‘But . . . but if Paddy ever found out . . .’ She blew her nose noisily.
‘Look, child. Has this man sent money ever for support purposes? Has he fed, clothed and warmed those children, paid their doctors’ bills, sent them a gift at Christmas or on their birthday?’
‘No. Never. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since I left the big house.’
‘Well then, be sensible. What proof does the man have at all?’
‘None. His sort doesn’t need proof. With the other kiddies gone and Joey his rightful son – happen he’ll want somebody to carry on in the mills.’
The shape behind the wooden grille tut-tutted loudly. ‘What? Can you see Joey Maguire with his finger on the pulse? Sure, I’m not being critical of your son now, Molly, for he’s a fine boy in his own way. But he hardly fits the bill, does he? Can you see him in a fancy hat? I can’t.’
‘I bet our Joey would like a fancy hat to wear though, Father. He’s got ambitions . . .’
‘Away with your bother! The man’s wife may well bear him another child.’
‘Aye, she might. But they’ll be getting on now, happen she’s past childbirth. And his other two sons were reared – ready for business, they were. They’d be about sixteen and fourteen. That’s right, the older one wasn’t born when he . . . he—’
‘When he raped you?’
‘It wasn’t quite—’
‘Seduced you, then. Sure, you were a young girl without the sense to realize what was afoot. He took advantage of you. Isn’t that a fine carry-on for him to be advertising, now? The fact that he molested you while his wife was expecting his first son?’
She mopped her face with her handkerchief. ‘He can always say I was willing. It wouldn’t really be a lie. And at the end of the day, it’s the word of a servant against that of a master.’
‘Dry your eyes now, Molly. Go out into the church and pray to Our Lady. Didn’t she have a child she’d never have explained in a month of Sundays except for Joseph? You’re not alone, my dear. And you’re a good woman. Mary takes a special interest in converts, keeps them under her wing. And I’ll pray for you like billy-o—’
‘Oh Father – you’re a terrible caution!’
‘I know. Me mother was glad to see the back of me the day I disappeared into that seminary. “Bernard,” she said. “If they can make a priest of you, then there’s hope for sows’ ears.” I think I stuck it out to spite her.’
Molly giggled.
‘That sounds a little more like yourself. Now compose your face and away back to your children. Your children, Molly. Nobody else’s. Tell Paddy I’ll be along.’
‘With the whiskey, I suppose?’
‘That I won’t answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me. Also I cannot lie in me present capacity and wearing blessed vestments too.’
‘I’m glad you’re so . . . so ordinary, Father.’
‘So am I,’ he whispered. ‘Wouldn’t it be desperate if they made the terrible mistake of turning me into a bishop? Or worse still, a cardinal?’
‘What about Pope?’
‘Ah, now you’re being silly, Molly Maguire. Which means you’re back to normal. Say your penance and get home.’
He intoned the blessing while Molly made her Act of Contrition. He always made her feel better no matter what, did Father Mahoney.
Outside the church, she found Joey pretending not to wait for her. He tagged along behind, hands thrust into pockets, brow furrowed into a deep frown. At the corner, he caught up with her.
‘Are you mad with me, Mam?’
‘A bit.’
‘Been crying?’
‘No. Just one of me turns. What’s up with you these days, lad? Is it part of growing up, I wonder?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sparked a clog-iron against the pavement as they walked homeward. ‘I want things, Mam. A different life, a good job—’
‘Money?’
‘Aye. I want money. Janet doesn’t seem to want the same as I do.’
‘Happen that’s with her being a girl. And you have to give her some space, Joey, room to find out what she does want. I know you’ve always looked out for her and I’ve been grateful for that – never had to worry over my daughter while you were with her. But she’s near a woman now, love. I know you want success – she likely just dreams of contentment, a nice husband and a couple of children—’
‘I want me own business.’
They stopped simultaneously outside Tommy’s Tripe, each pretending to stare at the display of manifold, black puddings, cow heels and pigs’ trotters spread out on the white marble slab.
‘What sort of business?’ she asked eventually.
He grinned. ‘Not tripe, I know that much. Maybe a shop or a little engineering works.’
‘Selling what? Making what?’
‘I’ve not thought that far. I just know I want to make me own road.’
‘I see.’ They continued to walk. ‘What about your apprenticeship?’
‘Oh, I’ll take it till something comes up. It’ll not be wasted. Even Gran says education’s never lost. If I can get to grips with a lathe, then happen I might get me own workshop one day, mend cars or something.’
Yes, there was a lot of the other feller in him. Even if Charlie Swainbank hadn’t been born to money, he’d have made it, perhaps breaking the odd back on the way like his forefathers had. And here was his spitten image with the same ideas. She must stop it! All this resentment and ill-feeling – it was bad! Charlie Swainbank had done wrong by her, but that didn’t make him wicked. And she shouldn’t be looking for such ‘evils’ in her son.
Aye, but it might suit Joey to find out he was a Swainbank. He’d jump at the chance of all that brass. Not Janet though. No. Janet had a strong sense of family, a need to identify with a close-knit group. But if the worst did come to the worst, would this one eventually persuade Janet to go with him, manipulate her as he had in the past?
Molly glanced sideways at her son. She didn’t hate him. She loved him all right, in spite of the fact that he riled her to bursting. Sometimes she didn’t like him, but he was her son when all came to all.
Yes. And he was somebody else’s too . . .
Chapter 7
Charles Swainbank stood in the large hallway, elbows resting on the oak mantel shelf, head in his hands, eyes staring down unseeing at the heavy marble slab which formed the hearth. He could not take this in, never would. Both of them gone? With his teeth grinding to hide the pain and defeat threatening tears, he turned and began to pace the area between door and fireplace, every nerve in his body jangling and screaming as he waited for the hearses.
The boys were in the games room, one trestle each end of the billiard table at which they’d spent so many happy hours. He couldn’t go in there, not yet, not until it was time to carry his sons out of their home for the last time. Everything in that room was in pairs, two cricket bats, tennis rackets, two sets of darts, one with red flights and the other with blue, twin school sports’ caps, a pair of polished boxes now, each covered in flowers and wreaths. Both coffins were closed, the contents of one so disfigured as to render his son barely recognizable . . .
No, he couldn’t go in there. And he couldn’t go upstairs either, would not expose himself again to Amelia’s frail fury. She blamed him, that was plain enough. He’d let them loose on the estate in the car, why – he’d positively encouraged John to drive when the poor child was scarcely sixteen! Yes, time after time during these dreadful days, she’d turned on him, berated him for the fool he was.
Oh Peter, Peter! What would he do without him? The younger son, yes, but of the two, Peter had shown the better head for business, that streak of calculated detachment so vital in a mill owner. John had been softer, gentler, concerned for his fellow man, committed to the improvement of working conditions, canteen facilities, first-aid and the like.
Charles beat his fists against a wall. Oh to have John here at this minute to hug and reassure, to b
e able to tell him how he’d loved him, that John had not been a disappointment! After all, which man wanted his children all the same, peas out of a pod, mirror images of one another?
What price the carefully made will now, eh? A will engineered painstakingly so that the two brothers might run the mills together. Peter would have kept John in line, Peter would have kept things ticking over in the good old Swainbank tradition. What now? Everything was wiped out, nullified, made into a nonsense. What the hell was he going to do?
Yes, at last Charles understood his own father, realized that old Richard had been far-seeing in getting rid of poor Harold. Harold was dead, yes, but the vulture had arrived and Charles saw her now for what she was – a scheming, grabbing scavenger with an eye to the main chance. Harold’s shares and dividends, currently held in trust for his son, would no longer suffice. Not now. Not with the whole uncut cake waiting on the table. She’d brought the brat along with her. Considerably grown, long, lanky and lethargic, that was Cyril, with his steel-rimmed spectacles and the brain of a stuffed tortoise.
He stared through the hall window and down the length of the drive to a pair of wrought-iron gates, opened now against twin gatehouse walls. Open and waiting like Alice’s hands. The Swainbanks had been sparse breeders, so there remained just Cyril now that the unthinkable had happened. The future of the line rested with that acne-spotted beanpole who’d never be capable of running a tap, let alone a thriving business. Peter could have managed it, leading the elder brother from behind, knowing, as Peter had always seemed to know, that business was a flirtatious and wayward mistress, ever vulnerable, demanding constant attention.
God, he wished he’d never bought them that bloody car with its paper-thin roof and fierce little engine! But they’d wanted it, begged for it – and hadn’t they always got round him every time? Yes, they’d known their father’s weakness, had recognized that he too was fascinated by fast cars.
With a huge roar of animal rage, Charles crossed the room and swept a vase of flowers from a table, hurling it against the wall where it smashed into a thousand shards, leaving the oak panelling weeping flower water, tears he himself could not release just yet.
Emmie rushed in with pan and brush. Her face was swollen with constant crying and she cleared the mess hurriedly in case she set off again in front of Mr Swainbank.
‘Emmie?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Sorry about the mess, lass.’
‘’S all right, sir.’
‘You’re a good girl. Take no notice of my rages – they’ll burn themselves out in their own good time. Send Nurse Fishwick in, will you?’
Emmie scuttled off to do his bidding. She didn’t blame him for smashing things, didn’t care about all the extra cleaning just lately. If them two lovely lads had been hers – why, she’d have smashed every pot in the house and every bloody window and all.
The nurse was on the landing, just closing Mrs Swainbank’s door.
‘He wants you, Nurse. Will I sit with the Missus?’
‘No need. Her sister-in-law’s with her. Doctor Blunt has administered a strong sedative to keep the mistress quiet till it’s all over.’
‘She won’t be going, then? To the funeral?’
‘It wouldn’t do her any good, Emmie. She’s fought us all morning, but now she’ll probably sleep till they all get back from the churchyard. I’ll stay with her. Mrs Alice will be going—’
‘Mr Swainbank says we’ve to call her Mrs Fenner with her getting married again. I don’t think he likes her much—’
‘Shush, dearie. Keep your thoughts to yourself, especially now.’
‘He’s like a bear with a sore head,’ warned Emmie in a whisper as they descended the curved stairway. ‘Suppose it’s only to be expected.’
Nurse Fishwick entered the hall. He stood with his back towards her, gazing out across the lawns. ‘How is she?’ he asked without turning.
‘Not good. The doctor’s put her out, given her an extra-strong dose.’
‘That’s best. Sit down, will you?’
He joined her after a few moments, lowering his solid frame into the opposite armchair. ‘How long has she got?’ he asked bluntly.
She hesitated fractionally. But no, there was no point in beating about the bush, not with Mr Swainbank. He wanted the truth and he wanted it yesterday. Not like some relatives who just couldn’t accept what was evident to the least experienced of eyes. ‘That’s a difficult one, sir. It’s probably travelled all through her by now, but she could linger for months – even longer.’
‘I see. Is she . . . is she suffering?’
‘There’s some physical pain, some discomfort. But most of her misery is . . . well, the accident will more than likely make her worse. They kept her going, you see. She looked forward to their visits every day. I’ve seen cancer patients go on for years if they’ve had . . . well . . . an incentive. But we keep her dosed up, make sure she’s as comfortable as possible.’
‘And she still doesn’t know?’
‘Hard to say. I get the feeling she’s not quite aware of what she’s got. Later on, towards the end, she’ll probably catch on. Most do when they realize they’ve been in bed for so long without showing any signs of improvement.’
He ran a hand through thick brown waves. ‘Would she be better away – in a nursing home or a hospital? It’s obvious she can’t stand the sight of me—’
‘No.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Not yet. To send her away just now, after what’s happened – well, she’d be losing everything at once, wouldn’t she? Mr Swainbank, if you’ve no objection, I really think we should talk about this some other time. You’ve a lot to go through this morning. Perhaps we could discuss Mrs Swainbank’s condition in a week or so?’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ He stared hard at her. She was a fine figure of a woman, fifty if a day, but strong as a horse, loyal and good-hearted too. And she knew her place, always wore her stiffly-starched uniform and an encouraging smile, always spoke to him properly, not like some medical folk who treated every person as if he had brain damage and couldn’t understand the simplest thing. ‘I appreciate your concern for me and mine, Nurse. Whatever happens, don’t let her suffer. She’s suffered enough with one thing and another. I couldn’t have let her go with us today.’
‘I understand.’ She knew the real reason why his wife was being confined to quarters. Even if she had been fit to go, he’d have left her behind, terrified in case she screamed at him from the wheelchair, cursed him as she had these last days. ‘I think they’re here, Mr Swainbank.’
His face blanched as he rose slowly to his feet. ‘Get me a brandy, Molly,’ he whispered.
‘Pardon?’
He gazed at her without comprehension.
‘You called me Molly, Mr Swainbank.’
‘Did I? Must be in a world of my own. Why, Molly’s been gone fifteen years or more. She was a servant, a housemaid. And you look nothing like her. No. No.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing like her at all. Get me a brandy, will you? A very large one.’
Yes, Molly had been gone for a long, long time, Molly with the laughing eyes and cheeky grin. Whatever had he been thinking of?
Nurse Fishwick brought the brandy and he swallowed it in one huge gulp, shuddering as it scalded his parched throat.
Perkins opened the front doors and eight burly men in black entered, the undertaker with his shiny black hat behind them. Charles’ eyes skimmed over this solemn group. ‘Shan’t need all of you,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll be carrying my own.’
The servants lined up in the hallway while the two coffins were carried through. Perkins, who had been butler, valet, part-time chauffeur and jack of all trades for some time, bit hard into his lower lip. He’d seen some funerals in his time, but nothing as downright tragic as this. They’d been fine lads, right enough, solid Swainbanks through and through, though Master John had allowed his mam to soften him a bit.
Perkins and Mrs Marshall, who
was usually called Mrs M, were attending the funeral as representatives of the house staff and neither looked forward to this dubious honour. Mrs M, the cook-housekeeper, had cried into her bread dough all morning while Perkins himself had taken it out on the Master’s favourite car, polishing the thing to within an inch of its existence. And Mr Swainbank looked terrible, like an old man as he tried to bear the weight of his own children – aye – in more ways than one.
Perkins took the two servants’ wreaths and laid them on the coffins in the hearses, then he and Mrs M waited for the third car, watching as Mrs Fenner and her son got into the first with the Master. The manservant glanced sideways at his friend and companion. ‘God help us if that one takes over,’ he muttered from the corner of his mouth.
‘Shush,’ she answered without moving her head. ‘We can’t do nowt about it, so just frame yourself not to think on such things.’
Perkins grunted his disapproval. She was likely over the moon, that Mrs Alice, or Mrs Fenner as she was called now. Hardly a brass farthing to her name since her spendthrift husband upped and offed. No sign of him, was there? Oh no, he’d not be bothered attending the funeral, but he’d get back sharpish if he knew there might be money about. Aye, she’d be all right now, that one. And her chinless son would want for nowt if things went as Perkins dreaded. There was no one else, was there? Cyril was the end of the line and what a bloody end, eh?
In the second car, Perkins caught sight of the managers and their wives, faces white with shock because no doubt they’d taken in the implications by this time. Not that the Master was old – nay, he’d be around for a while yet. But what about after him? Yes, they all looked grey-faced and weary-worn this morning in spite of the sunshine.
Charles Swainbank saw little. Alice kept patting his hand and muttering words of encouragement while her son sat as still as stone next to her, but Charles wasn’t really aware of any of it. The cortege pulled out of the estate and turned right for the town. Although the church and cemetery were well out of Bolton, tradition must be maintained and all three mills would be visited before the service.
With Love From Ma Maguire Page 27
