Nile reflected in her eyes and . . . Oh, damn her! He rose stiffly and stared into a small mirror between the two high windows. How would she look with the hair uncoiled? With a mighty roar, he turned and swept everything off the desk, his eyes fixed to a small bloody bundle as it tumbled across the floor. Fifty pounds. He would find the damned lad and give him fifty, that would be enough . . .

  Philly stood on the landing, a hand pressed against the wall as she fought for air. He was wicked, the devil incarnate, so he was . . . Not one jot did he care for anyone, not for the poor lad with his finger gone, not for the sickly folk who forced themselves daily into this place of endless drudgery. Behind her he crashed about the room and she allowed herself a tight smile of triumph. He was off the horse for a minute or two and she must take credit for having unseated him.

  The door flew open. ‘Mrs Maguire?’

  ‘Yes?’ She quickly raised herself into an upright and steady position.

  ‘Er . . .’ His eyes wandered down the stairwell while he pulled at his waistcoat, then he passed a hesitant hand through the mop of dishevelled hair. ‘What . . . er . . . what’ll you do?’

  Philly put her head on one side while she studied his obvious discomfort. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well . . . er . . . husband gone and . . . and . . .’

  ‘Baby coming?’ Her tone, in direct contrast to his deepening blush, was light. ‘I shall take care of meself, Mr Swainbank.’

  He thrust a large hand at her. ‘Here,’ he barked. ‘Take it. It’s what’s due in wages and a bit on top – get yourself a perambulator or some such article . . .’

  Her jaw must have been hanging open, for she heard it shut with a snap as she inhaled deeply. Was he going soft? Wages when she was walking out? Wages after she’d told him what he could do with his blessed job?

  ‘Take it!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t dole out spare cash every day of the week.’

  Slowly she reached out and accepted the proffered notes and coins, her eyes widening as she realized that there must be all of six or seven pounds here. ‘It’s . . . it’s charity,’ she heard herself saying.

  ‘If it’s charity, then it’s bloody history in the making too,’ he replied with sarcasm in his tone. ‘I’m not noted for good deeds. I shall see to the lad, him that lost the finger.’ He stared at her for a moment or two, then, after walking back into the office, slammed the door firmly home.

  Philly counted the money, placed what was due to her in a pocket, then posted the remainder through the brass letterbox in the office door. His curses were audible above the sound of dropping coins, yet he made no move towards the stairs. Again she smiled grimly. She would take what was owed, no more than that. If the man was feeling generous, he could give this small amount to some deserving cause. She turned away, a sudden sadness invading her heart, a new weakness making her catch her breath as anger evaporated. What was this picture in her mind? His eyes . . . so . . . so full of grief and . . . and was that loneliness? Still, he deserved to be lonely. No! She must not pity him, must not feel grateful or indebted! These wages she had sweated for, this money she would keep!

  After composing herself, Philly descended the stairs until she was out in the open air. Across the mill yard, she caught sight of her own piecers on their way to half-time school. They ran to her side. ‘What’s up, Mrs Maguire?’

  ‘I’m off for good. Tell the afternoon lads, will you? I shan’t be back.’

  ‘Aw, Missus. You were a good minder, sixpence extra we always got!’

  ‘You know where I live. Take care of yourselves now!’ She watched the weary boys as they made their way towards school where, no doubt, they would be severely beaten at some stage for sleeping at their desks after six long hours in the mill.

  All afternoon, she wandered aimlessly about the town. In less than twenty-four hours, her life had changed completely. Seamus was gone for good, of that she felt sure. Now she’d thrown away her job, slapped it on the table with that poor little mite’s finger – dear God, whatever next? Yes, she knew what next. It had to be done and she was the one to do it. Might as well get it all over in the one day.

  After checking Bessie Critchley’s progress, she ate a tasty meal brought in from Mrs Dobson’s kitchen, then changed into one of her two good dresses, a soft ankle-length grey that wouldn’t quite fasten because of her increased girth. To hide this gap, she picked a soft shawl from the drawer and folded it around her shoulders, pinning the edges together with the tiger’s eyes brooch given her by Uncle Porrick many years ago. She smiled as she fastened the stiff clasp. Uncle Porrick had always been her favourite man, while she was his ‘best girl’. He’d taken the brooch from a leprechaun, or so he always insisted – especially when his tongue was loosened by poteen. Ah well. If the stone really did have magic powers, which she sorely doubted, then she would need its help tonight!

  Philly had never been in a public house before, so it was not without trepidation that she approached the Bull. A nauseating smell of stale beer hung in the air outside the two entrances and she hesitated before choosing which door to use. The flagged vault with its ever-open door did not seem the right place somehow, so she chose the door leading to two others marked ‘Open Bar’ and ‘Bar Parlour’. She studied these legends for several minutes before making a decision. The door on the right was quite ornate, seemed a more likely place for a woman, so she entered and was surprised to find a pleasant room, thickly carpeted and with an open fireplace covered by a large brass fire screen. No-one occupied any of the seats. Philly made for the bar where a small woman was polishing glasses. ‘Yes?’ asked this red-faced female. ‘What’s your pleasure, Missus?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want a drink, thank you.’

  ‘Really?’ A sarcastic smile broadened the tiny features. ‘This is a pub, love. Usually, folk what come in here want a drop of something or other.’

  ‘I’m looking for somebody.’

  ‘Missing persons? Try the police, dear . . .’

  Philly bridled. ‘I am looking for an elderly woman who calls herself Mother Blue. I don’t know where she lives, so I came here.’

  The woman placed glass and cloth on the counter, then beckoned Philly to come nearer. Dropping her voice as if the room were full, she mouthed silently, ‘In the vault, love. She’s as drunk as a bucket of tiddlers. Aye, I’m not surprised you don’t know where she lives. Never goes home till closing, spends many a night rough, I reckon. If you’d take her off our hands, we’d be grateful . . .’

  ‘I just want to see her. It’s important.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to go outside again. There’s no public entrance to the vault from in here. You see, we keep the vault separate on account of it being a bit on the loud side.’

  Philly thanked the woman, t
hen went out into the street. Picking up her skirts, she entered the smoke-filled vault, a long narrow room with a single bench running round its edge. Sawdust and half a dozen strategically placed spittoons decorated the crude floor.

  A foul-smelling man threw a heavy arm about her shoulders. ‘’Tha’s what we need in here,’ he muttered drunkenly. ‘Bit o’ class, bit o’ good looking stuff.’

  She pushed him away impatiently and drew herself up to her full height. ‘I want to see Mother Blue,’ she announced loudly. ‘And unless you keep your hands to yourself, you’ll be in the gutter a little earlier than usual!’

  Silence descended on the room. Philly walked to the corner where the old woman lolled against a wall. ‘Are you Mother Blue?’

  ‘I am. Get us a gin, lass.’

  ‘Get your own.’

  The men gathered in a long line against the high bar. One of the main sources of amusement was women-fights, though they usually had to wait till Saturday for a good one. There again, old Blue was in no state, while this one had an unfair advantage, a hefty lass, she was. Some who recognized Philly slunk towards the door and watched from a safe distance. She’d sorted her old feller out more than once, the size of her.

  Philly cleared her throat. ‘You are spreading disease and death around School Hill, Missus. Your clothes are filthy and you take no care of those who pay for your services.’

  ‘You what? You bloody what?’ The old hag struggled to stand. ‘How many in here were brought into the world by me, eh?’

  ‘And how many died?’

  Mother Blue swayed on uncertain feet. ‘Aye well. There’s always the odd one . . .’

  ‘Yes! Especially when you go from the dead to the newborn without a wash! And when you carry fever on your hands and in your skirts. Bessie Critchley’s baby died last night and where were you? In here drinking what the poor woman had paid you. Well, if I see you in my street again, I’ll put my toe to you, that I will!’

  ‘Oh aye? You and whose bloody army?’

  ‘I shan’t need any help, Missus. You’re so near gone with drink, I reckon I could blow you over with a single breath! Just stay away from School Hill if you know what’s good for you!’

  With a strength that belied her obvious age, Mother Blue threw herself upon the intruder, fingers gripping hard on to Philly’s coiled hair. Using just one hand, the younger woman lifted Mother off her feet, holding her in a vice-like grip for several seconds. With a yell of surprise, the old girl released her hold on Philly’s head and found herself hurtling through the air and back on to the bench.

  Philly dusted her hands together. ‘Pick somebody your own size in the future,’ she said quietly. ‘And when the next baby dies, I’ll be along for you, so watch your step.’

  A loud guffawing laugh came from the throat of one of the men. ‘No wonder her always wears t’ bloody bonnet! Look, lads. Bald as a babby’s bum!’

  Mother Blue reached for her dangling hat and crammed it on to her head. In spite of all the gin she’d consumed, she knew her shame, recognized that her secret was finally out. ‘I’ll get thee,’ she spat.

  ‘Not if I see you first!’

  Philly picked her way out on to the pavement while the men applauded loudly. As usual, news travelled on winged heels and by the time she reached home, quite a reception party had gathered near to her house.

  ‘Were she really bald, Missus?’

  ‘Did she curse thee? I’ll bet your ears are fair ringing . . .’

  ‘We got it after she come to our house. We all had it . . .’

  ‘What’s that you said about putting ashes down the netty?’

  She held up her hand and voices were stilled as if by magic. For an awful moment, she didn’t know what to say. Every eye was on her and she felt the colour rushing to her cheeks. ‘I’m . . . I’m not much for talking . . .’

  ‘Aye – we noticed!’ The ensuing laughter made her easier.

  ‘Though me mammy always said I’d talk the four legs off a table once I start. I . . . er . . . I have not been a good neighbour. But I’ve had me troubles and those particular troubles meant I had to keep meself to meself.’

  ‘That’s alreet, lass.’ Skenning Freddie stepped forward, hammer still clutched in his hand. ‘Only you’d best find your tongue, ’cos I’ve three full sets and one broken bottom waiting. They go through good clogs like a hot knife through butter round here.’

  The crowd grew as Philly spoke. ‘The flies go straight from privy pails on to your table. You’ll find them particularly active after the night soil men have disturbed them by emptying the closets. The creatures are very taken by rotting food, so burn all you don’t eat, any fruit that’s marked. Keep milk cold and don’t drink even good milk if the sickness gets you. With ashed-down pails, there’ll be less soils for the flies to reach and they’ll go off elsewhere to breed. If one of you can read and write, we can make a list of things to do against the summer sickness.’

  ‘Have you got medicines for it?’

  ‘I have, though ’tis better not to get the disease in the first place.’

  A woman at the back spoke up. ‘How come you know all this, eh? Where did you learn if you don’t know your letters?’

  Philly turned her steady gaze upon the questioner. ‘From my granny. We’d no doctor for many a mile, so we found our own ways of keeping well. I use plants and oils, things I buy from the herbalist and some I grow myself. The main thing is not to get ill in the first place, which is why I keep telling you about the flies. They carry scarlet fever, diphtheria, consumption and even the typhoid fever.’

  The small crowd muttered and mumbled for a while, then Edie Dobson was pushed forward as spokesperson. ‘She was all we had, was Mother Blue. Some can’t afford to be paying doctor bills all the while. Who’ll see to our birthings and our dead? Will you?’

  Philly nodded her dark head. ‘I will. Indeed, I will.’

  ‘And if you’re at your work?’

  ‘I’m finished at the mill. My living will be earned now by making and selling cures. You saw how I nursed Mrs Critchley, so tell your friends that Mother Blue is finished.’

  Edie grinned. ‘And Mother Maguire is just starting?’

  Philly’s brow creased into a frown. ‘No. I don’t like that. Let me see . . .’ She paced about the flags in front of her door. ‘I know I’m a bit young for it, but I shall be called Ma Maguire. Yes, that has a good ring to it. Tell them all to come and buy Ma Maguire’s tonics and cures . . .’

  So Ma Maguire it was.

  Edie Dobson stood in the middle of the floor brandishing a large wooden spoon in the air. ‘It won’t come right, Philly! Matter what I do, it’s all curdled.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sakes, beat it, woman! Stand it in cold water and hit it round the bowl. Let me look.’ She peered into the earthenware dish. ‘Ah well. If all else fails, we look to have dumplings for supper. Put a bit more of the powder in, that’ll perhaps bind the oils. And don’t be worrying, it’s only for chapped hands – I’m not asking you to cure the plague of London single-handed. Now, where did I put me nipbone?’

  By the end of the evening, the two flushed women had a dresser covered in bottles and jars, each one labelled ‘Ma Maguire’s Cure’ with specific instructions for use printed beneath. Philly stared at these markings. She knew jars and bottles by their shape, contents by colour and texture. It had been Edie’s idea to put the labels on, every one hand printed by children who gladly took a penny for doing a couple of dozen.

  They sat by the fire, each clutching a welcome mug of tea. ‘It amazes me how they all read,’ commented Philly. ‘So young and so clever, they are.’

  ‘Well, I can read a bit. Arthur’s the one, though. He reads the paper out for me, tells me all the news. Mind, he’s usually that weary after twelve hours down the pit . . . eeh, I wish he’d find summat else, Philly. It’s dangerous work, is that. Years I’ve tried to have this baby and I don’t want to finish up a widow. I want me child to have a f
ather . . . nay, I’m sorry, lass. Thine won’t have a dad, will it?’

  ‘No. He won’t have a father, that’s for certain. Seamus Maguire will keep out of my way, sure enough. If I’d had one more day of his nonsense, I’d have gone for the police. Here we are, sitting on chairs either stolen or bought with bad money. But this little feller won’t need a daddy.’ She patted her belly.

  ‘Still sure it’s a lad?’

  ‘Indeed. Just as I know yours is a daughter.’

  ‘Margaret. Molly for short.’

  ‘Patrick. No doubt Paddy, also for short.’ She sighed and wriggled in the chair, trying to find a position that granted some comfort. ‘We’re near time now, Edie. And I don’t know how I’d have managed without you these last weeks. All the years I lived here never knowing that my best friend was the other side of the wall.’

  Edie chuckled loudly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We all thought you were right peculiar – you know – a bit daft in the head. Some said you were a witch making spells, especially the kids. It was ’cos you never said nowt, just sailed by with your head in the air.’

  ‘Ah well now, isn’t that interesting? Me granny could lay a fair curse at your door – didn’t she cause all Mick Mulligan’s cows to dry up and his hens to go egg-bound? Nobody ever tangled with Granny because of her powers. And I’m the spitten image of her, so I could be a witch after all. Then there’s me Uncle Porrick and the big dish. He left it out every night so’s the little people could have a bit of a swim on his kitchen table. He got up one morning and found all these tiny wet footprints and a brooch which he gave to me. “Philly,” he said. “If ever you’re in trouble, turn to the brooch and the little people will come.”’ She smiled at Edie, her head waving mockingly from side to side. ‘So there I was with me nose in the air and many of you waiting for me to stumble, is that right?’

  ‘Aye. Till you saved Bessie across the way and gave Mother Blue that rollocking. Her’s out of business now, by all accounts. Begs for a living down town.’