With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Beatrice?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you no spirit, no temper?’

  She moved her eyes slowly down to his feet, an expression of disdain covering her face. ‘I think I had spirit once. You killed it. Why should I waste time and energy on temper when I really don’t care what you do or say? At least I tried, Richard. Perhaps my efforts have not been good enough, perhaps my unhappiness has shown through too easily. But for you to do this thing at Christmas, a time that has always meant much to me.’ She shook her head. ‘In future, I shall spend the season with my parents. They are civilized.’

  He jumped to his feet and brought a heavy hand on to the mantel shelf. ‘Can’t you fight me, for God’s sake? Have you no pride, no anger at all?’ He stared at the woman he’d married, still thin in the face where she’d wanted flesh, yet wide around the hips where she could well have done without it. And a vivid picture of Philly Maguire flashed across his brain, obliterating all else in the room. Tall and grand of posture, black hair coiled about her head . . . if ever a woman had been born to the wrong class, then that was the one, because any man would be glad of such a fine item to adorn his home and walk by his side.

  ‘That smile makes you look ridiculous,’ murmured his well-bred wife. ‘Do as you wish, I shall not fight you. There is nothing to fight about.’ She left the room, closing the door firmly in her wake.

  Richard paced the floor, the ulcer on his shin stinging even more now that his temper was up. Aye, she’d never slam a door, would she? Whereas Philly Maguire would have had foundations shaking by this time. But he knew Beatrice well enough by now, recognized that she’d make him suffer one way or another. Devious, she was. Like a bad nut covered in sugar, the thin coating cracking here and there to let a bitter kernel show through. Whether or no he’d been the cause of her nastiness – well, he neither knew nor cared. But one thing was sure. He would reap the dubious benefits of today’s brief episode of honesty. No matter how well a man kept his wife down, there was one area where she reigned supreme come what may. From this day, his life at home promised to improve not one jot.

  She told herself that she was cleaning up for pride’s sake. After all, he likely lived in a mansion full of statues and rugs from heathen parts, forty rooms of stately living and good taste. She took jars of goose-grease and bottles of olive and camphorated oils from the oven where they always sat warming except when baking was in progress, then flicked a final duster over her gleaming black-leading. No, she wouldn’t take him into the parlour, because the small cast iron grate in there had never seen coal and she wasn’t going to spoil those blue and white side-tiles just for him. All the same, he’d have been surprised, no doubt, to be shown all that grandeur in a mill-girl’s house. In front of the parlour fireplace sat a beautiful tapestry screen with a stag woven into its centre. Then there was the piano with its twin candelabra all polished and bright, her aspidistra plants – firstly, the splendid monster in the centre of the table, then its two younger brothers in copper tubs on the hearth. Yes, it was a pity he’d never see her green velvet door curtain with matching mantel cover and tablecloth, all with hand-applied gold fringes. And the good mahogany chairs tucked up to the table, the shiny horsehair sofa along the wall.

  She checked herself, tut-tutting aloud while she straightened the handmade rug in front of a roaring fire. Why on earth should she want to impress him at all? Was it that she needed to impress him, or did she simply seek to avoid his contempt – or his pity? She whipped off the starched linen cloth and smiled down at her kitchen table. Most women had a white scrubbed item to work on, but she was blessed with two good tables – or cursed when she considered where Seamus might have acquired them. This unusual piece was octagonal and inlaid with many woods, the pattern radiating from a rich red central block that formed the top of the pedestal. To work on it at all, she had to cover it with many layers of blanket and sheeting, so precious was its magnificent surface.

  Everything was in its place. On the large dresser stood the Sacred Heart and the Virgin, each on a wooden plinth and encased under a polished glass dust-dome. Her few concessions to frivolity, including a boy with cherries and a porcelain crinolined lady, also sat on the burnished dresser, their reflected backs showing in the attached mirror. Before the fire stood two easy chairs, one upholstered in carpet, the other in leather. The flagged floor was covered by oilcloth, well-scrubbed and with the flag joints showing through like a pattern of large squares. A single rug, carefully pegged on winter evenings out of clipped-up clothes, was as clean as it could be, having had the life beaten out of it on the back yard line. Two brass candlesticks and a crucifix stood on the mantelpiece, always on display in a Catholic home in case Extreme Unction or a Mass for the sick should ever be required on the premises. Over these hung a brass-framed mirror, while various holy pictures decorated the rest of the walls. It was a good home, a clean home, one to be proud of. Well, at least he wouldn’t be able to say he’d visited a slum dwelling the day after Christmas. She might have few rooms, but they were as clean as primitive conditions would allow and a sight cleaner than she was used to at home.

  She sat by the fire, outwardly composed, forcing herself to think of her family, pushing Christmas wishes across the miles to a little rush-thatched cottage full of brothers and sisters. If only she could read; if only they could write. Yet she was not unhappy, for County Mayo was a closed chapter now. Her life was here and she accepted it gladly for what it was, comfortable, manageable, predictable. And the respect she got from the neighbours, that was indeed a blessing. After the holiday was over, she must set to and make new batches, go out on the rounds again, because she had used some of Seamus’ money to pay doctor and nurse.

  He didn’t even knock. One minute she was alone, then the next brought a draught to her ankles and a chill to her shoulders. She stood and turned to face the door. ‘Come in. I’ve himself in the cot by the stairs and he must not get cold.’

  He closed the door and stared at her, noticing that she never lowered her eyes, never attempted to acknowledge his superiority. ‘That’s a fine fire, Mrs Maguire . . .’

  ‘Sit yourself in the leather chair and roll up the trouser leg.’ Her tone was terse and uninviting.

  He faltered, his hand still on the door. ‘Do you have to look at it?’ No, he didn’t want her as nurse, couldn’t quite stand the thought of her seeing his vulnerability. And the leg, while greatly improved, was not one of his better features. ‘Can’t you just give me the powder? It seemed to be doing the trick . . .’

  She folded her arms and shook her head slowly. ‘It’s entirely up to you, Mr Swainbank. Your bad leg is your concern, but if you want it mended . . .’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ He removed his heavy greatcoat and placed it with his hat on the table. Not a word was spoken as he sat in the chair, took off his boot and sock, rolled up the trouser leg and placed his foot on a nearby stool.

  She squatted on the rug, her face reflecting the glow from radiant coals. ‘That, Mr Swainbank,’ she finally declared, ‘is what my next door neighbour would call a bloody mess and no mistake. Have you banged it ever?’

  ‘Many a time while riding.’

  ‘Then don’t ride. These weeping sores are deep and impossible to shift altogether. It’s enough to have one without making it worse by riding and gallivanting like a young lad. What is your age?’ She looked up at him. ‘How old are you?’ she repeated, as if to a child.

  ‘Forty-four.’

  ‘And you without the sense you were born with, I shouldn’t wonder. Men! All the same, infants from cradle to grave every last one. Have you seen the blood vessels on this leg? Look for yourself, man. Like the cast-offs from a rope factory, all twisted and tangled past saving. You must walk less. Give yourself an hour every afternoon. Say to yourself, “This is my leg hour.” Don’t ride, don’t drink, don’t smoke and above all, don’t bang this sore. And I’d suggest four or five small meals each day, no banquets. With luck, you could
be healed over within six months.’

  ‘And no operations?’

  ‘Does your physician want to operate?’

  ‘He’d like to use me as guinea-pig. Especially as I can pay well.’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  He stared hard and long at the lovely head of hair that was almost within reach now as she bent to study his leg more closely. ‘If I can’t ride, eat or smoke . . .’

  ‘Or drink,’ she interspersed quietly.

  ‘Or drink? Then what the hell do I live for?’

  She lifted her head and looked straight into his face. ‘To make money, Mr Swainbank. To make money while your workers starve. Isn’t that your hobby?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Now, I’ll dress this and give you plenty of spare powder. Don’t get it wet at all . . .’

  He watched her walking across the small room, a room where she definitely did not belong. A gem like this deserved a better setting among further finery that might embellish it and bring out the true lustre. ‘I have the power to change your life completely, Mrs Maguire.’ His voice was no more than a whisper, almost a caress. ‘I can take you from this place and give you a beautiful home, a fitting place in which to bring up your son. Fields and flowers, fresh air and sunshine . . .’

  ‘I’ve had all those.’ She took bandage and powders from a drawer, heart in her mouth as she stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror. It wasn’t just him! It was herself as well, for didn’t she want to . . . ? Ah, she didn’t know what she wanted to do with this hateful man. Best to get the nursing seen to and have him on his way.

  Bracing herself, she knelt to dress his leg.

  ‘You have a gentle touch. It feels better already.’

  ‘Good. It’s glad I am of that.’

  ‘They call you Philly, is that right?’

  With her head bent to her task she replied, ‘I was baptized Philomena.’

  ‘I see. Then what do I call you?’

  ‘Mrs Maguire. Or Ma Maguire would be acceptable.’

  While he replaced his sock and boot, she washed her hands at the scullery sink. ‘Please make him go now,’ she prayed inwardly. ‘Dear God, let me not submit to this thing I don’t understand. Give me the strength to fight what I am feeling, remove the temptation you have sent to me . . .’

  Then she felt large fingers encircling her waist and moving up to cover her shaking body. ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘No!’ But expert hands turned her and she found his hard lips silencing the loud denial. For a second or two, she was overcome to the point where she almost began to respond in spite of shock and fear, then she pushed him fiercely away. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she snarled. ‘Whatever do you think I am . . . ?’ She was cold, so unbearably cold, angry too because her disobedient body was screaming to be warmed. By him?

  ‘Beautiful. And lonely too . . .’

  ‘But I’m not an animal!’

  He smoothed his dishevelled hair. ‘What’s wrong with animal instinct?’

  ‘Nothing. If you’re a dog or a horse. The thing that separates us from the beasts, Mr Swainbank, is that we live for the future, not for the present.’

  ‘Ah.’ He took a step closer. ‘A philosopher too, I see. Not content to be nurse and midwife?’

  She reached into the slopstone and picked out a large knife, the one she used to trim fat from meat for beef tea. ‘If it’s a toss-up between my virtue and your life, then there’s no contest, Sir.’ This last word was spat venomously. ‘You will go now from my house and you will never return.’

  ‘You talk of the future, Philly. I can give you one, all the money you need, clothes, an education for the boy . . .’

  ‘No!’ She brandished the knife before his face. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’ It was better to lie, that would be the smaller sin. Because she was lying. There was something here in this room, created by the two of them, uninvited, unwelcome, but compelling all the same.

  ‘Really?’ His lip curled. ‘That wasn’t the message I received a moment ago. Yes, like all women, you speak one thing while your body says another.’ He gazed around the scullery, apparently unimpressed by the six inches of steel she was waving so carelessly. ‘I can have you thrown out of here tomorrow. Your landlord’s a friend of mine . . .’

  ‘Oh yes? Well, see what do the neighbours say about that, Mr Swainbank. And not just in this street, but in many streets around. I’m useful here. I clean up the mess you make of their lives, treat cuts and bruises that should really be dealt with at the mill. All the illnesses you breed in those filthy holes are brought home and I cure them. Ask Doctor Flynn, why don’t you? And see did I ever miss my rent, see does the landlord want me out. I tell you now that he does not, for I have brought cleanliness to these slums. You don’t frighten me. A godless person never did frighten me.’

  He looked her up and down. ‘And I could relieve you of that knife in two seconds.’

  ‘Do it, then.’

  Their eyes locked in silent combat for several moments, then he turned on his heel and left the room. Swiftly, she followed him with the knife held out at waist-height, placing herself between him and the cradle that contained her sleeping son.

  He snatched up his outer garments and made for the door.

  ‘Mr Swainbank?’

  ‘Yes?’ He looked at her, his hand resting on the gleaming brass door latch.

  ‘That will be two guineas, please. A guinea for the powder and another for my time.’

  His lip curled into a snarl. ‘Huh! And what would you charge a mill-hand?’

  ‘Sixpence at best. But you need my medicine, don’t you? In future, you need not come here. Just send your boy now that I have seen the sore for myself. And take care, because my curse still stands.’

  He threw some coins on to the table. ‘What curse?’

  ‘The one I laid at your door. Did you not know I have a reputation as a witch?’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘Is it? Aye well, think about it when you lie in your bed with the blood flowing so slowly through your veins that you fear the heart stopping. But then, there may be nothing in it with me such a good Catholic woman. Close the door as you leave, please.’

  ‘Philly! Philly Maguire . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You will live to regret this day.’

  She stepped forward to pick up the money, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘I think you’ll find, Mr Swainbank, that the boot is on another foot altogether.’

  Swearing beneath his breath, he opened the door.

  ‘And while we’re on about feet, I must warn you to watch out for the gangrene,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ll recognize it sure enough, for the toes go black before they drop off. And I’ve no cure at all for that . . .’

  He slammed the door behind him.

  Philly placed the knife on the table and steadied herself with one hand on the back of a chair. Ice-cold fingers groped in her pocket until they found a rosary, then she fell to her knees beside Patrick’s cradle. The sins of the flesh had not needed consideration before, for she had never felt so drawn to a man. Yet so repulsed at the same time! How could dislike and desire be partners in a person’s soul? How on God’s good earth could she care for one who made slaves of decent working people, who turned a blind eye to want and deprivation, a fiend without compassion or warmth in his soul? She didn’t understand any of it. For the first time ever, Philly had been a brief victim of passion. It had not been a comfortable experience and she would avoid it carefully in the future.

  After feeding her child, she sat gazing into embers until the room became truly chilled. Would she ever feel warm again? There was no doubt in her mind now – Richard Swainbank was a force to be reckoned with. And so, because of her weaknesses, was Philomena Theresa Maguire.

  Chapter 2

  1905

  It began with a headache, no more than that. As usual, Philly was on her rounds, pushing Seamus’ handcart around the streets of School Hill, selling her wares with the rest of the str
eet tradesmen. She was a familiar sight now and people listened for the high-pitched tinkle of her handbell, came out in droves to buy a penn’orth of tonic and a ha’p’orth of liniment. Occasionally, she would be stopped and brought into a house of sickness, while many a time a child would arrive breathless from running, ‘Ma, me mam says she’s started’, then handcart and bottles would be abandoned for a household to mind until Philly’s various crises ended.

  She always patrolled the same area, though good sense told her that her medicines could sell anywhere. But the folk of School Hill depended on her now that Mother Blue’s questionable assistance was no longer available, so she stuck rigidly to her own patch. In time, she got to know all the other traders. There was Billy Black who mended dolly-tubs, Old Sharpie – he honed knives and scissors on a dusty wheel, Hughie Burns who sold brushes, Tommy from the tripe shop with his basket of offal, black puddings and sausages, the ragman who traded small blocks of salt for old clothes.

  It was March, still chilly enough, though the air held a muted promise of spring even here in the shadow of the mills. By three o’clock, Philly knew she had had enough. In spite of her extra shawl, she was shivering uncontrollably and her eyes seemed to be misting over with tiredness. She blinked several times to clear her vision, then pushed the cart, which suddenly weighed a ton, in the direction of home. When she reached Edie’s house, she hammered loudly at the front door. Edie put her head through the opened lower half of the bedroom window. ‘What’s up with thee? Can’t you open the door like everybody else?’

  ‘I’m sick.’

  ‘Aye, so am I! Your Patrick’s been doing a fair imitation of the opening of Parliament here, all noise and no bloody sense.’ She paused. ‘What’s matter?’