With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Paddy.’ She slumped against a wall. ‘I think we have to let him go this time.’

  ‘Aye,’ he agreed with reluctance. ‘Happen he’s found a safe place, Sarah. He might have a Missus – babies too afore long. Try and look on the bright side . . .’

  ‘I can’t. They’ll all be chasing him in their silly red coats, dogs tearing him to bits, some savage creature taking his brush as a trophy . . .’

  ‘Stop it!’ He took the arm of this lady who had commanded him to call her Sarah, who hadn’t the price of a crust some days, who slept and lived in just one room of that crumbling mansion. ‘Look. Pull yourself together, for God’s sake. We’re off home now, ’cos I can see you’re worn to nowt. And when we get home, I’m down to see that auctioneer feller at the back of Deansgate. We’ll get rid of all that bloody antique furniture of yours. And when we do, the money’s for you, not for the animals.’

  ‘Paddy—’

  ‘Don’t start. My mam set out to save the world a while back, but she had to give up at the finish. You’ll die for lack of food. Who’ll look after all your animals then, eh? Have a bit of sense for once.’

  ‘All right, all right. Keep your bloody hair on . . . What was that?’

  They stood in silence and listened. ‘A horse,’ said Paddy finally. ‘And it’s in bother.’

  Paddy held on to Sarah’s hand, marvelling at the roughness of it. This was a lady who could have had anything – everything, in fact. Instead of which she had reduced her reinstated cottage rents in accordance with pay cuts and what she called inflation. ‘Stop here,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll find him.’

  But there was no shaking her off. They found the distressed animal lying behind a low hedge, his stomach ripped by thorns, a hoof dangling at an impossible angle. ‘This one’ll never get up,’ pronounced Paddy. ‘And where’s his rider?’ The horse was fully saddled.

  Paddy looked around until he caught a flash of red among the brambles. He flew to the spot and paused, a hand to his throat. ‘Sarah?’

  She was engrossed in the suffering horse. ‘What? I reckon we can fix this, Paddy—’

  ‘He’s dead.’ The neck was definitely broken.

  ‘Not yet, he isn’t.’

  ‘I don’t mean the horse. I mean this feller here.’

  The woman left the beast and walked towards Paddy, her eyes narrowing as she saw the huntsman’s colours in a crumpled heap on the ground. ‘An eye for an eye,’ she said. Paddy thought this was not only irrelevant, but also irreverent. Especially as she had no faith.

  ‘Don’t touch him,’ said Paddy.

  ‘Harold Swainbank.’ Her voice was devoid of emotion. ‘Always was wild, especially on horseback. Glad to say his brother doesn’t hunt.’

  Paddy looked around frantically. There was no sign of the rest. Surely Harold hadn’t been hunting alone? Didn’t they go in packs with dogs and horns? ‘What do we do?’

  She stepped back. ‘You go over to Briars and tell them what’s happened. I’ll get some warm covering for the horse.’

  They turned to find that the animal had risen and was attempting to walk. Without further ado, Sarah ripped out the sleeve of her coat and bound the hunter’s foot tightly, squeezing the crushed hoof into some semblance of the correct position. Wild-eyed and terrified, the animal stood throughout these painful ministrations, knowing somehow that it dare not panic in the presence of this particular human.

  While Paddy ran for help, Sarah led the horse slowly towards her home. That such a fine and beautiful creature might be shot for its deformities – no, she would not allow it.

  Evening found Sarah, Paddy and Ma in an outbuilding with the exhausted horse. ‘Well, we can do no more,’ said Ma. ‘The vet says he’ll live, but with a limp. And he’s not yours, Miss Leason.’

  ‘Sarah.’ She sank on to a bale of hay. ‘They know where he is. Let them come for him.’

  As if on cue, Charles Swainbank appeared in the doorway, a broken shotgun angled over his arm. He looked at the three white faces. ‘I . . . er . . . came for my brother’s horse,’ he said, looking meaningfully at the weapon. ‘Sorry you were troubled. The rest of the hunt lost poor Harold, I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘So you’re here to shoot this terrified creature?’ Sarah’s tone was shrill.

  ‘Well, he’s not to be ridden again.’

  ‘I see.’ The little woman jumped to her feet. ‘Useless, is he? Like me, I suppose. Well, you’ll have to shoot me first.’ And she placed herself in front of the animal. ‘Five pounds I’ve paid to have this foot put right and his wounds stitched.’

  ‘You’ll be reimbursed, Miss Leason. The animal must go. It caused the death of my brother.’

  ‘What?’ she screamed. ‘What? With him whipping it into a lather and forcing it to jump about over fences? Horses do not jump, Mr Swainbank. In the wild, a horse will go miles out of its way just to avoid clearing a wall or a fence! Your brother killed himself—’

  Ma placed a restraining hand on Sarah’s arm. ‘Not now, love. The man’s lost a brother—’

  ‘Killing foxes too! Including my Fergus.’

  Fergus chose this unfortunate moment to put in a rather sheepish appearance, cowering along the ground until he reached the safety of Sarah’s boots. Showing no emotion apart from anger, suppressing the great relief she felt at the sight of the fox, Sarah bent to pick up her wild pet. ‘Look at him! Go on – look! Thirty grown men to kill a beast this size. Thirty men and two dozen dogs. So will you shoot the horse to put all that right?’

  Charles bowed his head. There was no use in trying to talk sense to Sarah Leason. She was known far and wide for the lack of that particular commodity. And this was hardly the time to argue over an animal. ‘I’ll have his papers sent over tomorrow. The horse is yours, Miss Leason.’

  Deflated considerably by this sudden turn of events and deprived of her soapbox, Sarah let out a long sigh. ‘Right. All fixed up, then. Sorry he’s dead, Mr Swainbank. In spite of . . . well . . . know what I mean.’

  Charles nodded. ‘The animal is not gelded, Miss Leason. The pedigree is excellent. You can perhaps make use of him at stud. If Samson had been gelded, then my brother might have stood a chance. But no. He would never ride a safe mount, always had to have the stallion. Still. I’m glad I don’t have to use the gun. Never did enjoy killing an animal.’

  Ma stepped forward. ‘We’re very sorry.’

  ‘So am I, Ma. So am I.’

  As she looked into those sad dark eyes, Ma realized he wasn’t talking just about his brother. ‘How’s . . . how’s your dad?’

  ‘Not too well. This hasn’t improved him.’

  ‘No. No, it wouldn’t.’

  ‘They didn’t get on, but Harold was still his son.’ Why was he saying all this to strangers? ‘Families.’ He shook his head grimly.

  ‘We all have our cross to bear,’ said Ma kindly. ‘Look at me now with a husband in jail and a son who spends half his time looking after animals and the rest as drunk as a fiddler’s elbow. Miss Leason has the best of it, I think. She chose her family, four-legged every last one of them. She may be poor, but at least she gets no smart answers from her children.’

  Sarah Leason stroked Samson’s nose. ‘Will you come in for a glass of wine, Mr Swainbank? All home made from my own vegetables.’

  ‘No thanks.’ He studied his boots. ‘I’ll have to get back, Father’s expecting me. And my wife isn’t too happy about letting me out of her sight just now, though I did tell her lightning never strikes twice.’

  Ma smiled. Had he mentioned his wife deliberately, just to let her know that he never thought of Molly? Ah no. Not now, not at this time. There was too much grief about to be reading meanings into folks’ words.

  He left the three of them to comfort horse and fox. As the light failed, Sarah brought out the ancient trap and told George, the one-armed ex-miner who looked after her, to take her friends home.

  They rode down country lanes towards Bolton, Ma leaning ex
hausted against her son’s shoulder. After a day in the mill, the tending of a sick animal had been no repose.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not drunk half the time.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Then why did you say it? Why do you always say it?’

  ‘In the hope that I’ll shame you into mending your ways.’

  He sighed loudly. ‘It’s our Joey as needs his ways mending. Have you heard the latest? He set a fire in next door’s back yard while they were at work.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To bake spuds in. He wanted to sell baked potatoes to the other kids.’

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She’d known there’d be trouble from that one. But not so soon! Please God, not so soon!

  The knock at the door came just after eight o’clock on a cold December night in 1927. Ma was mixing a poultice base while Molly stitched Joey’s torn jumper yet again.

  ‘Come in,’ called Ma. ‘Unless it’s money you’re after . . .’ Her voice tailed away as Cissie Mathieson entered the room.

  ‘He’s going,’ said the cook briefly. ‘And he’s sent for you.’

  Molly turned her face away towards the fire, hoping that her blushes did not show. Did Cook know? Had she worked it out? ‘Don’t go, Ma,’ she muttered. No good could possibly come of Ma going up to the Hall. What if somebody said something? It was bad enough already, Paddy hanging around the Chase Farm stables . . .

  ‘Why shouldn’t I go?’ Ma’s voice was clipped. ‘Has he had the doctor, Cissie?’

  ‘Aye. No hope. It’s double pneumonia and his heart won’t tackle it. I reckon the poor old beggar’s suffered enough anyroad. Oh, I know he was a tartar, but all the same . . .’ She sniffed audibly. ‘Missus has gone off to Blackpool for Christmas as usual. Mrs Amelia’s took bad with a chest cold and poor Master Charles doesn’t know whether he’s fish or fowl at the minute.’

  Molly gazed into the flames. A big fish, that’s what he was, a big underwater creature with little fish cleaning his teeth for him. Bigger than ever now, with the old man on his way out. Rivington Pike. Aye, she’d taken the twins up there last Easter to roll their eggs. His children. Her heart turned over as she pictured them as they were now, rosy-cheeked in sleep, untroubled, ignorant of all this. ‘I don’t see why you should be at his beck and call, Ma. You never worked at the house.’

  Ma pulled on her coat. ‘I saw to his leg all these years, Molly. He probably wants to see can I do any more for him . . .’

  ‘You can’t! He’s bloody dying!’

  ‘Molly! Just stay here and do your sewing. If and when Paddy gets home, tell him where I’m gone to. And don’t be worrying now. Sure, everything’s fine.’ She glanced at poor Molly, knowing only too well what troubled the girl. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ Then she left with Cissie and climbed into the large black car, surprised to find Charles at the wheel. But then, she asked herself, who did she expect? Paddy and the other fellow only worked days and then just on a casual basis. She knew now why Cissie had come. If there’d been an employed driver, then Cissie wouldn’t have been needed. At least Charles had enough sense not to set foot in the Maguire house.

  ‘He’s not expected to last till morning,’ said Charles as they drove through the town.

  ‘Have you told your mother?’ asked Ma.

  ‘No point.’ He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘She’s in so much pain it would be cruel to move her again from Blackpool before absolutely necessary.’

  ‘Is there a nurse?’

  ‘He won’t have one. I’ve been seeing to him – with a lot of help from the staff.’

  ‘So. He’s conscious?’

  ‘Off and on,’ said Cissie. ‘Says some funny things, things a child might say. He was asking for his mam this morning. Heartbreaking, it is.’

  Ma pressed the whitened knuckles of a closed fist against her mouth as she gazed at the frosty countryside. Such a fine man to be reduced to babyhood, wet beds and spoonfeeding. Such a tyrant in his time. Such a lovable, arrogant rogue.

  As she passed through the front doors of the great house, Ma was unaware of the finery surrounding her. And yet afterwards, when it was all over, she could have described the tiniest detail, right down to the patterns in the thick-piled carpets. Charles led her upstairs to his father’s door. ‘He wanted to see you alone,’ he said gruffly. ‘And before you go in, I must warn you that he looks very unlike himself. It’s as if . . .’ His voice broke. ‘As if he’s slipping away a bit at a time.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course you do. I’d forgotten how much nursing you’ve done.’

  ‘It’s one of the easier deaths. Pneumonia.’

  He wiped a tear from his cheek. ‘So I understand. As long as the patient’s unconscious. But he won’t let go. Not till he’s seen you.’

  ‘I’ll go in, then.’ She turned the handle.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He swallowed. ‘After he’s gone, things will . . . carry on. Support payments, future plans and the rest—’

  ‘Good. Just don’t expect me to be grateful. Now, I must go and see this man. He has meant a lot to me, Charles. In a way you’d never understand.’

  ‘Do you understand it?’ he asked unexpectedly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that. I was beginning to think you knew everything, Ma Maguire.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Not quite everything. Just nearly.’

  The room stank of human sickness, though it appeared clean and tidy on the surface. But no soap or polish on earth could wipe out this particular odour, the one that so often preceded a death. The figure on the bed lay still as a stone, hands and face as white as the linens on which they rested.

  She approached the bed cautiously. ‘Richard?’

  Near-black eyes suddenly shone forth, twin pools of life in a waxlike effigy. ‘Philly. I couldn’t. Not without seeing you. One last time.’ He paused between words, rasping breaths fighting their way into congested lungs.

  ‘I’ll sit with you.’ She dragged a chair near to the pillow and perched on its edge, her hand grasping his pale fingers. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘Are you? Didn’t you curse me? I hear. My heart. Slow. Like you said. Too slow. No blood.’

  ‘There now.’ She stroked the hot brow. ‘We can just sit here and talk until you fall asleep. I’ve missed you these years. Nobody to fight with. Not that you ever answered me back when I accused you of mistreating the cotton workers.’

  ‘No point.’ The death mask grinned. ‘You never listened.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘No. I loved you, Philly.’

  She fought the tears. ‘And I loved you. It was something I couldn’t deny, something I just had to live with.’

  ‘We lived without.’

  ‘Yes. Yes we did.’

  ‘Tell me about it, Philly. Tell me.’ His eyes closed.

  She paused fractionally before beginning. ‘In the scullery that night, I wanted you. When I threw you out of Freddie’s shop, I wanted you. Edie knew. She was my neighbour. She said a fire had been lit between us, between you and me. A fire she had never known the like of. All those years I needed you to keep me warm, Richard Swainbank. And I couldn’t have you. I had to stay away from that nice warm fire.’

  ‘Fool,’ he muttered, eyes still closed.

  ‘Am I? Look what happened with Charles and Molly. That was foolishness, Richard.’

  ‘Different kind . . .’

  ‘Ah yes. But what would have become of us? You’d have visited, I’d have missed you. My religion would have gone by the board – and my self-esteem too. We would have quarrelled—’

  ‘We did . . .’

  ‘Yes, but about other things, things separate from us. We never got tired of one another, never killed the love. It’s still there. I feel now as if you’re my husband lying in this bed.’

  ‘Do you?’

&n
bsp; ‘Yes. Though himself is very much alive, languishing in some jail either in Manchester or over to Dublin. Our love, mine and yours, was of the spirit, Richard.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been.’

  ‘I know. If you’d had your way. Don’t waste your breath.’

  He groaned. ‘I’m going any minute, I know it.’

  ‘Will I bring Charles?’

  ‘No. No, he’d never handle it. The death. The moment. You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was slipping. Through her hand she could almost feel the life ebbing away out of his fingers, as if he were letting go, as if a decision had been made between the two of them.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘Yes?’ No more than a very weak whisper.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Keep . . . keep . . . saying—’

  ‘I love you, Richard Swainbank. I loved you when you followed me through town at Christmas, when you came into my house, when you met me in Market Street and you all poshed up in the hat and gloves. Beautiful, you were. I’ve always loved you. I’ll go to my grave loving you. You were the finest and most handsome man I ever met. I wanted to lie down with you, Richard. I wanted to live with you and look after you. I needed you. I still need you. Don’t go! Please, please don’t leave me!’ she heard herself crying.

  But she couldn’t hold him. Nothing could hold him now. There wasn’t even a death rattle. He just drifted away leaving a very lonely woman in a very empty room.

  She stood at the window of the house she had cursed, great sobs shaking her body from head to foot. Was it a sin to wish now that she’d given him her love just once? So lonely. She looked back at the bed. Yes, he was lonely too, had always been lonely in spite of everything. He had lived and died alone, locked into a situation from which there could never be an escape. Just like she was locked, trapped, caught in life’s web. And at the end, what was there? A sigh, an empty shell, a soul gone to find its first, last and only freedom.