With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  Philly reached out a thin hand. ‘Stay.’

  ‘Good God! You sound like a back gate wanting oil. Shall I fetch the can and give you a squirt? And what do you need me for? I’m just a mucky owld woman full of gin and idle talk. You told me plain enough down the Bull . . .’

  ‘Stay.’

  ‘All right then. Just for a day or two . . .’

  Swainbank was bringing the parcels, Philly knew that. Somehow, he had found out about her illness . . . How could a person be so kind and yet so cruel? Kind to her just now, probably to his family all the time. Yet so cold when it came to those who toiled day in and day out to make his living for him.

  She watched the tired old lady as she fetched bowl and towel for the nightly bed-bath. If Philly had her way, Mother’s day or two would be stretched to what was left of the old girl’s life, which couldn’t be much. And it wasn’t just selflessness that prompted Philly to offer Mother Blue a home. With another adult in the house, she would be safe from Swainbank, safe from herself too. Not that she felt up to much at present, but no doubt the flesh would heal and temptation would return.

  ‘You saved me . . .’

  ‘Shurrup with your bother! I’m getting bloody paid for it! You don’t think I’d have stopped here with you and the heavy breathing for nowt?’

  ‘You can live here.’

  Mother Blue dropped the flannel, a look of amazement covering her shrivelled face. ‘Nay, lass. There’s no need for that . . .’

  ‘Please?’

  Old eyes were suddenly filled with tears. ‘I don’t know what to say, queen. That doesn’t often happen to me, not knowing what to say, though I’m more at home with the fellers down the vault than I am with women. It’s just that you’re grateful – and I understand how you feel. But I’ll be all right. There’s folk out there that’ll see to me, stop me starving. And I couldn’t live here, love. You’d be out of your mind with me coming in drunk and dirty. Tell you what – we’ll talk about it when you’re a bit brighter. Happen you’re not thinking straight . . .’

  But Mother Blue stayed. As Philly made her slow progress towards recovery, the old girl started to go out more, often coming back the worse for drink, though never once did Philly scold her. When sober, Mother was an asset, quickly learning how to make medicines and ointments, even taking the cart out a time or two in order to swell diminishing household funds. When Patrick came back to his own home, the old lady took him over, surprising everyone with the amount of control she achieved over this wayward child. If he screamed for no reason, she simply yelled at him to shut his gob – and shut his gob he did. Within a month, she had him eating out of her hand, because the little lad was fascinated by the strange lady in the funny hat.

  Ma Maguire and Mother Blue, old adversaries and new allies, sat one each side of the fire one cool May evening. Philly hadn’t been out yet, except to the back yard or to peg washing on her twin lines that stretched across the alley between ashpits. Any troubles outside of the immediate domestic environment had been kept from her by Mother and Edie who had decided that this was the best way to help recovery. But questions that had long been evaded would soon require answers – even the priest had been forced to lie in a negative sense by simply not telling the truth. Still, the time had come, thought Mother. Especially as Philly was asking now, ‘Didn’t Doctor Flynn come ever? I’d have thought he’d take a look at the babies, just to make sure. And he never came near me, did he? Not that I blame him . . .’

  The faded blue bonnet nodded slowly. ‘Brace yourself, queen. The poor man died the day you fell ill – went with the same bad throat as you had.’

  Philly’s face paled to an even lighter shade. ‘No! Dear God, why ever was I not told? That wonderful clever man? The same who saved my life – and my son’s too? Oh no, Mother! Say it’s not true, for we need doctors like him!’

  ‘It’s true. This illness takes no notice of whether you’re clever or not. Kills anybody from president to pauper, that’s what they say, so it’s not going to take much notice of a young doctor, is it?’

  ‘But he saved others . . .’

  ‘And neglected himself, just as you did. Aye, it’s a cruel world, Philly Maguire. Twenty-odd children died these last weeks – and that’s just round School Hill. A mate of Arthur’s next door lost his whole family, wife and all. Went raving mad and chucked himself in the Croal. Oh, they saved him, ’cos the water wasn’t deep enough to drown a kitten, but he’s locked up now, gone crackers, see? Nay, we’ve kept you long enough in cotton wool, time now you realized what’s been going on around you. Mrs Critchley over the road lost their Ernest a couple of days ago and he was right as rain but for the last few hours. I went over, but there was not a thing to be done, because his throat was shut as fast as your back gate. Long as I live, I’ll never get used to seeing a child fighting for breath and the fear in his eyes.’

  ‘Oh, Mother . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ The old head wagged sagely. ‘Thought I didn’t care – is that it? Well, there’s a big difference between not caring and not knowing. I never heard of germs till lately, never took no notice, didn’t give a thought to getting scrubbed before a birthing. Now, it’s too late. But I’m not going to blame meself for being ignorant.’

  ‘Nor you should. You’ve been good to me, Mother Blue, and I’ll not have you on the streets again. And don’t start, for I will not take no for an answer. You’ll live out your days here – there’s that little bedroom and enough food and coal for the three of us.’ She stood up and began to pace the area between rug and table. ‘Doctor Flynn!’ Her hands twisted together as if she were wringing out a dishcloth. ‘A good Catholic man with a brilliant mind for medicine. What is this thing, Mother? This and consumption and all the fevers – why are we so plagued? He had some ideas, that man. He says – or rather he used to say – that one day, we’ll all get a little dose of every illness, given deliberately on a spoon or in a pill to make our bodies fight. What’ll we do without his likes? Who’s to come now when we’re ill? Some doddering old fool with no idea of how to treat us?’

  ‘Oh sit down, for God’s sake! Apart from wearing the floor out, you’re getting on me nerves. And there’s more to this, so listen to me, Missus.’ She waited until Philly was seated once more. ‘You’ve had a very near do, within that of death, you were.’ She snapped finger and thumb together. ‘Now, if what you say’s right, if all these things can get carried on clothes and in coughs, what about the next time?’

  ‘You mean . . . me bringing sickness home?’

  ‘That’s right, nail on the head. Say you go in a consumptive’s house to do a bit of nursing. Next news, you could be passing it on to Patrick—’

  ‘But I always get scrubbed—’

  ‘You can’t scrub a cough, you can’t shift what’s been breathed in!’

  Philly leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘So. You’re saying I must give up the nursing. No doubt I shall still make a living selling my cures, but what about them?’ She raised her lids and waved an arm towards the window. ‘They can’t afford doctors all the time. And anyway, we could catch a fever in a shop or at church, anywhere crowded.’

  ‘Best not to tempt fate, though. Now listen to me, girl. I’ve had a word with Skenning Freddie, ’cos we none of us want you wandering about the streets with that cart, not after what you’ve been through . . .’

  ‘And what, pray, can the clogger do to prevent that?’

  Mother smiled knowingly, tapping a finger to the side of her nose. ‘He’s moving out. You know he’s always lived upstairs and his meals cooked by next door? Well, he’s met himself a fine widow woman and he’s getting wed, got a nice little house down Arkwright Street way. So, he’s going to give you half his shop. He’ll use the upstairs for storing his stuff and the scullery for doing his makings. He reckons if he sets up two smaller counters, one facing the other, you could have two shops in one.’

  ‘But what about his on the spot mending? And hi
s bench for them waiting for clogs?’

  Mother shrugged. ‘You’ll just have to squeeze in and put up with the din. He only wants two bob a week. If anybody’s ill, they can send down for what’s needed and you can tell the family what to do. It’ll be safer, lass.’

  Philly nodded slowly. ‘Yes, yes, I see what you mean. I have to work, because I’ve a household to run. But there’s no point in me looking for trouble, is there? A counter in the clogger’s won’t keep me away from illness, but at least I won’t be meeting it head-on day after day. And I’d not have far to come for stock, would I?’

  ‘That’s right. You could nip home any time for a cup of tea and a look at the baby. As for me – well, I’ll stop off the gin in the daytime, make sure the lad’s minded. Unless you think her next door’ll feel a bit pushed out . . . ?’

  ‘Edie’s not like that.’ She thought for several seconds. ‘I’ll still have to take some risks, though. Births and deaths – they’ll need me then. Unless I know for certain sure there’s danger in the house, then I’ll have to go.’

  ‘Fair enough. Shall I tell Skenning Freddie he’s on? Only he’s bought all the wood for the new counters . . .’

  ‘See! You’d it all planned behind me back . . .’

  ‘Aye well. Somebody’s got to put your head on straight, Ma Maguire. And if it takes the clogger and an old drunk to do it, then so be it.’

  Mother Blue leaned forward to poke the fire to life under the kettle.

  ‘What’s your real name?’ asked Philly suddenly. ‘You surely haven’t been Mother Blue from birth?’

  ‘I’m Kate. And since I was found, or so I’m told, out on a doorstep on a lovely clear day, they called me Katherine Sky. That was turned to “Sky Blue” and the rest just followed.’

  ‘Well, go into the scullery, Katherine Sky and see what did Father O’Grady bring for you. It’s a token of my thanks.’

  The old lady bustled out, then, after a great many exclamations of joy and incredulity, she returned without bonnet and with a full head of mid-brown hair. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she cried at the mirror. ‘What am I like? Dear Lord, I’ll get a man at the finish just as I always said! A few pot teeth and I’m on, eh? Would you take a look at that, now! Where the hell did he get it?’

  ‘From a nun.’

  ‘From a nun? You mean I’m wearing a bloody nun’s hair?’

  ‘Yes,’ giggled Philly. ‘They have it cut off when they take the veil, then it’s sold for wigs. So. That belonged to a very good woman. And it still does, for I’ll vouch for you any day.’

  The old woman began to laugh uncontrollably, bending double with the agony of it. ‘I always said . . . when I was little . . . and they strapped me . . . never enough to eat . . . oh, I said I’d get me own back! But I never thought I’d be taking the head off one of them! Forget the tea, lass! I’m off down the Bull for a gill of black. Wait till they cop sight of this, eh? I’ll tell them it grew back overnight with me saying me beads, like a miracle.’ She threw a shawl around her thin shoulders. ‘Thanks, lass,’ she said, quieter now. ‘These last weeks have been the best in me life.’

  Philly stared into the fire for a long time, her mind filled with pain as she thought of all those terrible deaths. Because it was a terrible death, she’d been near enough to know that. Yet why did some in a house die while others remained untouched? He’d been keen on that theory, had Dr Flynn, the idea that living close to illness and getting a slight dose sometimes resulted in natural resistance. Wearily she prayed that other doctors would come along and pursue the same line of thinking. One day, it might be wiped out, all that awful suffering. But Dr Flynn would never know, would never make his contribution.

  Edie came in unannounced with a plate apple pie. She studied her friend’s careworn face. ‘You know, then? About all the others, like?’

  ‘Yes. I was lucky, Edie. I’m keeping her here.’

  ‘I thought you might. She’s not long, has she? I saw her in the wig, like a dog with two tails, she is.’ She paused for a second or two. ‘Any more parcels by the way? It was him. I spotted his carriage the other day.’

  ‘None since Tuesday. I hope nobody sees him, for I don’t want to be giving the wrong impression about me and himself.’

  Edie crossed to the fire and sat opposite this shrunken version of Ma Maguire. The flesh seemed to have melted away from her frame, leaving her spare and gaunt, a much older woman altogether. But the eyes remained the same, incredibly blue, uncomfortably penetrating. ‘Happen he’ll not bother you no more, love. You’re not the same girl,’ she said with her customary bluntness.

  ‘He never bothered me anyway, Edie . . .’

  ‘Oh aye? Tell that to the cat.’

  ‘I haven’t got a cat.’

  ‘I know.’

  Philly looked down at her reduced body, noticing, not for the first time, how her clothes hung loose where once they fitted. ‘Anyway, no matter what he wants, he won’t get it here. He knows how we all feel about his mills and the slave wages he pays. So, if it’s a friendly ear he’s looking for, he must go elsewhere.’

  Edie sighed loudly. ‘It wasn’t a friendly ear, love. It was you. You were beautiful and full of fight. His last one was a mill girl who clocked him across the bum with a yardbrush when he got a bit . . . interested, like. He set her up in a cottage, bought her all she needed . . .’

  ‘And what became of her?’

  ‘Oh, she’s still there. Once he sets you up, he carries on paying even after . . . well . . .’

  ‘After he’s grown tired?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so. Mind, nobody bothers with her now . . .’

  ‘So you wouldn’t recommend it as a way of staying alive?’

  ‘No. And I know you’d never take him on anyroad.’

  ‘Then hush about Swainbank, will you? I believe I’m to start up in business under Freddie Chadwick’s roof? Did you have a hand in that too?’

  ‘Well I—’

  ‘I thought so. Howandever, for once, I shall go along with the majority decision. There’s something to be said for staying in the one place and doling out cures and advice. I can’t be putting Patrick at risk, can I? He’s improved of late, has he not? Less of the screaming.’

  ‘Yes.’ And not before time, thought Edie. Mother Blue had had a lot to do with Patrick’s changed behaviour, because she never gave in to him. While this one here was like soft clay in his hands. Edie opened her mouth to speak, but bit back whatever she had been about to utter when Philly placed a hand to her own lips. With a level of agility that was surprising in one so recently ill, she bounded to the door and threw it open.

  ‘Pick it up,’ she said sternly.

  Edie rose from her seat and crept across the room, peering as best she could over her neighbour’s shoulder.

  ‘Tell your master that I have no further need of his charity. Anything else he leaves here will be sent directly to the poorhouse, which is no doubt filled by weary worn-out souls who used to work in the Swainbank mills.’

  Edie heard a hesitant male cough, then, ‘Right, Missus. I’ll tell him you’re on the mend.’

  ‘You come here just for powders from now on. Understand?’

  ‘Aye, Missus.’

  ‘And he’ll get none of those if there’s any further trouble. You tell him what I said, now. He’ll understand.’

  ‘Right.’

  Philly closed the door and turned to her friend. ‘Don’t you say a word, Edith Dobson.’

  ‘As if I would . . .’

  She enjoyed every minute of her working day at Freddie Chadwick’s. He was a gentle soul, but with a rapier-sharp wit that belied his rather strange appearance. Skenning Freddie had a shock of bright red hair that was receding fast, leaving a bushy fringe all round his head – from a distance, he would not have looked out of place in a monk’s habit. Pale blue eyes seemed to fight each other for space next to a bulbous nose, while his whole countenance was covered by freckles and a huge ginger moustache heavily
waxed at its tapering ends.

  The shop was always filled with odd characters, some on business, others just ‘dropping in a minute to get away from that lot’. The latter category was mostly female, harassed mothers driven to distraction by hordes of children, truanting grannies who, having been left to mind the kids while mother and father worked in the mill, had escaped for a moment’s peace and sanity while young charges slept. It was here in Skenning Freddie’s that Philly learned a vital lesson – that there was more to retail than just selling. Customers did not come simply to buy, for they also sought contact, affection, attention, counselling. Most of all, they looked for distraction, something to take their minds off the daily drudgery of cleaning, washing, mothering and trying to make ends stretch far enough to meet without breaking. The noise and clatter in the clogger’s was obviously preferable to the sound of squabbling infants.

  When she wasn’t busy, Philly spent much of her time watching Freddie work, her eyes round with amazement as she witnessed his dexterity. Each clog was handmade from a wooden sole and leather upper, the whole fastened together by brass-topped nails which shone like gold when new. Philly never saw him make a clog, because actual manufacturing was performed at the back of the house. But to watch him mend was like seeing a work of art taking shape before her eyes. Quick as a flash, he would remove old irons, tossing them into a box beneath his counter. Then into his mouth he would throw a number of wooden pegs, pushing them out one at a time beneath his bushy moustache. Although his face never moved, each peg emerged pointed end first. With these tiny objects he filled old nail holes, then, after choosing a suitable iron from a wall-hook, he would throw small nails into his mouth and repeat the performance as he pinned the replacement items on sole and heel. The whole process lasted a matter of seconds. That such a performance should be taken for granted amazed Philly. Freddie Chadwick was a master craftsman, yet no-one ever commented on his skill.