With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  Philly and Edie stopped to borrow some heat from a small boy’s winter warmer, a punctured cocoa tin containing smouldering cotton waste and bits of twig. ‘I hope Patrick’s all right,’ mumbled the taller woman.

  ‘Give over,’ snapped her companion. ‘Arthur’s good with him, you know that . . .’

  ‘But I’ve never left him before . . .’

  ‘Aye.’ Edie pulled her shawl around her chilled head. ‘Happen it’s time you did leave him. They’ll be getting somebody else to do the nursing jobs unless you shape. And what’ll you live on then, eh? Fresh air? You can’t fool me, lass. I know that husband of yours never sends you a brass farthing to chew on. So I reckon we’ll need to be shifting ourselves come New Year, get the stocks made up again. I can mind the kiddies while you go round the houses.’

  Philly stopped and placed her basket on thinly-frosted ground. ‘I never knew I’d care so much, Edie. When I look at him, me heart fills up, so it does. You think . . . you think I care too much, don’t you?’

  The small, top-heavy figure of Edith Dobson rested itself against a shop window. ‘We’ve both only the one chick, Philly. But that doesn’t mean we must ruin the pair of them past recognizing. Every time he yells, you run like the wind. That lad plays you like an old piano – and you know it.’

  ‘But he’s only four months old—’

  Edie nodded briskly. ‘Aye. So’s mine.’

  ‘But Molly never ailed!’

  ‘He’s over the worst! Will you be shifting for him till he’s twenty-one? Pull out of it, Philly. Apart from owt else, you’ve a living to earn. Anyroad, let’s not spoil Christmas. We’ll talk about this in a week or two.’

  They made their way homeward past traders who had come out into the streets now, a greengrocer with cut-price apples and cabbages, a butcher giving away ‘two chickens price of one’. Edie stopped to negotiate with the fishman whose dishes of cockles and mussels were going for a quarter of the normal price.

  Philly walked to the corner while her friend haggled over herrings and finny haddy. As she sheltered from the bitter wind in a doorway, a smart carriage drove up slowly and stopped at the junction. A broad and well-dressed man climbed down carefully and stepped over icy cobbles until he reached the pavement. ‘Mrs Maguire?’ he asked, his voice full of strength and confidence.

  ‘Yes. Who’s that?’

  ‘Swainbank.’

  She looked straight into his eyes, for the two of them were much of a height, he carrying the advantage of a mere couple of inches. Even in the lamplight, his handsome face was clear enough, straight black brows, a strong nose, eyes as dark as treacle, moustache and beard trimmed to perfection. Yes, he was a good-looking feller. When he wasn’t in a purple rage, at least.

  ‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Even if she’d tried, she would never have kept the edge from her voice.

  ‘I understand that you don’t deal with servants?’ His tone too was trimmed with ice.

  ‘I like to attend my customers personally.’

  ‘I see.’ He leaned on a silver-topped cane and swept his eyes over her body. ‘Quite a celebrity, then? I saw the piece in the Evening News—’

  ‘Have you been following us?’

  Unaccustomed to such a direct approach, he stepped back a fraction before replying gruffly, ‘I need more powders.’

  ‘I have none.’

  ‘But at home – surely you have some there?’

  ‘No.’

  Swainbank stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Will you be making more?’

  She shrugged her shoulders lightly. ‘That I can’t say, Mr Swainbank. You see, I’ve more urgent things to see to, children with severe disorders because of poor diet, children whose mothers can’t afford to feed them well. Wages, you understand. Never enough to go round. Then there’s the odd mill accident, I have to attend to that sort of thing. There’s a lot of death and illness around. Hardly surprising with the long hours of work, is it?’

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off quickly. ‘And they start work so young, don’t they? No. I’ve more important things than leg sores to deal with—’

  ‘Then give me the receipt—’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The formula. I’ll have it made up.’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘Can’t do that. Family secret, you see. Handed down over generations . . .’

  He put his head on one side. ‘And you don’t have it written down because you can’t write?’ There was heavy sarcasm in his tone.

  Philly grinned broadly. ‘No, I can’t write. Can you make medicines?’ Her heart was crashing about in her chest like an unbroken pony, heaving and pounding wildly against her rib cage. She hated this man, hated everything he stood for. The coolness of her voice belied her real feelings, for she would never allow him the satisfaction of knowing how much he truly disturbed her. ‘My friend is coming, Mr Swainbank. I’ll bid you good night.’

  ‘Mrs Maguire . . . please . . .’

  She stared at him with as much contempt as she could manage to convey through the thickening darkness.

  ‘Don’t make me beg. I need the powders . . .’

  Philly sighed deeply, watching the frosted cloud of exhaled breath as it hung in the chilled air. He was standing badly, obviously depending on the one leg. ‘See me at my house the day after Christmas. And don’t be leaving your fancy carriage at my door, for the neighbours have no time for your kind.’

  She walked away and joined Edie who was struggling with yet another set of parcels. ‘A bit of nice haddy there for breakfast. Who was that?’

  ‘Swainbank. Don’t stare at him, for goodness sake!’

  ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘Powders. Keep walking.’ They marched away at speed, Edie almost having to run to keep up with her slimmer and longer-legged friend. When they reached St George’s Road, Edie dragged at Philly’s sleeve and implored her to slow down. ‘What the heck’s got into you at all? Like a cat with its tail roasting, you are. I know we’re going to no bloody funerals, but all the same there’s no fires either. Have you never heard of pacing yourself? Me bloody arm’s ready for dropping off here . . .’

  ‘Well, don’t you be letting Arthur hear you swearing. And him with the pledge signed too—’

  ‘Oh, give over with your mithering! Stand still while I look at you.’

  Philly came to a halt and faced her friend. ‘Right. Not that you’ll see much in this light . . .’

  Edie pushed the larger woman along a few paces until they stood beneath a lamp. ‘Aye. He’s got you going, hasn’t he?’

  ‘What do you mean “got me going”? If you mean I’m angry, then you’re right. He expects me to drop everything – Christmas shopping included – to see to his almighty leg. The gall of the man, the cheek of him, the impudence . . . Why are you nodding your head like that, Edith Dobson? You look like the doll I bought Molly for Christmas.’

  ‘He’s got his eye on you, hasn’t he?’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Him! Mr flaming posh-neck Swainbank! I can tell with your physog there’s summat going on—’

  ‘Edie! There is nothing going on. He wants powder for his leg sore, no more and no less than that. Except that his very existence annoys me past bearing, which is why I’m a bit . . . over-excited.’

  Edie bent down to rearrange the parcels in her baskets. ‘If you say so,’ she muttered between chattering teeth. ‘By, it’s gone cold. Happen you were right to move fast.’ She picked up her burdens. ‘Well? What are you standing there for like cheese at tuppence? You’re likely not the first . . .’

  Philly dragged herself after her neighbour who seemed to have found new strength after the brief pause. ‘The first what, Edie?’

  ‘The first one he’s had an eye on.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, he can take his eyes and leave them elsewhere. And what makes you think he’s interested in me?’

  Edie raised her face to heaven as if seekin
g patience and guidance. ‘For a kick-off, I’m not as daft as I look – I know he followed us all through town. For another, it’d take more than a flaming sore leg to get you so riled. And for extra time, he’s still following us.’

  ‘He’s not!’

  ‘He is. Go on – look. I dare you!’

  ‘I’m not looking!’ She quickened her stride. ‘I don’t want to look.’

  ‘Why? Frightened of encouraging him?’

  They reached Edie’s door and placed their parcels on the paving stones. Philly gave her friend a stern look. ‘Edie. I am a married woman—’

  ‘Aye. And he’s a married man.’

  ‘I’m a good Catholic . . . Edie! It’s not like that! I hated him the day I gave my job up, I still hate him to this day . . .’

  ‘And you a good Catholic? Doesn’t it say summat about loving thy blinking neighbour?’

  ‘He is not my neighbour! He’s a mill owner and I don’t even like him!’

  Edie lifted the door latch. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, her green eyes twinkling with mischief. She leaned over so that her face was nearer to Philly’s shoulder and in conspiratorial tone she added, ‘He’s got piles of money, lass.’

  ‘Edith!’ But it was too late. The door was open, the kettle was on and Arthur was sitting with the two babies. Philly turned to pick up the shopping and there he was on the corner, hat in hand, stick tucked under his arm. He made a deep bow. ‘A happy Christmas, Ma Maguire,’ he called before disappearing alongside Skenning Freddie’s shop.

  Philly paused, a hand to her throat. Edie was right. There was a lot more to this than flaming leg sores.

  Richard Swainbank could never work out why Beatrice made such a damned great fuss at Christmas. The rest of the year she was as miserable as sin, a face on her like an old clock in urgent need of an overhaul. Her enforced gaiety during the festive season was a great source of bemusement to all concerned. Even the servants had the odd laugh behind their hands – he’d caught them at it. What the hell he’d ever seen in her . . . Too late for all that now, he supposed. And he had to admit, however begrudgingly, that he’d had a fair run for his money, avoiding marriage altogether till he was thirty-five. But he’d expected things to be a bit different from this, a sight more cheerful. After all, she was fifteen years his junior, ought to be full of life and raring to go. But at twenty-nine, Beatrice was about as attractive as a worn-out carthorse. Maternity had done nothing to improve her appearance or her disposition. Not that he minded disposition in a woman – oh no, he liked a bit of temper. But he could do without the cold silences and the disapproving looks, that was for sure.

  He winced as his leg started to play up again, then smiled to himself at the thought of seeing that cheeky young madam tomorrow. Now, there was a woman he wouldn’t mind waking up with, somebody who’d keep the home fires burning on a winter’s night. Aye, there was little enough to come back to here, wasn’t there? Well, Beatrice could stick to her headaches and her vapours, because he’d done his duty by the line, two sons reared safely and no need for any more. Thank God. He pulled a solid gold watch from his waistcoat and studied the time. At least the infernal church business was over with, all that shuffling about in the family pew while Nanny tried to control boys of six and four, each with a marked distaste for confinement and a definite desire to remain with his Christmas toys.

  Lunchtime. And that was another good laugh, because the lads would never sit through half a dozen courses even when there was company present. Inevitably, there would be just himself and Beatrice enjoying the seasonal fare, one at each end of the long table, nothing to say to one another beyond the odd comment about how well the table looked and what a nice meal. Servants would flit about trying to look busy, then they’d make off with the food and have a good party in the kitchen. Of course, tomorrow promised to be even more hilarious, because on the evening after Christmas, the staff sat down in the dining room while Beatrice served them and handed out useless gifts. Well, he’d be long enough gone by the time that particular fiasco started. He’d make some excuse and clear off before the fun got under way.

  He walked towards the dining room, his heart made heavy by the prospect of the next hour or two. Eat, drink, play with the children. After which happy sequence he would be allowed to read while Beatrice did petit point or tapestry in an overheated drawing room where they must remain together for the whole day. This was the law at Christmas and he dared not break it. Yes, he did! By God, he did!

  In spite of his heavy leg, he spent the afternoon in the grounds, declaring to his shocked wife that he needed to walk off the meal. He watched her flitting about in the drawing room window, her mouth narrowed into that familiar thin line. After nine years of marriage, he had broken some holy tradition and by his calculations, this would merit a month or two of vapours and headaches. Ah well, to hell with her, he’d sooner bed down with the dogs and horses in the stables.

  He sat on a low wall at the end of the terrace and surveyed his domain. Not quite as grand as Smithills Hall, but it was a fair enough statement of his wealth and success. The front of the house was of grey stone, very wide and imposing, six broad steps up to double front doors, six tallish windows to each side, pleasing in its symmetry. Ten bedrooms, two modern bathrooms, enough space to get lost in when avoiding a vinegary wife. Chase Farm at the back was also Swainbank property, tenanted and supervised by a dependable family. He should be happy with his lot in life, should rejoice in all this comfort and splendour. He leaned heavily on his cane as he struggled to rise. Happy? How could any man be happy while so damned lonely? This was Christmas, a time for merriment and togetherness, for fun and laughter. He inhaled deeply and turned to look at his vast garden, feeling even more isolated among its frost-crisped expanse of lawn and shrub. No man should be alone at Christmas. No man should reach the age of forty-four and still feel so desolate. Aye well. He had better go in and do his duty by the children. If only they would hurry and grow up! He’d little time for infant games, took no interest in the tedious milestones of childhood, teething, crawling, walking, speaking.

  Beatrice looked up as he entered the stifling room. Her narrow face was grim. Even on this special day, the one time in the year when she tried to make some sort of effort, her bitterness shone through the thin veneer of bonhommie. To think that he would go outside alone on Christmas day! Whatever would the servants make of that?

  He looked long and hard at her. To be as fair as he could manage, he had to admit feeling slightly sorry for Beatrice. He wasn’t the best husband, wasn’t often home when needed. She’d come from a country estate in Cheshire, born of a good but impoverished family with some remote connection to nobility. And he’d taken her on because the rest of the females had been good breeders. Aye. He dropped into an armchair. He’d bought carefully, chosen her just as he’d have picked a good brood mare. She’d not been bitter then, had she? His head drooped slightly as he tried to remember. But no, there remained no image, no concept of the girl he had led up the aisle such a comparatively short time ago.

  ‘I’m a bit rough and ready for you, Beatrice, aren’t I?’

  She dropped her needlework, a look of astonishment invading her pallid features. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I was just thinking while I walked – we’re not really suited, you and I.’

  She swallowed delicately, a hand to her thin throat. He’d never talked like this before, never a word about suitability. Or love. ‘What are you trying to say, Richard?’ Nervous fingers plucked at the threads in her lap.

  ‘We should never have married. I don’t like seeing anybody so downcast, let alone my own wife. It’s with me being trade and you being gentry, I suppose. They’d no money, your lot, but they had class, you see. As for me – well, I dare say we’ll never make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear . . .’

  ‘Richard!’ She jumped to her feet, embroidery frame and cottons tumbling on to the carpet. ‘This is Christmas—’

  ‘I know. I just want the a
ir cleared and I reckon Christmas is as good a time as any. We’re coming to the end of a year, starting another . . . I think it’s time we swept a few cobwebs out. I’m grateful for the two lads, glad you gave this house a future. But we don’t love one another, do we? Be honest, Beatrice.’

  ‘Honest? What would you know about honesty? How many . . . ?’ She bit back the rest of this sentence before she went too far.

  ‘How many women?’ His voice was almost a whisper. ‘One or two, that’s about the size of it. But I never expected much passion from a wife, so it’s not your fault. However, I thought I should let you know that there’ll be no further need for you to make excuses, because I’ll not be visiting your bedroom again.’

  Her eyes narrowed into thin grey slits. ‘I see. So this is my Christmas gift?’

  ‘No. I gave you a pearl necklace, did I not?’

  ‘Indeed. One you had sent up from London. You didn’t take care to choose it, did you?’

  ‘I haven’t the time! The mills don’t run themselves, my dear. Managers are all very well, but they need watching. If I weren’t on their backs all the time they’d slacken off and let the workforce have a party every day. It’s a delicate business, is cotton, with a fine line between profit and loss. I can’t afford to take my finger off the pulse, or they’d all be spending their days leaning on walls. Can’t trust any of them – they want paying for nothing, that’s the top and bottom of it. There’s no room for charity in my game . . .’

  ‘And charity begins at home, doesn’t it, Richard? Or does it begin with your mistresses?’ She made for the door, her back rigidly straight. Part way across the carpet, she turned to look at him. ‘I shall not make your life easy, Richard Swainbank, because you have ruined mine. Yes, I know I’m just a woman, a creature of no importance. You can cast me from your bed, but not from your house. No, you’d never live with the disgrace, would you? But let me inform you here and now that I am not terribly interested in you or in your sons. Yes, they are my boys too and if they had a different father, another surname, then I should probably love them. But whatever you do from now on will be no concern of mine.’ She spoke quietly, evenly, not a trace of malice colouring her voice. In fact, she might just as well have been reading from a shopping list – or the Bible, come to that.