‘Your jokes haven’t improved then?’
‘So fetch me snuff!’ And pray to God, she said silently, for your mammy not to do anything foolish. The hopes of a lifetime could be dashed this day. And not a thing could Ma Maguire do about it.
Molly began the long walk up the drive to the big house, her movements, still fuelled by temper, continuing swift and determined. She wasn’t going round the back, no – not bloody likely. Long enough she’d been a servant here, eating the leftovers that old Bea had allowed the minions, begging for a set of new pinnies, jumping every time a bell rang. Well, she was going to use the big doorbell this time like a proper visitor and she couldn’t care less if King George himself opened the door! Or Mrs Amelia, come to that! Aye, the time for worrying over what folk in this house thought was long past! She walked past terraced gardens and between the two crouching stone lions that guarded the paved path to the main entrance. God, the size of this house just for a family of three or four! Big enough for the Irish Guards including horses, it was.
She paused for a moment on the top step, just to make sure that the seams on her coarse stockings were straight. No fine hose for Molly Maguire, though the lady of this house probably bought such items by the drawerful. Not that Molly wanted fancy clothes and the like – oh no – all she wanted was her children. She rang the bell loud and long, feeling the hackles rising on her back, recognizing in herself the symptoms she often noticed in that daft dog at home when he was unsettled and the hair stood on end along his spine. Perhaps she should have brought him. He didn’t take kindly to strangers, didn’t Yorick, would have stuck up for her in his own dumb way. Yes, she was reacting just like an animal, though she could hardly compare herself to Ma’s canine friend, because at this moment, she felt more like a tigress ready to pounce when cubs were threatened. Not that the threat was visible – she’d no proof that Charlie might be interested in the twins. All the same, just to make sure, she’d let him know where he stood, she would that!
A man opened the door. ‘Yes?’ His tone was pleasant and polite enough.
‘I want to see Mr Swainbank, Mr Charles Swainbank. And it has to be private like – just him and me.’
‘I see. Are you expected?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ She refrained from adding ‘and I couldn’t care less.’ ‘If you tell him Molly Dobson’s here, I don’t doubt he’ll see me quick enough.’
The man stepped aside and allowed Molly to enter the wide hall, which was in itself a room big enough to accommodate a sizeable family. She stood by a large oval table, the first seeds of uncertainty taking root in her mind. It was one thing feeling righteous and angry out on the road, but another matter entirely here on his patch with all the surrounding grandeur. What was she going to say to him? Was she being a bit on the hasty side, coming all the way up here on the bounce without a ha’p’orth of proof or solid evidence to go on? After all, he’d kept his distance . . . But no! The money, all that cash handed round behind her back year in and year out – it wasn’t right!
As soon as Charles entered the hall, she turned on him, the full force of her frustration stopping him dead just inside the doorway.
‘You conniving bugger!’ she spat. ‘All this time I’ve thought I was rid of you. Even felt sorry for you, I did – why, I come up to that cemetery to see your poor lads going under! I’ve been bothered a time or two, worried in case you’d done your sums and worked out that happen my twins were yours, but I felt you had no hold, no say. Then I found this.’ She hurled the box across the floor and it skimmed over the highly polished surface until it rested at his feet. He bent slowly to pick it up as she continued, ‘You and her, you and Ma Maguire—’
‘What about me and Ma Maguire?’ He straightened. ‘I’ve never seen the woman for years—’
‘You’ve sent her money though! Money I thought she’d earned fair and square in that mill of yours! You weren’t meant to know about the children – she had no right to tell you! But there you’ve been, plotting away without me—’ She pounded her chest to emphasize her words, ‘without me – their mother – knowing what was going on.’
He walked across the room and placed Ma’s box on the mantelpiece. ‘This was none of my doing, Molly.’
‘Oh, I know that! It was that old devil, that father of yours! I reckon he’d have been happier if I’d had my babies killed with a mucky knitting needle and a bottle of gin!’ She walked to within a few feet of him now. ‘I saved them – me! Not you that put them there, not Ma Maguire who sold her son for thirty pieces of filthy silver. Me! On me own with no help from you, no help from anybody! I wanted no help and I still want none. Nine months I carried my twins, fifteen years I’ve raised them. Proud of that, I was. Grateful to Ma too for working so hard for us, glad we never asked for a penny piece from your sweatshop hands—’
‘I don’t run sweatshops—’
‘Don’t you? Well, I’ve never seen a dry back coming out of one of your bloody mills!’ She knew she was being unreasonable, but wanted the chance to carry on venting her feelings, needed to let it all pour out, the worry, the tensions of nearly sixteen years caused by this man. ‘You’re a rat, Charlie Swainbank, a cowardly good-for-nothing sewer animal. Why didn’t you tell me you knew about my kids, eh? Why?’
‘Molly—’ He reached out to touch her arm. ‘Calm down for Christ’s sake—’
‘Keep away from me!’ She backed towards the corner. ‘You’re dirty, you are. When I think back – there I was, straight from school and into your mother’s clutches, passed from her hands into yours . . . oh God, I feel sick! Treated me like horse-muck, she did. Then along you came with your fancy white scarf and your fancy black car, carrying on as if you thought I might be half-human after all—’
‘Stop this, Molly! Stop it now! I will not have behaviour like this in my house. I loved you! All right? Does that make any difference? I bloody loved you! Half of me wanted to walk away from my life here just to find you and be with you. But we don’t do that. Swainbanks don’t walk away, aren’t allowed to. Don’t tell me you’re the only sufferer, don’t carry on like a wretched martyr. I’m sorry. What more can I say?’
She squared up to him. ‘Sorry? What’s sorry worth to me, eh? Nowt a pound!’ She clicked her fingers under his nose. ‘Now I find out you’ve got shops lined up for Joey and Janet – what next, I wonder? A king’s ransom, a bucket of gold? Huh!’ Her lip curled. ‘Are you coming after mine because you’ve lost the other two? Can’t you get yourself some more? If your wife’s not having them, surely you can find some other daft bugger of a servant to carry your kids. You are the scum of the earth, Charlie Swainbank – for all your swank and posh furniture, you’re no good!’
‘Have you finished?’
‘Oh aye, I have that! But I’m here to make sure you’ve finished as far as me and mine are concerned. I tell you now, if you come within a mile of my children, I’ll kill you. Right?’
He leaned against the oak mantel, his head shaking slowly from side to side. ‘I didn’t have much say in the bargain struck between my father and your mother-in-law. If shop premises are available for your children, then all that was arranged by others. Any money sent to Ma Maguire was never handled by me – this has been a matter between lawyers.’
‘I’ll pay every penny back.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I suggest we sit down, Molly.’
‘You can do as you like. I’ve not come here to show off me manners.’
‘I gathered that,’ he said grimly as he seated himself in a fireside chair. ‘Have it your own way then,’ he said after several moments’ consideration. ‘I’ll go to court and claim the twins as mine – I think there’s enough documentary evidence to support such a declaration. If you want a fight, I’ll give you one.’
‘What?’ In spite of her resolve, Molly fell crumpled into the chair opposite his. ‘So. You were thinking of it then! I knew it – I felt it in me bones! How ca
n you do that to me? Haven’t you done enough already? You and that old witch at home . . .’
‘That old witch cares for you, Molly. I firmly believe that she has always had your best interests at heart. In fact, I’d wager that she has not taken one penny for herself or for her son. But that is not the point just now. I wish to make provision for the twins and you are in no position to deny me. If you do, then I shall take the matter further.’
‘Don’t do it . . . please, don’t do it!’ She gritted her teeth. She’d come here to shout the odds, not to beg like a hungry hound. ‘Why? Why can’t you have some more kiddies? Or find a relative to take over after you?’
‘There is no-one, Molly. And my wife is upstairs dying of cancer.’
The ormolu clock ticked as she stared into his haggard face. Tears sprang readily to her eyes. ‘Oh no! Not Mrs Amelia! She can’t be much older than me!’
‘Thirty-six,’ he said gruffly. ‘And in a great deal of pain.’
She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, lad. See, I’ll go now—’
‘It’s all right. Amelia has been a long time dying, poor soul. Your going or staying will not alter the situation.’
Molly stared down at her cotton gloves. Her voice quieter now, she said, ‘Charlie, I don’t want them rich. I don’t want them having shops and certainly not mills. I’ve fetched them up and now you want to turn them into something else—’
‘We could compromise.’
‘How do you mean?’ Her eyes were round with surprise. ‘They’re either yours or Paddy’s – there’s no way to get round it!’
‘Just leave it all be, Molly. Look. Take the shops and let Ma say they’re from an Irish uncle – yes, my lawyer put me in the picture. I don’t want to fight you, really I don’t. What would be the point of a legal battle when I don’t even know Joey and Janet? Think about it. I get two children delivered to my door . . .’
‘One at most. My Janet would never come . . .’
‘All right – one child. Will he like that, will he want to be a Swainbank? Don’t push me into doing something we could all live to regret. But I will take no money back because I wronged you and I have a debt to pay, so I insist on continuing to maintain the situation you have provided for the twins. When I die, they will inherit all my property. The will is made, Molly. But you could well be long dead before it is ever implemented.’
‘But . . . my children will think I was a . . .’ Her voice died away.
‘A whore? No, it’s all in the will, the whole story. Well, what do you say?’
‘What can I say? Whichever road I turn, you’ll do what you want and never mind anybody else. Anyroad, haven’t you a nephew? Didn’t Master Harold have a lad? Why can’t you shove it all on to him? He’ll likely have been fetched up nearer the mark than my two – more gentrified.’
‘He’s useless.’
‘So might Joey be! Haven’t you thought that my lad has no idea of how to go about being a boss?’
‘I’ve thought. I’ve thought endlessly – believe me. If he proves himself in a shop, then he might be capable of bigger things. Joey is an unknown quantity. Cyril’s failure I’m sure of already—’
‘I’m so . . . so scared though—’
‘Don’t be. Please try not to feel threatened. But I shall be getting to know the twins and I’d advise you against trying to put a stop to that. They won’t learn yet that I’m their father – not from me, not unless it becomes absolutely unavoidable.’
Molly rose stiffly to her feet. Something about his tone annoyed her all over again. So controlled, so domineering – even though his wife lay dying, Charles Swainbank Esquire could go on discussing just about anything. As long as he had the upper hand, of course. ‘You’re not their father, Charlie. You’re a self-centred creature with no thought for anybody except him you see in the mirror every day. Yes, you’re a Swainbank all right. But you have never been a father to my children, wouldn’t have cared about them at all if the other two had lived. If you’d been a proper dad, happen them poor lads might have survived.’
‘How dare you?’ He leapt from the chair.
‘How dare I? Easy, that’s how. Because I know what you are, because I know you’ve spent your life up to the eyeballs in cotton and money, no thought for folk. Struck a nerve, have I?’
‘My sons died by accident . . .’
She nodded grimly. ‘Aye. But my two survived in spite of you and well away from you. They don’t go in cars, you see. I don’t want them going in cars and sitting at fancy tables with silver spoons stuck in their gobs! I want them to be real people, not names on a bloody tombstone—’
‘That is cruel, Molly Dobson!’
‘Is it? Well, I think you’re a failure. As a father, as a husband and as a human being.’
‘You are being so unreasonable, so unfair!’
Molly took a few paces towards the door then swivelled to face him once more. ‘Unfair? What’s fair about any of it, eh? I didn’t come up here to play fair, Charlie. I came to fight tooth and nail to protect my children. A wounded female doesn’t know what fair means – and neither do you, come to that. What’s fair about getting a girl in trouble while your wife’s six or seven months gone? What’s fair about your dad and our Ma plotting behind my back with you in it and all? And what’s bloody right about that poor girl upstairs suffering while you carry on living?’
‘Molly, shut up!’
‘Oh aye?’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Keep your box of tricks, Charlie. Shove it where it fits!’
She stood, hands on hips, eyes flashing green fire, hair still soft and silky, the tiny body as straight and true as it ever was. He turned to face the wall. ‘The box will be returned to Ma Maguire. Go home, Molly. Stop tearing at me for pity’s sake.’
She hesitated, a hand to her throat. ‘Hey?’ she said eventually. ‘Are you . . . are you all right?’
‘I’m great, Molly.’ His voice arrived muffled. ‘I’m cruel, unfair, a failure as a father, my wife is dying . . .’ He sniffed quietly. ‘I’m just fine, thanks.’
‘Charlie—’
‘Go, Molly.’ He was sobbing now and the feeling welled up in her again, that old need to run to him and offer comfort.
She opened the door softly. ‘Stop . . . stop stable-yarding me, lad.’
‘Pardon?’ He blew his nose before looking at her.
‘Nothing.’
‘What’s stable-yarding? Molly!’
She ran down the six steps.
‘Molly?’
‘What? Bloody what?’
Their eyes met across the threshold that divided them. ‘Molly?’ he said again.
‘I mustn’t pity you, Charlie. I’ve not to feel anything for you, nothing at all. You’re just a thing that’s trying to stand between me and my twins, a bit of a wall or a fence! Nothing I can’t jump. You are not to be a person!’ Her tone rose hysterically. ‘Go in! Go back in the house!’
Their eyes locked for several seconds before she turned and fled as if running for her life, running all over again, just as she’d run from Rivington Pike. There was a bench on Stitch-mi-Lane and Molly sat on it for a long time before going to find her bus. She was all mixed up inside, stomach churning, mind spinning like a kiddy’s top after a solid whipping. The man was arrogant, infuriating, stupid too in his own way. Why then did she want to turn back and apologize for such bad behaviour, to make sure he’d had a proper dinner, to tuck him up for the night and tell him everything would be fine tomorrow?
She sighed. Because she was a mother, that was why. Because any injured creature stirred these emotions in her, turned her all protective and flappy like an old hen. Yes, she was a mother all right. And as a mother, Molly Maguire, née Dobson, walked into the dusk to find some transport. Her children were waiting at home.
Ma sat up late after the youngsters had all gone to bed, her head in her hands as she waited for Molly’s return. Paddy had escaped, of course, was out on the rampage somewhere or other, likely up t
o a power of mischief.
Dear Lord, hadn’t she always followed the prescribed path, a route dictated outside of herself? Hadn’t she ever known that Molly and the children were her reason for going on in a way that was not strictly honest? And now she’d blown it all away, cast it out to the winds to be scattered by Molly, doubtless all thrown back in Swainbank’s face by this time. It was late. Soon the pubs would empty, Paddy would return and there’d be little enough chance of getting Molly on her own.
Then the latch creaked and Molly stepped into the house, weariness plain on her face and in the slope of her shoulders.
‘Where have you been, child?’
‘I’m not a child – I’m thirty-three years old. And I’ve been out walking the streets of Bolton if you must know, pacing about like a cat on hot bricks.’ She tore off her coat and went to hang it on the stairway door. ‘Are they all in bed?’
‘Except for your man. He got out by pretending to go twice to the lavatory – I think he must have carried the best suit with him the first time and then he probably changed into it on the second occasion. He’s been gone a fair while.’
Molly came and sat at the table, her hands twisting together with anxiety. ‘Happen I shouldn’t have gone for you before, like. Not so hard anyway.’
‘’Tis no matter. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve understood your point, Molly. Mind, I’ve always understood, always worried about this day. I know how it must seem to you, but I took only what I thought was owed to you and the children. Never a penny did I use for myself – except for a coat and some work clothes.’
‘I know. But I wish you hadn’t done it. He’s named them in his new will, Ma. And there was me hoping he didn’t even know the twins existed! Mind, I have mithered meself since his lads died, wondered what he’d make of Joey if he ever clapped eyes on him. If only you’d told me years back, I’d never have let you take his money.’
Ma gazed at Molly. ‘Are you sure? Would you not have been tempted when Paddy lay in his bed too ill or too lazy for work? Would you not?’
With Love From Ma Maguire Page 37
