With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  Why should she bother now with Cyril gone? Why not leave it all to these Maguire twins, let the town laugh while a fortune was dispersed on fripperies? No! She smiled grimly. Cyril would thank her one day, would have to take care of her. And for the first time ever, she felt glad that she had married Marcus Fenner, that infamous charmer who lived with one foot on the racetrack and the other in some seedy den of gambling thieves. Tonight, she would write him a letter – a letter which might take months to find its wandering addressee – but a message worded so skilfully that Marcus would eventually arrive home with winged heels.

  Alice had been born a lady, had lived as ladylike an existence as reduced circumstances would allow and was determined, above all else, that she would spend her last years in comfort. Life owed her that. And Marcus Fenner would help her achieve this goal. At last, she had found a use for him.

  Chapter 12

  Ma and Molly fixed their eyes on the white porcelain bowl with its seat of polished wood. It had been an interesting few days, what with the plumbers, plasterers and decorators in and out by the minute, a chap on the roof replacing slates and another running round like a cat with its tail on fire trying to be the boss. Molly nodded to Ma. ‘Go on – you can have the first try.’

  ‘Sure, I’ve never set eyes on one of these things except in the mills. Unhygienical, they are. Whatever possessed decent law-abiding folk to have such an item on the inside of a house? Isn’t the world a desperate upside down place all of a sudden, Molly? Here we are with the outside conveniences on the inside, then there’s me forced to sleep downstairs when I should rightly be up! ’Twas little difference for the rest of the houses in the row, for didn’t they already have just the two large bedrooms and a bit taken off for the bath? Whereas now that me own bedroom’s a bathroom, I am condemned to sleep downstairs the rest of me life . . .’

  ‘Never mind – you can still use the outside tippler if you want. Anyroad, plumber reckons as how it’s healthy enough to have a lavatory inside – as long as you keep it flushed and a bit of bleach down. He says the water in the bowl stops germs rising. And just think, Ma, we’ve no need to fetch the tin bath in no more – running hot water off the back-boiler.’

  ‘And a mountain of coal to heat it!’ Ma looked glumly into the gleaming white tub. ‘I shall surely drown in that. Imagine if I took a turn up to the eyes in water! ’Tis not natural, any of it.’

  ‘You don’t need to fill it! There’s nowt to stop you having a bath in half an inch of water if that’s what you want, you old misery! I can’t wait meself, a good long soak in a hot bath. That’s luxury, that is. Go on – pull the chain.’

  ‘We’ll be flooded inside a minute and us with the new decorations! Can you imagine the state of the downstairs should this thing take it into its head to overflow?’

  ‘That’ll be the landlord’s problem.’ When Ma showed no sign of performing the christening rites, Molly reached out and tugged at the chain, stepping back as water cascaded into the bowl. They held their breath and listened while the cylinder refilled, then Ma came forward to perform the second flush. ‘The miracles of modern science,’ she declared, her tone lacking enthusiasm. ‘And not a penny piece on the rent. I wonder does our new landlord have his head screwed on at all?’

  ‘It’s Swainbank.’ Molly’s voice was devoid of expression.

  Ma staggered back, a hand to her breast. ‘By all the saints! Getting nearer by the day, is he not?’

  ‘Aye. And there’s none of it my doing!’ She paused as if deep in thought. ‘Nay, we can’t go on blaming one another for ever, I suppose. You shouldn’t have done this, I should have said that – it’s the same tune over and over. But honest – if he ever tells my twins the truth, I’ll die of shame! Trouble is, there’s nowt in this world I can do about any of it – shops, bathrooms – whatever next?’

  ‘Just make the best of it, Molly. Can you imagine himself now, walking up to Janet at her loom and saying “I’m your daddy.”? Can you see him going into the shop for a yard of knicker elastic or a bicycle chain and “by the way, Joey, you’re a bastard”? Never. There’s not a thing he’ll do while he lives and breathes.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure. Sounds like he’s took a right fancy to our Janet. Most of the new ones are out on the trek – going about the mills doing odd jobs till they’re settled. But not Fancy Nancy. Oh no, her’s on a right cushy number – studying time and bloody motion from the looks of it, getting a back or two up, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Language, Molly!’

  ‘Well – there she is, titti-fal-lalling around with a board and a bit of paper stuck on it, watching folk work and writing bits of sums. Mind, he’s boxing clever – she’s not the only one with a pencil. He reckons the best way for them to learn is by watching all the jobs, seeing what’s done and how long things take. She’s down for management, Ma, and she can’t even see it.’

  ‘’Tis as well she can’t, or she’d tell him where to put his pen and paper. Howandever, I think it’s time for me to have a word with Mr Charles Swainbank. I can fill his pipe for him if anyone can. Too big for his boots by a mile or more, is that feller.’

  Molly stared at her mother-in-law who seemed to have shrunk since the stroke – as if she’d been in a hot wash then bleached white in the dolly-tub. ‘You’re not fit, Ma. Haven’t you took enough on with the shop and all? You’re going to be up dawn to dusk as it is – why go tempting fate and fetching another bad do on, eh?’

  Shrewd blue eyes travelled over the new bathroom with its white tiles and Greek key border pattern. ‘All this he did for the twins. A whole street gutted so that we would not stand out as favoured. Aye.’ She nodded knowingly. ‘Richard had a soft centre, but there was a four foot layer of granite on the outside of that old devil. This one’s manageable.’

  ‘Eh?’ Molly’s eyes were round. ‘Manageable? Charlie Swainbank?’

  ‘Compared to his father, he’s biddable. Yes, I must see him, for there’s a thing or two he has not considered.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like . . . oh God, if only I could read! There’s a paper with Mr Barton; something to do with rights. Now, if I understand properly, I put me cross to say I’d never bother the Swainbanks, never take the twins to their doorstep no matter what the situation. Surely that should work both ways? I kept our side of the bargain, took the money and the deeds, took the job in the sheds – glad enough they were then to be rid of us. And above all else, I’ve not bothered him. If his rightful sons had not died, then Janet and Joey would have been left alone.’ She straightened visibly. ‘I am going to fight this man, Molly.’

  ‘It’s no use, Ma. He’s got power – the sort of power you and I don’t understand—’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Ma turned to see Paddy passing the doorway, hair slicked back, face ruddy from recent shaving, tie fastened neatly, shoes polished like black glass. ‘And where do you think you’re off to done up like the dog’s dinner? A wedding? A funeral?’

  He stopped to adjust the handkerchief in his top pocket. ‘While you two stand there blethering, I’m going down for a look at our shop, see how it’s coming along.’

  Molly folded her arms and put her head on one side as she studied her husband. Obviously, he had not overheard their conversation, though they’d have to be more careful in the future. ‘Isn’t that the best suit? Anybody would think you were setting off on a visit to the Mayor’s Parlour! You’re going to work in the shop, Paddy, help to mend bikes and put oil on chains. That’ll need an overall—’

  ‘Not today. We aren’t open yet, anyway. And I’m not up to much what with me thumb and me stomach – then there’s me dizzy spells – fair mazed with them I am at times. Aye. Happen I should stick to the counter stuff – deal with the customers and that.’

  ‘And put your hand in the money box every time you’ve a mind?’ There was acid in Ma’s tone. ‘Every till is locked, Paddy. The only keys will be with me, Molly and Joey. We can’t have you soaking up
the profits!’

  Paddy shook his head sadly. ‘Oh ye of little faith! Do you think I’d sink so low?’

  ‘Yes!’ replied the women in unison.

  He mumbled a curse under his breath then descended the stairs noisily. Ma and Molly followed, taking great care not to brush against newly decorated stairway walls.

  In the kitchen they found Daisy with her paints, brush poised above the paper, her whole body stiff and straight, eyes staring unseeing from beneath a shock of yellow curls. ‘She’s gone again,’ remarked Ma. ‘Won’t have noticed a thing, not in this world, at least. No doubt Paddy’s away out of the back gate by this time. Daisy?’ She bent towards her small granddaughter’s shoulder. ‘Come back, child.’

  Molly ran to the little girl’s side.

  ‘Don’t touch her!’ snapped the older woman. ‘We never touched me granny when the sight came.’

  ‘Sight?’ Molly’s voice was shrill. ‘Do you want her putting away as daft, not right in the head? It’s not bloody sight, Ma! She’s just being stubborn again. Flaming sight, stupid brooches and leprechauns – would you have us all as crackers as yourself? Daisy!’

  The child remained motionless, as if time had stood still for her. Both women knew that when she came out of her trance, she would continue as if nothing had happened. The frequency of these episodes was increasing, causing many an argument between Ma and Molly. The former, who had witnessed such behaviour long ago, held to her view that the child was gifted beyond the norm, while Molly adhered to the opinion that Daisy was seeking attention by holding her breath like a naughty two-year-old, that she had never outgrown the tantrums of infancy.

  ‘She’s having visions,’ insisted Ma.

  ‘Then why does she never remember them? What’s the point of visions if she can’t tell us owt after, eh? Why don’t you go the whole pig and run up for Father Mahoney, tell him we’re having a miracle twice a week? Daisy Maguire, you’d better pull yourself together afore I clip you one! Sighted? She’s as sighted as yon daft dog!’

  Yorick crawled under the table. It was simpler to go for invisibility once Molly kicked off. He licked Daisy’s shin until it twitched, then flattened himself against the oilcloth. As an experienced student of the human animal, he knew when to make himself scarce. This was one of their odd games, another session of to-ings and fro-ings with a bit of shouting thrown in. He closed his eyes and thought of bones, marrow bones with plenty of meat stuck on. But one ear remained cocked, just in case. Just in case of what – well, he’d never worked that out yet.

  Daisy resumed her painting. ‘I’ve run out of brown,’ she complained, ‘so I’m using the scrapings out of the treacle tin.’

  ‘Daisy!’ Molly’s voice was stern.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you keep doing that?’

  ‘Eh?’ The child’s face wore a puzzled expression. ‘I haven’t done nothing. Except for pinching the treacle and there was hardly none left, Mam – honest!’

  Molly folded her arms tightly. ‘You know what I mean, Daisy! Frightening us all to death, sitting there hardly breathing.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now!’

  ‘But—’ Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’ve been painting.’

  Ma reached out and ruffled the already tousled curls. ‘Didn’t you hear us talking to you, child? Did you see us come in – and your daddy too, all done up in his best suit?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see him. And you and Mam must have crept in, ’cos I looked up and . . . and you were there. Have I been daydreaming again, Gran? I get in trouble for that at school.’ Yes, school was very confusing at times. She’d be all right one minute, doing her writing, listening to the teacher, then the next minute there’d be somebody screaming at her for not paying attention. ‘I try not to daydream.’ The little girl fought back the tears. ‘But it just happens, then I get in bother.’

  ‘It’s all right, child,’ soothed Ma. ‘Don’t be carrying on all upset on a lovely day—’

  ‘No need for any of it.’ Molly turned and stalked out to the scullery. ‘Kids!’ she muttered, her voice reaching the pair at the table. ‘Bloody sight! I’ll sight her if she starts showing me up all over the place going stiff and stupid!’ Pots clattered. ‘Thought you’d got away with it, didn’t you, Molly Maguire? With the last one, at least. But oh no. Joey’s as naughty as they come, Janet’s gone high-faluting with time and motion, Michael’s got the neighbours round by the minute. And now . . .’ A pan lid fell and shivered to a standstill on the flagged floor before she continued. ‘And now we’ve got bloody visions! We shall be charging entrance next, tuppence for a look at the queer folk!’

  Daisy stared at Ma. ‘What have I to do, Gran? How can I make it all go right?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, pet. You’ve taken after me old granny, that’s all.’

  ‘Did she do . . . like I do?’

  ‘Sure enough. She’d be halfway across the yard with a bucket of swill, then all at once, she’d be as still as a statue, not a word or a move out of her – and not a drop lost from the bucket. After that, she would carry on as if nothing had happened. Tell me, child,’ she dropped her voice. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘When you go – what do you see?’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Away. By yourself.’

  ‘I never go nowhere by meself. Our Michael or our Janet’s always with me.’

  ‘No. I mean in your head.’

  ‘Oh.’ Daisy nodded. ‘I do sums in me head now. Sister Vincentia said I could be right clever if I didn’t dream half the day.’

  ‘Ah. And what do you dream about, Daisy?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So. You just go and come back with no memories. Perhaps you’re too young just yet.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Gran. And I don’t know what me mam means either – or the teachers. I keep getting in trouble for something I haven’t done!’

  ‘Don’t you cry now, little one. They’ll all be glad enough of your gifts one day.’

  ‘What gifts? I haven’t bought no presents! What gifts, Gran?’

  ‘The sight. You have the sight.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s very precious, Daisy.’

  ‘I know. We did it at school. We’ve to be glad of our eyes, Sister says. And our ears and our legs—’

  ‘Your sight is special.’

  Daisy smiled. ‘Is it? I’m glad. I don’t never want to wear glasses. Mrs Melia at school wears glasses, dead thick ones.’ She picked up her brush and dipped it into the water. ‘I hate glasses.’ Mollified slightly, the child carried on with her painting. Mam was still upset, but she’d come round in the end. Mam always came round.

  With the child showing signs of settling. Ma went to sit on the outside stool to the left of the front door, placed there deliberately so that it would not mark Molly’s stoning. She did a pretty pattern, did Molly, not just the usual twin stripes along the sides of the step and the line across the front of this heavy stone slab. Molly took pride in her donkeying, had developed a design all her own, a trademark that made her area stand out in the street. All six flags, property of Bolton Corporation, were scrubbed daily. Each ‘clean’ house recognized its own six flags, adopted them as part of the tenancy. Molly’s began the day edged by the white stone she had lately preferred, while her house step was decorated at each side with a pair of triangles, one upright, the other inverted, apexes joining exactly as if executed by some master geometrician. By the end of a day, the six flags would be clog-scraped and ruined, but the start was what really mattered.

  During clement weather, ladies of the street would sit out in the evenings, each with a mug of strong tea and something to occupy her hands – knitting or a pile of socks and a darning mushroom. While the women sat, children provided their entertainment, often getting up a concert party or a game of hopscotch under the eagle eyes of female parents.

  Ma rested in the sun
shine, her mind filled by Daisy and her strange absences. It was early for street-sitting, but since the stroke she had spent much of her time out here, regaining her strength for the task to come, the opening and running of her Irish Kitchen. Ah well, perhaps Daisy was sighted or perhaps she wasn’t. No matter. Time would tell.

  The rest of the youngsters began to arrive home from parks and playgrounds, many of them sent out again immediately to the street while meals were prepared. From open doorways drifted the mixed perfumes of boiling ribs and cabbage, onions with tripe and manifold, stews, cowheels simmering on hobs, the smells of newly-baked bread and cobbler toppings. This was home. Sun-warmed bricks to lean on, the sounds of family life all around, movement and colour for old eyes to rest on. Except for Charles Swainbank, things would be as near perfect as they could ever be.

  This was the end of Bolton September wakes, so few were working and not many could afford the price of a trip out, let alone a holiday. But there was a festiveness in the air, a relaxing of rules and a mellowing of tempers. Bella Seddon poked her head round the door. ‘Out already, Ma? That’s it – you take your ease while you get chance. I’ve a spot of apple pie over if you’d like it for afters.’

  Ma nodded. It was the unspoken commandment – even amongst enemies – that nothing should ever be refused. A refusal meant pride and pride was universally condemned. ‘I’ll take it now, thank you kindly, for the meal will be late this evening.’

  ‘Drop of custard with it?’

  ‘That will go down a treat, Mrs Seddon. And if you’ve a minute, fetch a stool, why don’t you, for I have need of a word with you.’

  A few minutes later, the woman arrived, best dish balanced on a stool fashioned by simply removing the back from an old chair. This pair of adversaries sat in silence while Ma relished her apple pie. She placed the empty dish on the deep stone window ledge of her own room. ‘That was nectar, Mrs Seddon. Yes, a piece of heaven on a plate, sure enough. I could scarcely do better meself, for you’ve a hand with the custard sauce – I shall have the recipe from you one day.’