With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  But she’d been. Only once, but she’d been all right to a do called Benediction, smuggled in by Paddy when they were supposed to be playing on the rec. Oh, they were lovely, them songs. Summat about Tantum Ergo, all in a foreign language, everybody bowing and scraping as if it was dead important. And when they walked at Whit, all the brewery horses done up, banners flying in the breeze, statues held high by big proud men, little girls in white dresses and veils, brass bands and bagpipes . . . ooh, lovely, it was. Big, colourful, soul-stirring. And at the end, when they got to the centre, some man would sit on one of the stone lions under the clock, waving a flag while thousands of Catholics sang ‘Faith of our fathers, holy Faith, we will be true to thee till death.’ Grand, it was. Course, Paddy walked, but she was just a spectator with the rest. On a lucky year, they paid sixpence for box seats at the edge of the pavement, but she usually saw it all from her father’s shoulder.

  What now? Mam had put her foot down, so there’d be no point carrying on about it. She was only little, was Mam, but she always got her own road one way or another. Molly leaned against the whitewashed walls, heedless of the warnings she’d had about coming in covered in flakes of paint. Well, she’d just have to wait till she was thirteen. At thirteen, you left school and did what you wanted. Then she’d marry Paddy in that lovely church and walk every Whit. That would put Mam’s nose out of joint and no mistake. Till that time, she’d better get on with it, be like Paddy and pretend to be good.

  ‘Molly?’

  She put her head round the door to find Paddy hanging over the back gate. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  ‘No. We’ll just have to wait till we can get wed.’

  ‘All right.’ He didn’t look terribly worried about any of it. ‘Coming out, are you?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Away from me mam. She’s after me with brimstone and treacle again.’

  ‘Oh. Didn’t you get dosed at Easter with all the street?’

  ‘Yes. Our classroom was rotten that week, I think she’d done everybody in it. If you’d lit a match, we’d have gone up like a bomb. That’s what Skenning Freddie says anyroad. But she’s after giving me an extra lot, so I’m off.’

  They fled down the back street, Molly happy because she was with Paddy, he happy because he had escaped, however temporarily, an extra spring-cleaning. They sat on a pile of bricks at the edge of a small recreation area commonly known as Butler’s rec. Nobody knew who Butler was and few cared, never giving a thought to a man who had bequeathed this small island for children to play in.

  ‘There’s no fun,’ moaned Molly, her little mouth down-turned. ‘And we’re still not seven, so we can’t go nowhere. There’s been nowt at all since Mother Blue’s funeral. That was great, eh?’

  ‘I liked her,’ mumbled Paddy. ‘She made me laugh. Mam’s about as much fun as a punctured ball, never laughs no more. They were always fighting, her and Mother, but I reckon Mam misses her.’

  ‘My dad says that was the finest send-off anybody ever got. All them black horses with feathers, crowds following – it was a bit like the walks only sad. Your mam went all to Liverpool, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Some nuns’ house, trying to find out how old Old Mother Blue really was. It come out at ninety-seven after they’d reckoned up. That means she were born in 1812. I can’t imagine being nearly a hundred years old, can you?’

  ‘How do you count so fast? Are you still top of the class?’

  ‘Naw. Can’t be bothered. I like reading books though, history books.’

  ‘What are you going to be, Paddy? A teacher?’

  He shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I’m not going down the pit and I’m not going in any mill. Me mam says I’ll have to work outside on account of being weak in the chest. I’m fed up with being weak in the chest, but if it keeps me out of the pit, I shan’t be right bothered. Happen I’ll do summat with horses. I like horses.’

  ‘Shall we have a farm, Paddy? Our own farm with pigs and cows and hens? And statues like what your mam has on her dresser and church every Sunday, proper church with candles? And nobody to tell us where we can go and where we can’t . . . ?’

  ‘And no brimstone and treacle.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Thank God it’s near Christmas and nowt to pick. She had me tramping three moors looking for comfrey a few weeks back, said the walk would do me chest good.’ He stood up, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his knee-length breeches. ‘I get a bit fed up with it. The house stinks of that balsam she makes and I daren’t say nothing to her if I feel a bit ill. She sent me to school last week with a hot potato tied to me ear with a scarf, said she could tell with me face I had earache again. Course, I threw it away before anybody saw me. Same with all that bacon fat wound round me throat not long back – honest, I stank like Sunday’s breakfast. She puts that much goose-grease on me chest . . .’ He pulled her towards the pavement. ‘If I stop out any longer, she’ll be looking for me.’

  As they made their way home, each could hear the sound of child-calling from the close-linked alleys and streets. Every youngster recognized his own mother’s call and it was not too long before they caught the familiar cry, ‘Padd . . . eee? Padd . . . eee?’

  ‘Brimstone and treacle,’ he muttered quietly.

  ‘Better than chapel,’ said his companion. ‘Anything’s better than chapel . . .’

  On Wednesday, 21 December, Paddy sat in class with the rest, everyone feeling slightly relaxed because school would close that afternoon. It had even touched the nuns, this festive spirit, and the lads at the back seemed to have got away with singing ‘one on a trolley waving his brolly and one with a fat cigar’ when it came to the three kings bit. It was near dinner time; once the sing-song was over, he’d be able to get out for a bit of fresh air. Smells got to Paddy. The close proximity of four dozen young bodies, many of them unwashed, almost made him gag at times. Not that he was a great one for washing himself, but he was glad he didn’t pong like some of them did, all cabbage water and mucky socks.

  Then he heard it above the singing, the frantic calling in the street, ‘Special! Special edition! Read all about it!’ but he took little notice as he was happily absorbed in making spit-balls out of paper, seeing how many he could make stick in the girls’ hair.

  As ‘Silent Night’ struggled its way to a discordant end, Sister Concepta bustled in and engaged in a short whispered conference with Miss Miles, after which the nun held up her hand, a signal that demanded and invariably achieved total silence. ‘Does anyone here have a relative in the Pretoria mine?’ she asked, her voice unusually gentle. Several hands, including Paddy’s, shot into the air.

  ‘Come out those of you with a father in that mine,’ she said. Two boys stepped forward. ‘And those with a brother – or a female relative working on the surface?’ Three further children crept to the front of the class. ‘Patrick Maguire?’

  ‘It’s me uncle – Uncle Arthur from next door.’

  ‘Then come out here with the others. The rest of you will continue as normal until recess.’

  They were led out into the corridor and down to the headmistress’s office where they stood in a line before her desk. Without more ado, Sister Concepta opened her top drawer with a key and took out a large metal box. To each astounded child she handed a full silver shilling. ‘Go home now, children, for you will be needed this day above all days. Give comfort to your loved ones, help your mammies with the family and take as much joy as you may from Christmas.’ She turned away from them, but they could tell from the shaking of her shoulders that Sister Concepta, immovable, unlovable, indomitable, was weeping.

  Not one of them dared ask questions. After whispering their terrified thanks, they fled from the school and into the street. Paddy and two of the others immediately collared the lad who was selling the special edition. ‘What is it?’ asked Paddy, though he knew the answer. Even at six years of age, these children knew what to dread.

  ‘Pit’s gone up,’ replied the boy.
/>   ‘Gone up?’

  ‘Aye. Exploded – you know? Boom?’ He walked away to continue selling the bad news.

  The small group of frightened infants looked at one another for a second or two, then each set off homeward as fast as little legs would move.

  Paddy’s house was empty, so was next door. He flew down to Skenning Freddie’s and found the shop closed for the only time within his memory. Perplexed, he walked back to wait for Molly who would be home soon for her dinner. Then fat Mrs Halligan from across the road staggered out to the middle of the cobbles. ‘You’ve to come in ours, you and Molly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . because I said so. And don’t go telling nowt to that poor lass . . .’ She turned and wobbled back inside the house, a hand to her eyes. Paddy sank on to his doorstep, a lead weight in his chest. Uncle Arthur? He was the nearest thing to a dad Paddy had ever known, kind, generous, full of stories about getting stuck in the pit, about miners always helping one another like Christians should, about canaries and gas, pit ponies . . . And then there was Molly. For what was probably the first time in his young life, Paddy actually thought about someone else. He was her dad! Uncle Arthur was Molly’s dad! Sometimes Paddy felt a bit mad about not having a father like most other kids, so how would Molly feel about suddenly losing one? Still, he happen wasn’t dead. It might be only a few of them.

  When Molly got back, he explained away the sudden change of dinner time venue, saying that the two mothers had gone to see a herbalist for some stuff. Mrs Halligan smiled at him across the table. ‘And you can both stop here and help me with the baby this afternoon.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Molly, eyes wide with amazement.

  ‘It’s me legs.’

  Molly nodded. She knew that Mrs Halligan suffered from something called ‘melegs’ because she was often called upon for messages and errands. While the little girl played happily with the baby, Mrs Halligan took Paddy into the scullery. ‘Be brave, lad. It looks like they’ve all gone.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Most, anyroad. Seems as if her’s heard nowt anyrate.’ She nodded her head towards the kitchen. ‘Keep it that way, son.’

  ‘I will.’ He brushed a tear from his eye. ‘Where’s me mam and Auntie Edie?’

  ‘Gone up Westhoughton to the pit-head. There must be thousands on ’em up there by now. I don’t know when they’ll get back. Don’t cry, lad. For Molly’s sake, hang on till we know for sure.’

  They brought out what was left of Arthur late in the evening. He lay under coal sacks with dozens of others, men and boys whose number would eventually total in excess of three hundred. Philly had to leave her friend with Freddie, because many of the rescuers were getting injured as they fought to reach their dead colleagues. She spent hours tearing up shirts and petticoats ripped willingly from spectators’ own backs, bathing heads in water fetched from nearby cottages, giving out sweet tea and steaming soups. There was a strange silence about the behaviour of this vast but united crowd. Women wept noiselessly while men brought out one body after another, scarcely disturbing the scarred earth as they moved with their precious bundles of dead humanity. From miles around they came, faces set and grim, many just out of their beds and ready for a shift to begin, some coming from other pits after hours of toil.

  When she knew that no more could be done, Philly returned to Edie and took her hand. ‘Come on, mavourneen. ’Tis time we were home for the children.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Time to go home.’

  ‘Aye. There’s Arthur’s bath to get ready. Yes, we’d best hurry up.’

  Freddie grabbed hold of Philly’s arm. ‘She’s not took it in, love. Look, there’s a flat cart over yonder going Bolton way. I reckon there’s room for us three.’ They lifted Edie on to the vehicle which held miners and many grieving widows. The man next to Philly was sobbing quietly, tears making twin white rivers on coal-blackened cheeks. She took his hand. ‘God bless you all for trying.’

  He sniffed loudly. ‘Stock up on coal, Missus,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is just the start. Seven months ago, we lost 136 lads up Cumberland. I reckon there’s twice that gone here today and we’ve had enough, lass.’ He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat. ‘My lad’s still down there.’

  ‘I hope they get him out.’

  He turned to look at her. ‘What for? One burial place is as good as another. He’s been buried alive down there since he left school anyroad, so what’s the bloody difference? Nay, we’ve had it now. Mark my words, this time next year there’ll be no coal for nobody. Mills’ll shut and poor folk’ll have to spend their nights picking slack off the heaps or chopping trees.’

  ‘A strike, then?’

  ‘Aye. And it won’t just be us, neither. At the finish, we shall bring every bugger out and to hell with the bosses.’

  ‘And not before time, Mister, not before time.’ She looked at Edie who seemed to think she was out on a joyride, all smiles and giggles. Freddie put a heavy arm around the tiny woman as she shivered in the cold December frost. He shook Philly’s sleeve. ‘You’ll have to tell Molly. This one’s well gone with the shock. I don’t know what you’re going to do with her once you get her home. Have I to stop with you? Me wife won’t mind, she’s an understanding sort . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, Fred. The neighbours will all help for sure. He was such a good man. Why? Why, Fred?’

  For answer, he simply shrugged broad shoulders and turned away, pulling Edie closer, trying to lend some heat to the frozen body. ‘He’s gone, lass,’ he whispered. ‘Arthur’s dead, killed down the pit. You’ll have to tell yon lass of yours.’ Edie pulled the shawl tight about her head. ‘By, it’s cowld,’ she said. ‘Good job I’ve tripe and manifold in. He likes tripe and manifold with plenty of onion and a drop of vinegar. I wonder if there’s enough swede to put to that carrot, though? Happen I should have got a penny swede today, Philly. A nice big one to put with his carrots . . .’

  ‘He’s dead, Edie!’ screamed Philly while everyone else on the cart remained still and quiet. ‘Get it into your head for Molly’s sake, your man is not coming home for his tripe and onions! Nobody’s coming home! Nobody!’ And she began to weep for all of them, howling their collective grief into a black sky.

  When they finally reached St George’s Road, Freddie helped the two women down and led them through the maze of streets until they were home. He took Edie into her own darkened house while Philly fetched the children from across the way. One look at Paddy’s face told her that he already knew and she nodded her grim confirmation before guiding Molly to the leather chair. ‘Sit down, child.’

  ‘Where’s me mam?’

  ‘She’s . . . busy. I wonder would you like to sleep here tonight? I’ll be popping in and out to help your mammy, but you can bed down in Mother Blue’s old room . . .’

  ‘What about Monty? I can’t sleep without him.’

  ‘I’ll get your bear when I go to see Edie. All right?’

  The child nodded slowly. ‘There’s something up, isn’t there, Auntie Philly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Paddy stepped forward, almost pushing his mother aside. ‘I’ll look after you, Molly. I’ve never had no dad, so I know what it’s like.’

  The little girl swallowed hard. ‘Me dad?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Paddy. ‘Gone to Jesus. He’s gone to Jesus ’cos he’s a grand man and Jesus wanted him for singing and that. They need good singers, specially at Christmas.’ He had obviously given time and effort to the preparation of this short speech.

  ‘Will he . . . will he come back? After Christmas, like?’

  ‘No.’

  Philly stepped back and watched her son doing the job better than she could have ever expected – and far better than she might have managed herself. He squeezed on to the chair at the side of his little friend. ‘Your dad was chosen.’

  ‘But . . .’ Her lip began to quiver. ‘I want h
im. He’s my dad and I want him here to tell me stories and play with me.’

  ‘He can’t be here no more – can he, Mam?’ Paddy, beginning to flounder now, looked to his mother for help.

  ‘That’s true enough. He’s gone to heaven, child.’

  ‘He’s dead? My daddy’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, Molly.’

  ‘Killed in the pit?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s very sorry we all are, Molly, for we shall miss him very badly.’

  The little girl jumped up. ‘I want me mam,’ she sobbed.

  Philly caught the small girl and held her tight against her own shaking body. ‘Your mammy’s taken it badly, love – she’s not herself just now. You must stay here and look after Paddy, just as he will take care of you. Mammy’s in dire need of my help just now. Paddy!’

  ‘Yes, Mam?’

  ‘Keep her here. I must away next door and see what does she need. Get some bread and butter from the scullery, put a bit of life into the fire and give this child a small glass of barley wine – that will make her sleep.’

  She ran next door. Freddie was sitting by the dying fire, exhaustion plain in his eyes. ‘Where is she?’ asked Philly anxiously. Freddie pointed towards the scullery door where Edie was struggling to drag in the tin bath. ‘Whatever is she doing?’

  Freddie ran a hand over his balding pate. ‘Nothing that makes sense, lass.’