With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  He brushed a hand across his eyes as if removing a tear. ‘You’re an honest woman, Philly. That’s what attracted me, though God knows I’ve cursed you as a liar. Do I give you the satisfaction of knowing how unhappy I am? Will I tell you how drab my life is without you?’

  ‘No. But you will give a thousand pounds to the miners.’

  He threw back his head to laugh, then stifled the sound with a gloved hand. ‘If ever a son of mine brings home a girl like you, I’ll kill him! You’d have the shoes off my feet, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘If they fitted and suited a poorer man, I would.’

  He held out his hand and she shook it solemnly. ‘Give to the poor and get your reward in heaven, Richard.’

  ‘Oh, Philly—’

  ‘I know. It was never to be, fine sir. Now give me back my hand and we shall part as near friends as we can ever be. Look to your wife and children and I shall respect you for that, at least.’

  She walked away with her eyes blurred by unshed tears. He wasn’t worth weeping for, surely? But there was so much sadness in the man, so much raw suffering . . . perhaps he hadn’t had love ever. Perhaps he didn’t know or understand what he did to his workers. Were they educated, these rich people? Could they not see what was about to happen, that the poor would unite, rise and bring everybody down like a house of cards?

  Yes, it was coming, that day of reckoning. The Welsh miners were agitating and the echo had already reached Lancashire.

  She turned at the corner for one last look at him. Had it worked then, that curse? So old he looked, so unbearably miserable. Was his house suffering because she had laid ill-wishes at his door? Surely not. Surely that was all a nonsense?

  Their eyes met across several hundred yards and she suddenly shivered. A blinding knowledge entered her mind, a dreadful feeling of premonition. It was hard to define, yet she felt that the link between herself and him was forged in spite of her, outside of her. Somehow, his house and hers were fastened . . . were both houses cursed? She shrugged away the silly thought and made for home. As the English would say, it was all a load of Irish, nothing to take notice of, nothing at all . . .

  Part Two

  The Twenties

  Chapter 4

  It was all her fault. If only she’d said less about conditions in the mills, then Molly might have gone for a job with a sight more dignity, a little bit of self-respect at least. But no, Ma Maguire had to open her mouth as usual, open it wide enough to put both feet in and a pair of size twelve boots on top. Aye, there was more pride in tending a mule than there was in what Molly was doing now, bowing and scraping, fetching and carrying up at the big house. Swainbank’s house too, with Madam in charge. From the sound of that one, it now came as no surprise that Richard had looked elsewhere for comfort and company. Ma sighed heavily and turned away from the parlour window, flicking a duster over the table before having a last look round. This had been Edie’s room, piano sold for more space, fire grate used at last for its proper purpose, Edie’s sewing box still sitting to the right of the brass fender. No fire now, though. No Edie, no Molly . . . She closed the door firmly behind her.

  In the living room, she spread a heavy blanket over the octagonal table and got on with her makings, poultice mixtures and liniments for this week. It was hard without Edie, hard in more ways than one, because she’d been better than a help. Edie had been her friend and comforter, the only person in the world who truly understood her. Except for him. And the thing between him and her was what most folk round here would call daft, because nothing had ever happened, just a word now and then in town, a raised hat and a slight bow as he passed.

  She threw down the bag of oatmeal and sank on to a straight-backed chair. Edie. Going off like that in her sleep without so much as a word of warning, no sign at all that she was ailing. Eight years now. Eight years with two children to raise, one she loved and one she tried to love. It was hard admitting to herself that she didn’t love her own son, harder still to acknowledge the fact that she cared more for Molly than she did for her Paddy.

  Oh Paddy! How she had adored him, that scrap of an infant, that warm bundle of humanity . . . Now he was wayward, lazy and difficult, often putting her in mind of his father. Or was it her own fault? Had she protected him too fiercely, cared too much when he was young? He wasn’t a bad lad. No, she couldn’t call him bad. Just weak and stupid. Yet clever enough to get away with doing as little as possible, greedy enough to believe that the world owed him a living. If only she could push back time, return to the beginning, leave him to scream in his cradle, then, later on, let him fight his own battles. If only she might rekindle that flame, keep it out of the wind, nourish it instead of allowing the elements to extinguish the love while she wasn’t looking!

  Where was he anyway? Up at one of the farms more than likely, messing about with horses when he could have been earning a crust droving or slaughtering. Not that he’d ever been offered full-time work – oh no, that wasn’t entirely his fault. After the war, there’d been few enough jobs to go round and he could only get the casual stuff. But he might do more if only he would try, she felt sure of that.

  She dragged a hand through thinning hair and pinned it tight against her scalp. Molly had had to go. They were only seventeen, raised like twins too for the past eleven years, yet Paddy had wanted Molly even at fourteen, was now more determined than ever to make sure of the girl before anybody else caught sight of her. She was a lovely creature, sure enough. Light brown hair all waves and curls, creamy skin and green eyes just like her mother’s. It was uncomfortable living with the two of them, him with his possessive vigilance, her forever trying to avoid him. She was strong-willed, was Molly. Blunt too, just as Edie had been. So there’d been nothing else for it. When Molly got the job up at Briars Hall, Ma had simply let go. All the same, it was a pity. The house just wasn’t the same without Molly’s cheek and laughter, would never be the same again. And Ma was lonely, so lonely that she sometimes felt chilled to the bone even on a hot day. Yes, she remembered the first time she’d experienced that sense of isolation, when she’d rejected Richard’s advances in the scullery all those years ago.

  Still, there was little sense in sitting here feeling sorry for herself. Self-pity was a sin and she’d no intention of indulging it. Gritting her teeth, she got on with the jobs just as she always did. Rain or shine, the rent wanted paying and plates needed filling.

  The front door opened and Paddy strode into the room. He was a slender boy, tall and handsome in a delicate way, with Ma’s dark hair and clear blue eyes. He threw his cloth cap on to a chair and stared at his mother.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter with you at all, Paddy? Have you done any work today?’

  ‘I’ve been at Swainbank’s.’ His voice was cold, as if he were suppressing a great anger. Never mind, thought Ma. At least anger proved that he had some energy, some enthusiasm . . .

  ‘She’s been made up to parlour now. I never thought she’d do it, not with the old biddy keeping her in her place. So now she waits on at the table, serves fancy meals and wears a daft pinny with a frill on.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ He waved his arms about in frustration. ‘She’s not the same any more. It was all right before, she used to come home and moan about old Mrs Swainbank making her stop in the kitchen. Only now, she’ll likely stay there in her little attic bedroom – we won’t see her no more.’

  Ma dried her hands on her apron. ‘Sit down, son.’

  ‘I don’t feel like sitting down!’

  ‘Then stand up! Straighten your shoulders, for you’ve the look of a man with the world’s troubles on his back. You don’t know you’re born, Patrick Maguire! Now, listen to me. You obviously don’t know Molly as well as you should. She will not forget us. No amount of pretty frills will keep her away. What is keeping her away is you!’

  He stumbled across the rug and fell into the leather chair, his mouth agape. ‘Me? What the hell have I done?’
/>
  ‘You keep following her, Paddy. Every time she turns round, you’re there—’

  ‘I drive his bloody cows, don’t I?’

  ‘Don’t you swear at me, young man! The cows are at the farm, which is not attached to the house – am I right?’

  ‘Yes but—’

  ‘And the animals do not get moved for slaughter every week. There are other farms, Paddy, other farmers who need you to do the droving. And John Preston from the slaughter-house was asking after you the other day – no doubt he has work for you. And where were you when you were needed? Up at Briars Hall spying on Molly.’

  He hung his head and sighed. ‘When we were kids, we always said we’d—’

  ‘I know all about that, Paddy. But you are still children! Seventeen is no age to be thinking of settling for life. She needs a bit of freedom, lad—’

  He lifted his chin defiantly. ‘Aye. And so do I. I could do with a bit of freedom from you! All me life you’ve shouted the odds—’

  ‘Then go, why don’t you? See will some other silly woman act as your mother, look after your chest and your hands! I’m not standing in your way – you live here of your own free will.’ She came round the table and sat in the carpet chair opposite her son. ‘Look. The top and bottom is that you’re not getting your own way. I’ve done this to you and that’s the only thing I’m guilty of. For years I gave in to you, allowed you to get away with too much. Well, you’re fast approaching manhood and if you don’t start showing some sense, then you’ll never amount to anything at all.’

  He looked hard at her. ‘I’m going to marry her, Mam.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘There’ll never be another girl, not for me—’

  ‘Then pull yourself together, why don’t you? Get out and work, show you can make a living, for I won’t always be here to provide. What about when children come, have you given that any thought at all? How can you look after Molly when you won’t do a job? Wouldn’t it be better to prove yourself first?’

  ‘There’s no steady work in my line.’

  She shook her greying head slowly. ‘If you’d stuck to your books—’

  ‘I don’t need books to work outside. You always said I had to work outside because of me chest. Do you want me fastened in an office?’

  ‘There might be something to be said for that after all. At least we would know where you were all day. But to get back to the point, stop putting pressure on that poor girl, otherwise she won’t be coming here on her days off. And I do not want to lose Molly because of your foolishness. Perhaps she will marry you in time, but that must be her decision, not yours.’ She rose to her feet and gazed down at him. The only time he showed signs of life was when Molly was around and his almost perpetual stillness irritated her. ‘Get down to Preston’s and help him with the pigs.’

  He swallowed audibly. ‘I hate that smell. That’s another thing, you getting me taken on for weekends at the slaughter-house when I was fourteen. I’d no choice, had I? You decided it was good for me, walking miles with animals then killing them. I don’t like it—’

  ‘You don’t like anything that means getting up out of the chair! Well, I’m telling you now – and it’s for your own good – unless you start bringing some decent money into this house, there’ll be no plate for you at my table.’

  Angrily, he jumped up, snatched his cap and slammed out of the house. Philly sank back on to the chair. Dear God, why had Edie left her with this mess? They’d been reared like brother and sister – she’d never given a thought to this sort of thing happening. And if Molly had any sense at all, she’d set her sights elsewhere, because Paddy was a wastrel, one who’d take the bread from anyone’s mouth rather than bestir himself to go out and earn it.

  Yes, Edie had been right. All that ruination had reaped its own reward. And Ma Maguire was now gathering in its dubious benefits. She turned and looked at the photograph of Edie and Arthur on the dresser. ‘Edith Dobson,’ she said quietly, what have you done to me? And how would you have managed this, eh? Would you have thrown him out and told him to leave her alone? ’Tis a desperate situation now. He was never one for work, you knew that. And with his head turned by Molly, he’s worse than ever. Whatever shall I do, Edie? Whatever shall I do . . . ?’

  John Preston stood in the slaughterhouse doorway, leather apron dripping, hands stained scarlet, face wet with sweat after recent exertion. He looked hard at Paddy Maguire. ‘Listen lad. If you don’t want the bloody job, just say so. There’s no need to go carrying on at young Gizzer – he’s nobbut doing what I pay him for.’

  Paddy nodded slowly. Yes, Gizzer was well named, because he’d begged long enough at the door to ‘gizzer go’. He enjoyed his work, did Gizzer, would likely have done it for no pay if push came to shove. ‘There’s no call for cruelty, Mr Preston. I still say they should be shot. He bloody enjoys pole-axing them poor creatures and cutting their throats.’

  The older man sighed. ‘I’ve told you before – bullets cost money. And we’ve had one feller with his leg near blew off when the pig shifted over . . .’

  ‘Then do it my way, for God’s sake! I’ve showed you often enough and it’s quick. If you break the top of the spine, they feel nowt when you go through the jugular. That’ll cost you nowt!’ Aye, he had to admit to himself, however begrudgingly, that Ma was good for some things. She’d explained the method, the way she’d been taught by her own family in Ireland. ‘It’s my way or nothing, Mr Preston.’

  John Preston took Paddy’s arm and led him out into the middle of the yard where a red river poured into a shallow sough. ‘You might not turn up every day and you’re not the strongest to look at, but you’re the best man I’ve ever had. I know you don’t like doing it, son. Not many of us likes doing it. Only folk have got to eat, haven’t they?’

  Paddy stopped and turned to look at the cows waiting in the small enclosure. ‘They know,’ he said quietly. ‘Best we can do is to make it quick for them, give them an easier death. It’s like a flaming massacre in there with that damned idiot. He hangs them up before they’ve gone proper—’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘All right what?’

  ‘I’ll get shut on him. If you’ll promise me a full weekend every week, right to midnight Sundays, then I’ll see him off.’

  Paddy thought rapidly. If he worked here every weekend, then he wouldn’t see as much of Molly, would he? Aye, but happen that might be a good thing if Mam was right. Happen Molly would think more of him if he worked regular and wasn’t always there waiting when she got home. ‘Right, you’re on. But we kill the beasts proper.’

  The slaughterman threw back his head and guffawed loudly. ‘Who’s the bloody boss, eh?’

  ‘You are, Mr Preston.’

  ‘I’m not so blinking sure of that! Hey – seems you’ve took after your mam after all, telling us all how to go about things. Does it run in your family, then?’

  Paddy shrugged his shoulders lightly. It wasn’t often he felt so strongly about things, but with animals – well, he cared. If somebody had to kill them, then it might as well be him, because at least he’d make sure they went quickly and with as little pain as possible. ‘Naw. Me mam’s the one for shouting on the Town Hall steps, not me.’

  ‘Didn’t she get locked up once? For turning a cart over when them Cornish miners come up to work the pits?’

  ‘She got cautioned. They couldn’t lock her up, Mr Preston. She’d have drove them all daft by morning – that’s if she hadn’t brought the building down.’

  ‘Fine woman, though.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All for the working man, isn’t she?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Then you’d best start work, hadn’t you, Paddy?’

  Paddy grinned. ‘Aye. You’re not wrong there, Mr Preston. I’d best start work afore she flays me.’

  He took a deep breath before walking towards his personal nightmare, the one that plagued sleeping hours with monotonous fr
equency. The colours, the smells, all so clear as he slept. Awake, he always looked into their faces before he did it, always tried to communicate his mute apology before turning them into somebody’s Sunday dinner. Asleep, he said the words and saw the sadness, the terror, then finally and worst of all, that awful resignation arriving in dark velvet eyes.

  He rolled up his sleeves and donned the leather overall, watching covertly as Gizzer was led out of the shed. Ah well, there’d be no fun for anybody here today. At least he and John Preston did their best, didn’t take pleasure in what had to be performed. He sharpened the murderous blade and brought in the first reluctant beast. Nobody could do better than their best.

  Richard Swainbank sat at the head of the family table, eyes moving slowly over the occupants of surrounding chairs. Yes, it was true enough – a man could choose his colleagues and his friends, but a family just got visited on him, dumped like an uninvited package with no instructions as to how to make the best use of its contents. This was his birthday. Was he sixty or sixty-one and did it matter anyway? On the sideboard lay a pile of gifts, unsolicited items that he likely wouldn’t live to use if his health didn’t show some better signs soon.

  He pushed a forkful of food into his mouth, not tasting, not enjoying, not even identifying its category. Eating was a thing he did to stay alive these days. He hadn’t made a career of it, not like some folk here present.

  Yes, what about this lot, eh? What was he leaving behind to pick up the reins and carry on in the famous Swainbank tradition of toil and trade? Oh, Charles was all right in his way, but . . .

  He stared down the length of the room to where his wife sat at the opposite end of the table, ears dripping sapphires, neck covered by a collar of pearls, hair pulled back so tightly from her face that the skin of her forehead was stretched, as if held in place by rigid piano wire. Nothing modern about her, no concessions to the fashion of the day from that particular quarter. The servants called her Old Bea – he’d heard them often enough, complaining in audible whispers, going on about her shrewish temper and viperish tongue. Yes, she was an old b— they were right about that. Forty-six at most she was, yet she looked like an old woman, yellow and decaying, hands puffy with arthritis, face screwed up with pain and discontent. She could only get about with the aid of a stick now and her limitations improved her disposition not one jot. Bitter, she was. Like a lemon with all the juice squeezed out of it, a sour and empty sack devoid of life.