‘If—’ he began.
‘If what?’ Molly straightened and swivelled to face him. ‘If what?’
‘If I had some money . . . well . . . I could go abroad . . .’
In spite of her disability, Ma had to jump quickly to her feet, because Molly had thrown herself at the boy, was swearing, clawing, punching and spitting just as Edie would have done. ‘Stop it!’ screamed the older woman.
Janet entered, dropped the box, then dragged her mother away from Joey. ‘Don’t, Mam. He’s not worth it, not worth anything.’
Molly sobbed inconsolably in her daughter’s arms. ‘Get up the stairs,’ snapped Janet. ‘And stay there until you’re told different.’
Joey slunk out of the room.
‘Mam . . . come on now, sit down till I make a drink. Gran, make her sit still. Mother – will you stop it? We’ve made enough noise already – Mrs Seddon will be sending for the police next news! Gran, reach in that drawer and get her an Aspro. Stop shaking, Mam. It’s not your fault . . .’
‘It is! You don’t know – any of you! You just don’t know—’
‘Be quiet!’ snapped Ma. Not now, dear God, let her not say it all now, not on top of everything else. And Janet was coping so well, organizing tea, wrapping a shawl round Mollys’s shoulders, forcing her to swallow the tablet. Yet the girl was near to breaking, Ma could see that.
‘I’m not a good mother,’ wailed Molly. ‘I’m not a good woman! It’s me – can’t you see, it’s me!’
Ma raised her good hand and delivered a sizeable blow to Molly’s cheek. ‘Sorry,’ she said straight away. ‘But we don’t want the hyst . . . erics.’
Molly whimpered quietly into her teacup.
Now that the drama was over, Yorick indulged in a good scratch before settling down in front of the fire. He would never work them out, the way they carried on. And he was too tired to care anyway, too full of dinner. Yet he kept a weather eye on Ma. She was still the best of the bunch, the most predictable. Wherever she went, he would go.
They carried the money to Ma’s bed, peeling back blue and white striped ticking to reveal a plain flock mattress bag beneath. Between these two layers the coins and notes were lodged, right at the bottom of the bed so that Ma would suffer no discomfort.
‘I’ll sew it up proper tomorrow, Ma.’ Molly was calmer now. ‘I wonder how that poor old soul’s getting on? You did send for an ambulance, Janet? They did say they’d go to her?’
Janet laid a hand on her mother’s arm. ‘Yes. When they asked who I was, I kept on screaming her address and saying she was hurt bad. They got the message. She’ll be in hospital, Mam.’ Just in time, she managed to bite back, ‘or with the undertaker’.
‘And what about our Joey?’ Molly looked from Janet to Ma. ‘What about him?’
‘As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t even exist!’ Janet’s voice was cold.
Ma shook her head. ‘Your brother. What . . . ever, he is your brother.’
‘And Seamus Maguire’s your husband, my granddad. But you wouldn’t have him back, not after what he did.’
‘Not the sa . . . me! Joey did a bad thing. My hus . . . band is a terror . . . ist. Joey will settle down.’
Janet took the cardboard box and tore it into tiny pieces, pushing them one by one on to the fire. ‘Look at us, covering up for him.’ Her eyes shone angrily in the flickering light. ‘Just because he’s family.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ma clearly. ‘Joey is your family. Never forget that.’
Chapter 9
‘I have nothing to say to you, young man.’
‘But – Miss Leason! You’re lying here with a cracked skull and enough bruises to cover a blackboard—’
‘Feed my cats!’ She glared at him with the one unbandaged eye. ‘It was all my own doing. I slipped, fell, must have banged my head against the fireplace. Old women do that sort of thing, constable. It’s called having an accident. Now. Where are my cats?’
‘The neighbours are seeing to them.’
‘Good enough.’ She heaved herself into a sitting position. ‘Then you will bring my clothes and allow me some privacy while I dress myself.’
‘You what?’ He turned and waved frantically at the ward sister. ‘She’s for going home,’ he shouted.
Sister arrived at the bedside, starched apron crackling, eyes flashing with barely contained temper. ‘You will remain exactly where you are, Madam.’
‘Miss.’
‘You cannot go home. This is the only place for a person with concussion . . .’
‘I think I am the better judge of that. The food is not edible, the bed is obviously made of bricks and mortar – I am therefore returning to my own house.’
Sister’s face hardened further. ‘If necessary, I shall fasten you into that bed, Miss Leason. Your home is unfit for human habitation and you will go back to it when it is cleaned and fumigated.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me! Now, I have no wish to get you certified . . .’
‘Certified? How dare you! Do you realize who I am?’
‘We know who you are, all right. But you can’t carry on living like that no matter what your name is. If it comes to a fight, then I’ll get two doctors to sign you in as mentally unfit.’
‘Don’t you dare threaten me, woman!’ Her head was banging like a drum as she lay back against rock-hard pillows and surveyed the other occupants of the large ward. ‘What’s the matter with you all?’ she screamed in spite of the pain. ‘Are you afraid of this creature? She’s just another bloody woman, wears knickers like the rest of us. And I am not insane!’
The policeman bent over the bed. ‘Look, love . . .’
‘Miss Leason, if you please.’ She fixed him with a steely eye. ‘Get me out of here.’
‘I can’t.’ He raised his palms in frustration. ‘You won’t tell us anything, won’t co-operate – is it any wonder Sister thinks you’re crackers? It’s obvious you were thumped over the head while you were horsewhipping whoever broke in—’
‘Nobody broke in! Are you deaf as well as bloody stupid?’
‘Then why have you only got half a back door, eh?’
‘I broke it.’
‘Broke it?’ He passed a hand over his prematurely balding pate. ‘The glass was lifted out in one piece!’
‘Oh.’
He folded his arms and arranged his face into what he hoped was an encouraging and patient expression. ‘Somebody removed the glass, came into the house, pinched all your money—’
‘Which money? Who said anything about money?’
He floundered for a second. ‘Well . . . we thought . . . as there was no cash in the house . . . we thought you’d been robbed of every penny.’
‘You were wrong.’
‘There wasn’t even the price of a loaf and a bowl of dripping! Where is your money, Miss Leason?’
‘Safe.’
‘Safe where?’
‘That’s for me, my bank manager and my lawyer to know. And unless you have any more questions, I suggest you leave and let the dragon get on with her job.’
The blue-clad figure of the nurse stiffened. ‘My name is Sister Cornwell.’
Miss Leason nodded. ‘Yes. I dare say you need no matches to light the fire! Well, you don’t frighten me, Nursie! Try to get me certified and I shall sue you, the doctor and the bloody hospital too! We’ll see who comes out of this saner, you or I! However, I am prepared to admit to a slight headache, which even you are probably capable of treating.’
‘You were unconscious for hours,’ said the sister. ‘And you will behave yourself while you are here on my ward.’
‘If I don’t, might I get thrown out by any splendid chance?’
The nurse turned on her heels and marched into her office.
‘Touchy bugger,’ said the patient. ‘Are you sure my cats are being cared for?’
‘Are you sure you’ve nothing to tell me?’
‘Absolutely sure
.’
He sighed. ‘We’ll see to the cats until you get out of here. But you’re wrong, you know. I think you’re protecting somebody. Why? What for? What if he does it again to somebody else?’
‘Go away.’
‘Miss Leason, please . . .’
‘Go.’
He picked up his helmet and left, head shaking slowly as he wondered anew about the vagaries of human nature. She’d been clobbered, right enough – and she knew who’d done it.
Sarah Leason lay on the rigid bed, her mind going over the events of the previous evening. Joey bloody Maguire! It occurred to her that this boy had every penny she owned, every last farthing of the money. If he didn’t bring it back, then what would she live on? And how long were they going to keep her in this terrible place, all trussed up like a chicken and in a bed with sides like an infant’s cot? Could they really detain her against her will?
She was in pain, though she’d never tell the dragon that. Her head felt as if it had been flattened by a tram, while every bone in her body ached continually. Poor Ma Maguire. There was no explaining this at all. How could Joey be delinquent when the rest of the family was so well-behaved? Apart from Paddy, who was merely lazy – and even he had his better side, was soft-hearted and easy to coax.
Across the room a row of crones stared back at her, each contained in a cot similar to hers, each with all the marks of age cut deep into withered features. Did she look like that? Very probably. Of course, they’d all be having visitors this afternoon, children, grandchildren, perhaps even great-grand-children. She had no-one. Until now, she had needed and wanted nobody, had chosen to be alone. A husband might have proved an encumbrance, especially when it came to the mines. Which man would have got rid of them as she had, which man could have given up the promise of such an easy income? But now, in this disadvantaged state, she wondered whether or no she’d done the right thing all those years ago, turning away suitors, backing off from the mainstream, isolating herself so completely. A grandchild or two would have been such a comfort.
The future held little promise – none at all if she didn’t retrieve the money. But she couldn’t have informed on Joey. Policemen were not on Miss Leason’s list of favoured people. She’d had her own encounters with them, arguments about rights of way and hunt sabotage, the odd row when she’d tackled a hunt head-on, often scattering dogs and unseating riders by the indiscriminate firing of a gun, the throwing of exploding fireworks. She smiled grimly as she remembered her favourite court appearance after baptizing the Master of Hounds with a pan of hot custard. Yellow for cowardice.
Was she a coward now, lying here and letting Joey Maguire get away with near murder? No! She would have her day with him. It was, after all, only money.
Amelia Swainbank watched her husband walking up the driveway, his shoulders rounded and bent like those of an old man. She lay on the chaise longue in front of her full-height window, a warm wrap about her shoulders, a rug spread over her knees. Charles was suffering, that was plain to see. He would be coming up soon, paying his evening visit before settling down in the study with orders and accounts. He was a strange man, because although he employed an army of clerks and accountants, he still insisted on overall supervision, particularly of the financial side.
Of course, that was probably typical of a tradesman. Her own father had been a professional, a doctor of medicine, had always worn an air of one not quite in touch with his fellow man, an aloofness that precluded direct approach. So different, these two men who had dominated her life, but Amelia had few regrets. Charles had been such a wonderful husband, a loving father . . .
‘Amelia! You’re up – what a marvellous surprise! Feeling better?’ He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Yes, you look almost well today.’
‘I’m much stronger thank you, dear. Pull up a chair and keep me company for a few minutes.’
She studied him while he fetched a dressing stool from the opposite side of the room. He was still a fine figure of a man, still handsome as long as he didn’t stoop. She chided him now. ‘You’re becoming round-shouldered. One of the few things I admired about your father was that he carried his height well. I’ll have to force you to walk round with a pile of books balanced on your head. That’s what I had to do at finishing school.’
‘I see. And what else did they manage to teach you in the middle of the Alps?’
‘Nothing meaningful. Except for the naughty girls who got friendly with the ground staff – they learned a bit of yodelling among other things. We goodies spent a lot of time doing embroidery, gossiping, speculating about the husband market.’ She paused, her voice cracking. ‘Oh Charles – what are we going to do without them? I try so hard to be cheerful when you come home—’
He reached across and patted her knee. ‘No need. Don’t put on an act for me. You’re entitled to be heartbroken.’
‘Even so – the things I said, the way I blamed you for allowing them the car – that was dreadful of me. I didn’t mean all that. You must believe me.’
‘I know. But anger is a perfectly normal emotion and you had to throw the book at somebody. Still, I don’t mind you throwing the damned things as long as I don’t have to go walking about with a pile of Oxford dictionaries on my head. Now come on – don’t cry . . .’ He couldn’t bear her tears, never had been able to cope with her sudden swings of mood. Now, of course, such changes were inevitable – apart from the boys’ deaths, there was her condition to be considered. But underneath her fragile facade, Amelia had always been a woman of great power, a manipulative creature with a fine brain and the skill to use it whenever necessary. He loved her. Over the years, the initial passion had lessened, only to be replaced by something stronger, a sense of comradeship and respect, a need for her to simply be there at the end of a working day. Soon, he would lose her too . . .
‘Number three’s looking good,’ he said, desperately seeking to alter her train of thought. ‘The whole place has been upgraded and rewired and most of the new frames are in.’
‘Many of them went to the funeral, so I’m told.’
He inclined his head; she would not be diverted. ‘Yes. They . . . they cared, Amelia. They’ve probably always cared in their own way—’
‘Their way’s no different from ours, my love.’ She sighed her exhaustion as quietly as she could. Such an obvious snob, this dear man. Like many who had risen through trade, he remained haunted by humble beginnings, kept a false distance between himself and those designated as truly working class, manufactured a space so that any similarities between himself and those who served might pass unnoticed.
‘Have you had a good day?’ he was asking now.
A good day? She could scarcely remember one. Something tore at her insides, ripping them apart it seemed, allowing her pain beyond measure until Nurse Fishwick decided to allocate a portion of relative peace, doses whose frequency needed to be increased daily now. She smiled up at him bravely. A brave wife was a good wife – and she would be good right up to the end. ‘Yes, I’ve had a good day.’ The illness was terminal, of that she had become absolutely sure. She had always been slim, but now she was positively skeletal, like some poor starved victim of war. Yes, she was just skin and bone, nothing left but spirit – and that too would be quenched soon enough.
So. There remained several delicate matters, subjects about which Charles must be approached while her faculties remained intact. Life was becoming hazy these days – on occasion, she was forced to positively reach out in order to make true contact. Although she was about to leave the world, it was as if the situation had been reversed and the world was slipping away from her, abandoning her gradually. In her head there was little pain, but whatever sat in her chest and stomach had gone on a journey, tentacles extending into new areas as it decided to claim more territory for itself. Like an invaded and unarmed country, she was forced to simply lie there while the aggressor established himself, her own defences too diminished for any real resistance.
‘
How long have you been out of bed?’
‘Oh, an hour or more. I have to make an effort, Charles. It isn’t easy, not without my boys to cheer me on. But I still have you and you’re more than worth it.’ She blinked rapidly as his face swam out of focus. ‘We need to talk, dear.’
‘We are talking.’
‘I meant we should really talk. About the future.’
‘I see.’ He touched her hand. ‘You sound very . . . serious. What is it?’
‘I’ll try not to cry, Charles. The days for weeping, for myself at least, are long past. Yes, death is a serious business, but it must be faced sensibly. The loss we have suffered will lessen my time with you. No – I beg you – don’t tell me I am going to recover. I’m not a stupid woman and I should prefer to be treated as intelligent until my senses desert me completely. That is going to happen, Charles. Gradually, I shall stop being myself. My hearing, sight and balance are already affected and it’s getting worse. However, while the recognition of one’s own imminent ending is a test of sanity, it does not deaden reason completely. Not at this stage. My powers of reason will no doubt disappear in their own good time.’
‘Amelia . . . please!’
She held up her hand to cut off whatever he was about to utter. ‘I just want you to know that I don’t blame you for the death of our sons. I think that’s very important for both of us. We feel so guilty when a loved one dies – things we ought to have done, ways in which we might have prevented such tragedies. When a child dies, all that is intensified because life has somehow got disordered. Parents die before their children. That is so regularly expected that it’s become an unwritten law. Please don’t blame yourself, Charles—’
With Love From Ma Maguire Page 33
