With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  She chased him out of the house.

  It was lovely. A beautiful fireplace with a large cat basket in front, two comfortable armchairs, a small sofa covered in chintz. The table was tiny, just big enough for one – two at a pinch: In the kitchen there was a gas cooker, a white porcelain sink, some substantial cupboards and another small table with a pair of stools. But it was the view that gripped her, trees and hedgerows, fields leading out to rolling moors, her own large garden with apple and pear trees, bushes of raspberry and blackcurrant, borders filled with wild flowers, a goat tethered to a sturdy pole, familiar cats sunning themselves in a small enclosure before a wooden hut. Home. Home at last.

  Ma and Molly, each exhausted after the trip to Sarah’s new house, collapsed on to the horsehair sofa under the window in the kitchen. ‘She seems well enough settled,’ commented the younger woman. ‘Though I’d sooner not have gone. It’s as if he’s edging closer by the minute – coming in the shop, making up to Janet at work—’

  ‘What was the alternative?’ Ma leaned back, eyes closed against the bright electric lamp that now hung in the centre of the room. ‘Should we have let the twins go up alone? He might have liked that, Molly. All his family together on his estate – though I dare say Sarah would have kept a rein on things.’

  ‘Why should she?’

  ‘Because she knows the whole story. And before you start kicking the ball at me, Molly Maguire, it was Cissie’s doing. She realized the twins weren’t Paddy’s years ago, left a letter for me with Sarah Leason.’

  ‘But . . . !’ Molly’s eyes were round. ‘But she’ll be telling everybody! If she’s gone a bit doo-lally like they said at the hospital—’

  ‘Sarah Leason is no more doo-lally than you are. She knows when to keep her mouth shut, believe me. Just relax, for goodness sake!’

  Molly rubbed a hand across her brow. ‘It’s all a bit much, Ma. I’m whacked out! The shop’s doing so well, I’m beginning to wish the customers would go away. Now this—’

  ‘Don’t be wishing any such thing. We’re open only weeks and a handsome profit showing already. Sure, things won’t always be like this, Molly, coming home to make stews and pies for the next day. Soon, we can take on staff and sit back. Then we’ll be away from School Hill, get a nice new house of our own.’ She placed an arm across her daughter-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Look, he’s going to see the twins anyway. Isn’t he like a daily dose of salts on Bradshawgate, running almost to time – every servant in his house must have at least one bike by now! And doesn’t he take his midday meal in my kitchen, him and his cronies exclaiming over how quaint it is with the bread rising before the fire? Then with Janet carrying on as stubborn as a daft donkey in the weaving sheds – well – he’ll get to them come what may.’

  ‘Oh, Ma . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Molly’s head dropped low before she spoke. ‘Listen. I think we should tell them before he does, or before Sarah slips up.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Ma pushed Molly away and looked into her troubled face. ‘Why on earth should we be thinking on those lines?’

  ‘’Cos I can’t stand it! I’m sick of watching and waiting, tired of looking at Janet when she comes in from the mill, wondering if she knows and what she knows! At the shop I’m on edge every time he goes anywhere near Joey—’

  ‘Shush, girl! Where are the children?’

  Molly shrugged listlessly. ‘The twins are out with Lizzie and Ron – that pair from school as went in for weaving alongside Janet. I think the little ones are in the back yard dressing Yorick up.’

  ‘Ah, he’ll like that. Loves a nice frock and a bonnet – hey – do you think he’s one of them funny fellers? For heaven’s sake, give us a smile!’

  ‘There’s nowt to smile at, Ma! Nowt at all! I’d rather we told them now – get it over and done with—’

  ‘Molly! Get yourself all of a piece, will you? Have we not known all this for years, the both of us? Aye, we weren’t honest with one another, but each of us knew the truth. Can we not live with it a little longer?’

  ‘It was all right before! He had two sons!’

  ‘I know that. I’m not daft, Molly. But we must carry on taking our chances and hope he’ll keep quiet and leave the money elsewhere. If we do well in the shops, if we can get Janet out of the mill and into the business – then himself might see that we need him not at all. So don’t you dare say a word, Molly Maguire!’

  The scullery door opened and in walked Yorick on his hind legs, a straw bonnet perched on his silly panting head, a garish frock trailing along the floor behind him. ‘Would you ever look at that?’ exclaimed Ma. ‘We should put him in the circus, for he’s crazy enough to do anything in order to keep the peace. Michael! Daisy! Get this poor beast out of the clothes. He puts me in mind of old Mother Blue, a terrible character who saved my life then stayed on to torment me afterwards.’ She studied her youngest grandchild. ‘Have you had any turns recently, child?’

  Daisy unbuttoned the dog’s dress. ‘No. I’ve given them up,’ she pronounced. ‘I’m going to constant trait.’

  ‘She means concentrate.’ Michael was Daisy’s interpreter whenever she tackled bigger words. ‘She doesn’t want no visions and shiverings and she’s not having no fits.’

  In spite of herself, Molly smiled. ‘That’s the spirit, Daisy.’

  The child straightened as Yorick made off beneath the table with the hat and a mind filled with destructive intentions. ‘Do you mean Holy Spirit?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘No. I mean attitude.’

  This chance to air a family joke was too tempting to resist. Michael looked at the dog, heard the ominous sounds of tearing. ‘No, Mam,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s not Daisy’s attitude – it’s your ’at ’e chewed!’

  Yorick wagged bravely, spitting straw as he emerged from his hiding place.

  ‘You see, Molly?’ said Ma. ‘There’s ever something to laugh at—’

  In the cool of that evening, Molly sat on an upturned orange box in the yard, a bucket of peeled potatoes at her feet. The two young ones continued to torment Alas-poor Yorick, but he was a patient dog, no malice in him. She watched their antics, her chest filled with a panic that approached sickness. It wasn’t just the twins that worried her – there was this pair too, little innocents that would suffer simply by association. Then there was Paddy. All the names under the sun she’d called that lad during the fifteen years of their marriage. Theirs was a common enough relationship in these parts, the woman seemingly strong and dominant, the man browbeaten.

  She remembered Mrs Shipperbottom from number nine, long moved on now. The Shipperbottoms had been the star turn on a Saturday night, especially in the summer. Long hazy-gold evenings would be spent in the street, children playing and singing until well past bedtime. The ice-cream man always came on his bike-cart and the kids would perform their tricks for the promise of a penny cornet.

  Then he would arrive home, little Mr Shipperbottom from number nine, too full of booze and bonhommie to notice how hushed the street became as he made his entrance. The door would be flung open and there she would stand, all six feet and nineteen stones of her, a yardbrush in her huge hands. While the women held her back, the poor little man crawled into the house and underneath the dresser for the night, his life saved yet again by the usual group of self-appointed guardian angels. At this point, most children would be sent inside, because Mrs Shipperbottom’s language was as colourful as a summer rainbow.

  But that was all a part of the Shipperbottoms’ lives, a part they could not have existed without. The big woman would cry in the end, sit and weep copiously in a neighbour’s house while the yardbrush was taken away in case she might go poking under the dresser with it.

  Molly glanced up at the clear blue sky. She hadn’t expected it to happen, had never let it show except in privacy between the two of them. But she loved Paddy, loved his foolishness, forgave him for his idleness. He was such a gentle man, not once had he hurt her
knowingly. He annoyed her thoroughly – sometimes, she could scarcely bear the sight of him. But no love could be perfect, no marriage arrived without its troubles.

  The fact remained that Paddy Maguire did not deserve this terrible thing that was coming to all of them. And not a hand’s turn could she do. If she ran away from it all, if she died – whatever she did, the truth would eventually come out. And all the forgiveness in the world, all the blessings from Father Mahoney – or even from the pope himself – none of it could wipe out the fact that she, Molly Maguire, was a terrible sinner.

  ‘Smile, Mam!’

  She picked up her youngest child and held the little body close. ‘I’m doing me best, Daisy.’ That was all she could do. And it wasn’t going to be enough.

  Janet was very lucky with her teacher. His name was Jim Higgins and he had spent all his life in the sheds, was a master weaver with a fine reputation because of his knowledge of the craft. Jim was a character, an exceptionally intelligent man with a wicked humour and a gift for music that endeared him greatly to his colleagues. During these fine autumn days, the workers did not always use the canteen, preferring to sit out in the mill yard while Jim played his melodeon or his fiddle. Completely self-taught, he won many prizes for these amateur talents and always drew a large crowd when he chose to entertain the spinners and weavers at Swainbank’s mills.

  He and Janet sat now on the top stone step in the courtyard, sharing opinions and sandwiches until the others would return from shopping or from a quick lunch in the canteen.

  ‘What have you got today, lass?’

  ‘Cheese and home-made pickle.’

  ‘Ma Maguire’s pickle? That yellow stuff as makes you pull funny faces because it’s on the tart side? That yellow stuff as runs down your chin and isn’t very suitable for a fashionable young lady on account of it being a bit untidy, like?’

  ‘Yes. It’s lovely.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘What have you got, Jim?’

  He hung his head sadly. ‘From a lad, I have been one of life’s unfortunates. And since Bridie died, I’ve been left to me own devices, Janet, a poor starving man with nothing but me talent to keep me warm.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘Bread and jam again.’

  ‘What a shame about that!’ She grabbed his tin. Jim was renowned not just for his music – he more than adequately provided for himself and his motherless daughter. ‘Look at that, Jim Higgins – a miracle! Leg of chicken and two tomatoes.’

  He scratched his head. ‘Funny, that. It tasted just like tinned plum jam to me. I’ll swap you me leg for half a butty.’

  ‘No. I’ve had enough, you can have a butty for free if you let me run a loom this after.’

  ‘Can’t do that, love. We’re only one between the two of us as it is, what with your lack of experience and me with one eye.’

  ‘Give over – you’ve got two! See, I can count – one, two. So eat your butty and shut up.’

  He took the proffered sandwich and bit into it hungrily. ‘Manna from heaven,’ he declared. ‘We miss your old granny – will she not be coming back?’

  ‘No. They’ve got the shops now. Jim?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Can’t you see proper?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘What on?’

  ‘Which way the wind’s blowing, how Bolton Wanderers are getting on – oh and the colour of me socks.’

  She punched him on the arm. ‘Are you never serious? I can’t get a straight answer from you – ever! You’ve got to be Irish!’

  ‘Course I am. Me dad landed in 1880 with me mother, a bucket of spuds and a big fat smile. Trouble is – he’s always thought he was in America – only found out last year that the boat fetched him to Liverpool. Terrible thing for him to latch on to at the grand age of eighty, eh? He’s been wandering round for years looking for yon lady with the torch – you know – that big lass as France give to the Americans. Sad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Jim Higgins! I’ll clout you in a minute for all you’re me boss!’

  ‘Stop nagging, woman! You’re as bad as me daughter! “Have you got a clean hanky, Dad, where’s your good shoes, you’re never going out in that old hat.” I get enough of it at home. She’s always on about how I should pack it in.’

  ‘The weaving?’

  ‘Aye, she knows I’m blind some days.’ He paused and stared down at work-worn hands. ‘I started this lark over forty year ago, Janet. Come on at six, half an hour for breakfast at eight, worked right through to dinner then. Weeks about, we did, so we’d be on afternoons sometimes. I don’t know which was worse – school first or work first, but I do know there was never enough sleep. By thirteen, I was full-time and me no bigger than a nine-year-old today. Anyway, a shuttle flew off and hit me in the eye one day – I’d be about twenty at the time. Nowt happened at first, except it hurt like blazes. Only it troubles me now and again lately. Good job I know them pattern cards like the back of me hand, eh?’

  ‘Oh Jim! Does Mr Swainbank know?’

  ‘No! And you’ll not tell him, neither! I want a few more years in, get a bit put by for me and our Eileen. I never told a soul before, so keep it to yourself. Don’t be worrying, I can manage well enough most of the time.’

  The rest of the workers began to arrive and Jim picked up his melodeon. Within minutes, everyone was singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, followed by ‘Pack up your Troubles’.

  Janet wandered into the shed and leaned against a wall. What about poor Jim? He was one of the nicest, kindest men she had ever met, a man who never missed work, one who always lent a hand gladly when a weaver lost a pattern or hit a snag. Why couldn’t he have a pension, stop at home and play his music? Perhaps he wouldn’t like that. Perhaps his need for work was essential, an inbred part of him, nothing to do with shortage of money. But if his bad sight led to an accident . . .

  The hooter wailed and everyone piled in at the door, some grinding cigarette ends into the cobbles before entering. Smoking was absolutely forbidden – it was still possible, in spite of union representation, to be sacked on the spot for being found with a lighted cigarette. Most recognized the sense in this rule, because the mills were a terrible fire-hazard with all the dry cotton, the piles of waste, the oil that kept machinery moving.

  There was, of course, one exception to this regulation and that was Mr Swainbank himself. He frequently travelled about with a cigar, usually unlit, stuck between his teeth. These days, he often paused to speak to his workers, asked them about their families, lip-reading as well as any of them in the awful din. For the older generation, this behaviour came as a shock, because they had spent their lives being ignored, expecting at best a telling-off from a tackler for bad work – or the odd cursory nod from an owner after thirty or forty years at their looms.

  Janet and Jim set to work on their six machines, he setting patterns, she keeping an eye on the flow of cloth as it poured out like a magic carpet. Then Jim dragged her to one side. ‘Right, I’m letting you loose. Tell anybody and I’ll smack your bum,’ he mouthed. He inserted a fresh cop into an idle loom that awaited servicing. ‘Warp’s done, card’s in – get on with it.’

  With a huge smile of pleasure, Janet got on with it, watching the shuttle fly as she made her very first length of cloth. When the spool was emptied, Jim lifted the small piece off and presented it to her with a flourish. ‘Hide it – take it home. In years to come, you can tell your grandchildren that this was your first.’

  ‘Thank you!’ She folded the cloth and stuffed it into her pocket. In old Swainbank’s time, she’d have been thrown out for this – even for stealing a handful of waste she would have been dismissed.

  They continued to work the looms, backs and faces wet with sweat, ears deafened by the constant clatter of heavy machinery. The boss came through at about three o’clock, the usual cigar protruding from his mouth. Janet frowned when she noticed this, because the whisper of blue smoke above his head told that the cigar was actually alight. But knots and brea
ks seemed to abound this day, so she and Jim were too busy to pay attention to visitors and onlookers. Swainbank walked across and had a word with Jim, no doubt asking about her progress and she prayed fervently that the boss wasn’t going to put her back on the study project; all that standing around and watching, nothing to show at the end except for a load of writing. She sighed her relief as Swainbank walked away, then caught a further glimpse when the large man left by the corner door. Something about him made her uneasy, but she was too embroiled with some difficult ends to let anything take her mind completely from the work.

  The fire broke out at about three-thirty, spreading in seconds across oily floorboards, licking the edges of looms and swallowing everything in its path. Someone slid open the great door to the yard, thereby feeding the flames with the oxygen they craved. Within minutes the air was thick with greasy black smoke and Janet felt herself being dragged across the shed and into the yard. It was eerie. The few faces she saw were wide with screams, yet nothing could be heard above the noise of looms which clattered on in spite of the consuming fire.

  Jim threw her on to the cobbles and went back inside.

  She jumped to her feet. ‘Jim! Come back . . . Jim!’ But he had disappeared into that terrible blackness, a blackness punctuated now by areas of high red flame.

  Several others staggered out, coughing and choking, fighting to heave breath into lungs scalded by hot smoke. Jim appeared again, a length of cotton sheeting wrapped around his mouth and this time carrying Lizzie, Janet’s friend from school. ‘Look after her, lass.’

  Janet grabbed Jim’s arm. ‘Don’t go back – please! Think of Eileen with no mother and her wedding coming soon. Who’ll give her away then? And what about your old dad?’

  Jim hesitated. ‘Swainbank’s still in. I’ve got to get him out, lass, else there’ll be jobs for none of us! He’s running about in there like somebody demented—’

  ‘Leave him! Let him find his own way out! Look – it’s too bad now. No-one could live in that, Jim! If he’s still inside, then it’s likely too late for him already.’ The man gave in to reason and they stood together comforting Lizzie while she fought for good air.