With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  For answer, Charles opened the door of the car. ‘I’ll have to see that those who attended the funeral don’t get penalized—’

  ‘Use the phone!’

  ‘No. It must be done personally. It touched me deeply, that they would come out to the cemetery and risk losing pay. Devotion must always be rewarded, Perkins.’

  The man swallowed audibly. ‘They were grand lads, sir, and everybody knew it. A credit to you and the Missus. Whatever will we do without them, Mr Swainbank?’

  ‘I don’t know. And that’s the truth, I really don’t. I keep expecting to see them running about the tennis court or playing cricket on the lawn. It’s so damned quiet, isn’t it? No, I’m not sure what we’ll do. But I’ll sort something out – for the mills, I mean. For us, for the way we feel, I can do nothing.’

  He drove quickly down country lanes, not fully sure where he was going. Yet somewhere inside himself, he knew his destination. Thoughts only half-formed were taking root in his mind, seedlings too young to flourish just yet. Number three mill. He left his car in the cobbled yard and made his way to the manager’s office on the first floor. Tom Bishop looked up in surprise as he entered.

  ‘All right, Tom?’

  ‘Er . . . fine, Mr Swainbank. Sit down here.’ He cleared some samples from a chair. ‘Didn’t expect to see you, not today.’ When no answer was forthcoming, he decided to switch to business matters. Happen the boss needed his mind shifting off things. ‘Good batch in last week, best raw we’ve had in months, it’s carding up a treat.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Nice little mill, this. Always has been my favourite. I expect you’re proud of all this refurbishment?’

  ‘Oh aye. And they’re fighting to get taken on here with the conditions and all. Very attractive compared to most.’

  ‘Master John had a deal to do with that, Tom. Remember him eating here the day we opened the canteen? Then he went out there and worked in every bit of the mill, carding and winding all day. He was over the moon when he saw the new machines spread out with space between. And look how he took to ring-spinning.’

  ‘Yes. Like a duck to water, eh? We all remember, we do that.’

  Charles gazed through the window at the large Swainbank sign painted vertically on a chimney. ‘There’s nothing will bring them back, Tom. Thanks for coming this morning – thank your wife too.’

  ‘Aw, it was only because we wanted to come. Them lads meant a lot to us. I keep thinking back to when they were little and up to mischief, pinching tubes for guns and getting in a right tear for messing in the skips. I clouted the pair of them many a time—’

  ‘Only because I told you to, Tom. They had to learn—’

  ‘Aye.’

  Learn what? For what reason? Both men stared at the floor.

  ‘Give everybody ten per cent bonus. Every last one of them. Those who attended the burial are to have no stoppages. Even if they failed to return . . .’ Charles cleared his throat. ‘The people who remained here and kept the wheels moving are to be similarly treated. Ten per cent all round. Management included.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, Mr Swainbank.’

  ‘Let the other mills know, will you?’ He shifted uneasily. ‘Tell me – does Ma Maguire still work here?’

  ‘Ma Maguire?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘No, more’s the pity. We used to move her about between all three mills, she was a good teacher for apprentices. One of the best weavers I’ve ever met, that one. Had a feel for the cloth, you see. Like seeing a bit of poetry, it was, looking at one of her lengths – if that doesn’t sound too daft, like. Nimble-fingered and sharp-mouthed was our Ma. Mind, we never heard her in the sheds with the machines going. Thankful for small mercies, eh?’

  Charles placed his hat on the desk. ‘Where is she now?’ he asked carefully. ‘I’m taking an interest because she looked after my father for years, something of a herbalist—’

  ‘Oh aye, she’s as good as most doctors. Only she’s taken a stroke by all accounts. Oh – a couple of months ago, it was. Her daughter-in-law came up and told us.’

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘That’s right, I believe she is called Molly.’

  ‘She worked for us as a housemaid, left to marry Ma Maguire’s son.’ He cleared his throat. ‘How are they all faring, then?’

  ‘Not sure. There’s four kiddies, I think. I dare say Ma will come back to work given half a chance, only I don’t know how the stroke’s left her. They’re still living in the same place near Leatherbarrow’s mill, corner of Delia Street. Come to think, he likely owns their house.’

  ‘I see.’ Charles rose and picked up his hat. ‘I’ll not be calling on the other managers today, Tom. They’ll understand why. Just pass on my messages, will you?’

  ‘I will.’

  Tom stood at the window and watched the boss driving away. This had been one of the few times he’d known Swainbank to ask about a worker. Mind, if she’d looked after his dad, it was understandable. Though rumour had it that old Richard had wanted a bit more out of Ma, not just her medicines, but that was all in the past now. Poor Charlie was likely just reminiscing, looking back over better days.

  Charles drove around aimlessly for an hour or more, up and down Bradshawgate and Deansgate, past the Town Hall, over Trinity Street bridge, along Manchester Road and back again.

  Eventually, inevitably, he found himself on School Hill, the car parked outside Leatherbarrow’s which formed the top of a T across the end of Delia Street. He stared for a long time at the corner house until he noticed four children making their way along the pavement.

  The smallest, a girl, was a pretty little thing with bouncing yellow curls. A slightly older boy, darker in colouring, walked by her side, clogs sparking as he scraped the flags.

  Behind these two came the others, the twins. Even from a distance of thirty yards or more, Charles could see that the boy was his, the same brown hair and near-black eyes. The girl was unbelievably beautiful, golden-haired and with lighter eyes of a shade he could not determine from so far away. Long before they reached the door and turned the knob, thereby confirming it all, Charles knew that these were his children.

  A tremendous surge of hope filled his chest, only to be squashed immediately by the mental images of John and Peter whom he felt he was betraying by his very presence here. He started the car and shot away at speed, leaving the four children gaping after him from the front of their house.

  He slept badly that night, tossing and turning in the bed, his mind a tangle of confusing and often conflicting thoughts. Awake, he considered John and Peter, the brevity of their lives, the abruptness of their departure. Asleep, he dreamed of a dark-eyed boy and an incredibly attractive girl, flesh of his flesh, Swainbank blood in their veins. He woke with a start, sweat pouring down his face. What where they like? Who were they like?

  A nightmare followed, Rivington Pike, laughing eyes that matched the green of surrounding fields, all that tumbling and bumping down, down to the bottom, down to the bed where she did not struggle. Molly. Seventeen, too young to know. His daughter was just two years younger than Molly had been. Would some man do the same to her . . . ?

  ‘No!’ He found himself standing beside the bed, his legs shaking so badly that he tumbled to the floor, the loud exclamation still echoing round the room. He was their father. The ‘Maguire’ twins had been supported all along by Swainbank money. Surely, that would be proof enough?

  He crawled on hands and knees to the window. The slow seconds of dawn ticked by. Did he want to be their father? What would it do to Amelia if she discovered that he had two illegitimate children? Could he announce his claim to this boy and girl, shout it from the rooftops of a town which, though large, was the size of a village when it came to gossip?

  So many people to hurt. And the twins were on the list, right at the top. What must he do?

  Instinct prevailed in the end, instinct that was blind and deaf to reason and common sense.

  He
rose at eight and took breakfast in his room. After a bath and a shave, he picked up the telephone and spoke first to his lawyer, then to a man of dubious background, a person who had helped him more than once to spy on rival concerns.

  By ten o’clock, Charles sat in his solicitor’s office, hearing, though hardly willing to listen, as Philip Charnock ranted and raved.

  ‘Bloody madness,’ he was saying now. ‘Why don’t you think about it, Charlie? You buried your sons only yesterday – can’t you see you’re still in shock? This is absolute and utter lunacy . . .’

  ‘They’re my children.’ There was a stubborn note in his voice.

  ‘Ah yes – now that it suits you. Until today, you haven’t shown the slightest interest in them. For all you knew, they might have been at the other end of the world starving to death. Your lack of interest would not look good in court—’

  ‘Stop being judgemental. They have not been starving, Philip. The whole family’s been kept.’

  Philip Charnock walked round the desk and sat on its edge, studying his friend closely. ‘Have you had any sleep?’

  ‘Not much. But that’s hardly the issue—’

  ‘Go home. Have a rest, then think about all this, please.’

  ‘No. I want to see what they’re made of, these two. How old are they now? Precisely, I mean?’

  ‘Fifteen in a few weeks. Look, Charlie. I’m going to be straight with you. Until now, the arrangement this firm made between your father and the Maguires’ solicitor has not been significant, but if you are intent on pursuing this course of action, then I must warn you that there is a great deal more to it than meets the eye.’

  ‘Really? Well fire away, I’ve got all day.’

  ‘It’s complicated. You were never put fully in the picture. There was no need to—’

  ‘Come on! Stop beating about the bush, for goodness sake!’

  ‘All right then! But keep your hair on! Now, my dealings with the actual family amount to nil. I communicate from time to time with Barton – he’s Ma Maguire’s representative, but everything is done on an impersonal basis, all very formal and legal. I must tell you now that Molly Maguire is not aware of your involvement. The children are, to all intents and purposes, Patrick Maguire’s.’

  ‘What? That buffoon? Have you seen my children?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Or him? Have you seen him?’

  ‘No. Listen to me, Charlie. All four children are properly registered as Maguires.’

  ‘Well, two of them are Swainbanks.’

  The lawyer sighed deeply. ‘You’d have a job to prove that.’

  Charles laughed, a humourless sound that made his friend shiver. ‘Let her face me in court and say those twins are not mine! Let her swear that my family has not supported them—’

  ‘As far as she is concerned, they have received no support.’

  Seconds passed. ‘What?’ yelled Charles. ‘She thinks I just left her to cope . . . that my father didn’t pay . . . did nobody tell her? And where’s the bloody money gone?’

  ‘Straight to Mrs Maguire – the grandmother. Apparently, she agreed to allow her son to marry the housemaid in exchange for certain securities. The mother of the twins is completely unaware of all this. As far as the younger Mrs Maguire is concerned, nobody but herself knows that the children are not her husband’s.’

  Charles shook his head slowly. ‘No. Molly will be aware. Any discerning person can see that those two are not Maguires. She must see my face every time . . . The boy in particular looks so much like me.’ He paused. ‘I wonder what she’s thinking now? Does she realize that I might be looking for them?’

  ‘Probably not. She’ll believe that you, along with the rest of the world, have been fooled into thinking the children were Patrick’s. If you had paid maintenance directly to her, if you’d admitted paternity, then you might have had a case.’

  ‘But I do have a case! All that money and the property deeds too – I wouldn’t be giving those away to just anyone!’

  ‘Charlie, the old girl has kept her side of the bargain. When the shops are turned over to her as the twins’ financial guardian, she will say she’s had a windfall from a distant branch of her family in Ireland. This was all agreed with your father. Nothing was ever said about you claiming the twins.’

  ‘They are mine!’ His face darkened with anger. ‘I’ve a lot to offer.’

  ‘Not to them, Charlie. They wouldn’t understand your life, wouldn’t want it. The working class has its own pride, you know. They’ve no time for velvet drapes and crystal chandeliers. If you tried to claim those children, it would be like . . . like taking a polar bear and putting it to live in the tropics. You can’t do it, Charlie. You simply can’t—’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Charles rose and picked up his hat and driving gloves.

  ‘Don’t do anything foolish, I beg you . . .’

  ‘I’ve only done one foolish thing in my life, Philip. And even that could turn out to be a bonus. We shall see.’

  ‘Charlie . . .’ But he was gone.

  That night, a shabby figure in a black overcoat and with a hat pulled well over the eyes visited Charles. They sat in the conservatory, well out of reach of servants’ inquisitive ears.

  ‘Well?’ asked Charles. ‘And take that damn fool hat off, Lucas. You’re not following some gangster through the East End now!’

  The man placed the offending item on the floor.

  ‘Well? Out with it. I’m told you’re so clever you could even find out what the PM says in his sleep if the price was right. Surely the assignment was not too much for you?’

  The visitor took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Joseph Arthur Maguire,’ he read. ‘Born July 1922. Address, 34 Delia Street – a house consisting of two downstairs rooms plus scullery, an outside lavatory of the tippler variety, a small wash-house and three upstairs rooms. The house is well-kept. Let me see – one of twins, the other’s a girl, Janet Edith. Local Catholic school, due to leave next month. Joseph’s work record is fair, the girl’s is excellent. Good attendance. Healthy and robust according to my sources and on personal observation I found them both to have strong limbs, no sign of rickets or poor nourishment. The girl is exceptionally pretty.’

  ‘You spoke to them?’

  ‘To him, yes. She walked off, said she hadn’t to talk to strangers. But the boy is made of sterner stuff, Mr Swainbank. Quite a character, in fact.’

  Charles smiled grimly. ‘Oh yes? In what way?’

  ‘Very amusing, sir, an inventive chap. He’s already attempted several small business ventures . . . but I won’t bore you with anecdotes.’

  ‘Tell me what makes you grin.’

  The man rearranged his features. ‘The most amusing was a vegetable round. He and a couple of other boys bought a metal bin which they placed on a cart, then a few potato peelers and a stone of spuds. They peeled the things and flogged them around School Hill. Joseph decided to branch out into carrots and swedes, but after finding the market to be poor, he reverted to potatoes until business collapsed.’

  ‘I see. What caused the collapse?’

  The mouth twitched. ‘Well, the cart fell to bits and his colleagues lost interest. He’s never forgiven them and swears the enterprise was sabotaged. As I said, quite a character.’

  ‘It would seem so. Anything else?’

  ‘He’s currently a pawnbroker’s runner, bringing in pledges for customers who want to save face. The idea is to put a bit by in the Post Office, though he’s highly offended because his sister won’t join him in the venture.’

  ‘Why won’t she?’

  ‘Bit of a socialist, I’d say. Won’t take tips, doesn’t like the idea of living off ill-gotten gains. She seems to have some high-faluting principles.’

  They were just like Peter and John! One with a business head, the other with causes to fight for!

  ‘Anyway, it seems that Joseph – he’s usually called Joey, by the way – is going into engineering
while Janet’s for the mill.’

  ‘Really? No mention of a shop or two in the town?’

  ‘None.’

  Ah well, perhaps Ma hadn’t broken the news yet, the news about her Irish legacy. If she’d suffered a stroke, then she might not be well enough to tell them what was about to happen. And if Molly didn’t know . . . how were they going to find out?

  ‘The boy is worried about his mother, says she seems to have had something on her mind these last couple of weeks.’

  Oh Molly, Molly! ‘He’s no idea of what she’s worrying about?’

  ‘Apparently not. Though her husband is terminally ill.’

  Charles sat bolt upright. ‘Are you sure?’

  The man tapped the side of his nose. ‘I didn’t get that from the lad, Mr Swainbank. Medical records—’

  ‘But how do you get access to—’

  ‘Don’t ask, sir. I’ve seen it in black and white. What can’t speak can’t lie. So perhaps Mrs Maguire is concerned for her husband’s health.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Caught bovine TB years ago. Mind, from the sound of him, his liver will go before the rest of him.’

  ‘Poor chap. He’s worked for me. When he’s sober, the man’s a damned good driver. I know the rest, I think. Ma Maguire with her stroke, boss of the street, herbalist and midwife.’

  ‘Lost her power of speech, but it’s returning.’ The man hesitated. ‘This boy . . . he’s all right, I suppose. But there’s a streak in him. I reckon he’d sell his own granny for a small consideration. His father he’d give away, but that may be understandable. Paddy sounds about as straight as a nine-bob note, bit of a police record for drunken behaviour. But Joey’s . . . hard for his age. He loves his mother, worships his twin sister, but I reckon the rest of us could go to the devil and he’d not notice.’

  ‘Ambitious?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Charles paid the man off, shaking his head as he watched the almost comically discreet exit with the hat back in place. But he had his uses, did old Lucas.