With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  The back door flew open and Sarah Leason stepped into the room, a basket of eggs in her hands. She put her head on one side. ‘And friend to friend in wonder said, the Lord is risen from the dead,’ she pronounced.

  Charles stared at her. ‘That’s blasphemy, Sarah.’

  ‘Is it? I thought the blasphemy was you stuck in your room sulking like a boy with no lollipop. Time you were up and about, you great soft pudding! Here are some eggs, Mary. Any more trouble with this man, just send for me. I still have my horsewhip!’ After glaring at Charles for a second or two, she strode out with the agility of a young woman.

  Mrs M arrived at the table with a boiled egg for Charles and sandwiches for the visitor. ‘Eat,’ she commanded. ‘Or I pack my bags this very minute.’

  Charles picked up the spoon, ‘Is that a promise? I’ve known some bossy women in my time, but you take the biscuit.’

  ‘Never mind the biscuit – eat the egg!’ She dropped into a chair and watched eagle-eyed until every crumb of toast had been consumed. ‘I don’t want no more trouble with you. Them pigs round the back are as big as houses – they’ve had a birthday party every day this week! Now. Wipe the egg off your chin and take this nice man for a walk.’

  Charles cast a despairing glance at Jim. ‘See what I mean? Give her an inch and she takes three miles.’

  Mrs M grinned. ‘I never said owt about three miles – gate and back’ll do for now. Get some colour in your cheeks, you look about as healthy as boiled rope.’

  The two men ambled side by side along the drive, Charles tall and still quite straight, Jim slightly bent after more than forty years of hard manual labour. ‘What’s it like?’ asked Charles. ‘All that time in the shed – how does it feel?’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like anything. I’ve never known owt else. But my job were always satisfying. I’d see a row of quilts up an alley hung out to dry and I’d wonder which were mine. There’s folk all over the shop sleeping under my quilts – aye – they’ll last longer than me, that’s for sure. Made to last, they were. You can boil a quilt of mine every Monday from here to doomsday and it’ll come up smiling.’

  ‘You’re proud?’

  ‘Took pride in me work, didn’t like things shoddy or finished bad.’

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I’ll manage, ta.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Pubs mostly. Piano, melodeon, bit of fiddling down School Hill where they still like the old Irish music.’ His back straightened slightly. ‘I’m self-taught, you know. You hum it, I’ll play it. It’s a gift, a talent as runs in our family.’

  They reached the twin lodges at the end of the drive and Charles stopped, a hand on his companion’s arm. ‘Wait. I want to thank you for taking the trouble to come out. I’ve always been a positive thinker, always prided myself on that. And I shall be again – because of people like you.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. There’s families depending on you.’

  ‘Yes. But part of my thinking includes you, Jim Higgins.’

  Jim turned away and looked back up the driveway towards a lifestyle he had never before witnessed at such close quarters. ‘I’m not coming back to me trade. I’ve had enough, see—’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Can I what?’

  ‘Can you bloody see, man?’

  Jim faced the man who, until a week ago, had been his employer. He seemed smaller somehow, as if half the spirit had been beaten out of him. Aye, there was no escaping it. Rich or poor, life got to you in the end one way or another. There was no divide between himself and the ‘Big Feller’ now, for each had been ground down by the inexorable forces that surrounded them, invisible, silent, deadly. ‘I see well enough.’

  ‘Then look at this empty house. It’s yours for as long as you need it.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Deaf as well?’ Charles managed a smile.

  ‘Well I wouldn’t be the first to be deafened by weaving. Are . . . are you offering me a home?’

  ‘And your daughter. How old is she?’

  ‘Old enough to be getting wed next month.’

  ‘Then live here and do my gardening.’

  ‘Me? I wouldn’t know a weed from a prize-winning rose!’

  ‘There was a time when you didn’t know warp from weft, Jim Higgins, but you learned. What do you say? Meals up at the Hall if you like – I could see that you and Perkins got on well together. Think of it. Good fresh air—’

  ‘I don’t know owt about good fresh air! There’s no shops, no pubs, nowt happening!’

  ‘There’s plenty happening! Give a hand at Chase Farm, come to grips with a bit of ploughing and milking—’

  ‘You what? Get a grip on a cow?’

  ‘Yes. Keep an eye on old Sarah Leason in the other lodge, help her with the chickens. And there’s a pub down the road – the walk will do you good.’

  ‘Well! Well, I’ll go to our house!’

  ‘Good. Try it for a month, see how you get on—’

  ‘Wait a minute! Go to our house is just an expression—’

  ‘Try it. I dare you. Let’s see if we can transplant you from town to country.’

  Jim looked longingly at the pretty little house, all sandstone and funny shaped windows, a tall chimney stack and a low dry wall marking its boundaries.

  ‘This one has two bedrooms,’ said Charles coaxingly.

  ‘Aye. I could fetch me old dad up – he lives with our Vera down Parliament Street. He were country, me dad. Come over from the West of Ireland. Mind, he’s a right bloody pest.’

  ‘He’ll be welcome.’

  ‘But I don’t reckon your garden’s chances if it’s down to me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve daily gardeners – you can do the job for which the lodge was originally built – keep watch on my property.’

  ‘Right. You’re on. Ta.’

  They shook hands on this bargain, then Jim wandered off to find his bus. Charles watched the figure as it receded into the distance, realizing, not for the first time lately, that he had never had a friend. There were acquaintances, business associates, necessary contacts. But friendship had somehow eluded him all his life and now he suddenly needed it, needed more than the warmth of Mrs M’s kitchen and homespun philosophy, more than Perkins’ devotion and camaraderie. In Jim Higgins, Charles had spotted a man of great character and intellect, a brain which had miraculously survived undiminished by the clatter of the loom, a smile never overshadowed by tall chimneys. But he was unused to acting so impulsively, and still felt uncomfortable about following instinct rather than reason. He had just offered home and board to a man he scarcely knew, and had for some time considered leaving a hard-won fortune to a pair of children who were almost strangers to him.

  He strolled up the drive towards the empty shell which had once been home, where even now he caught echoes of Amelia’s laughter, where he continued to be plagued by sweet memories of boys’ voices raised in companionable argument. This was a house built on sweat and tears, though no generation within living memory had truly paid for it. Long ago, in a little stone cottage, a Swainbank had watched his wife and children working at wheel and loom, had walked out to collect and sell cloth. And so it had begun, a long-ago father and son trailing up and down the country, London, Manchester, Liverpool, Bolton, taking the finished with them and returning with the raw. For this house to stand, trade had been carried on beneath a blanket of darkness on moonless nights, laws had been passed, while fearful assailants with narrowed vision had languished in prisons for smashing machinery.

  He entered the house and closed the door. Why then should this not pass to the toilers of today, those who resembled so closely the ones who had begun it all? Perhaps there was some poetic justice in the recent turn of vicious events, perhaps the wheel had come full circle as a wheel inevitably must. He leaned against the hall table, knuckles whitening in tightly clenched fists. Ma Maguire was right. Cotton had a price. And the Swainbanks were now paying it with interes
t.

  Janet was surprised to find, within a fortnight of leaving the mill, that the shop more than fulfilled her need to be creative. She didn’t like the idea of selling, still felt the strong desire to manufacture, so she settled on a compromise that promised to be the making of them all. From a small seed sown in the form of a four-line advertisement in the local press, the girl rapidly developed yet another business, thereby doubling the shops’ takings within a matter of weeks. ‘Maguire’s Made-To-Measure Curtains’ took off instantly and Janet found her days filled with cutting and sewing, while her evenings were heavily booked for measuring and hanging. The rest of the family almost gaped in wonder as they watched the miracle happening – the girl had a head for trade – there was no denying that. Maguires’ Market was doing so well that by October Ma was looking for a house to buy, a nice little semi with a bit of garden and a shed for Joey’s bikes.

  Although Molly had little to say about the proposed move, Daisy was the one who seemed slightly disturbed just now. Michael apparently didn’t care a jot – wherever he lived was all the same to him as long as there was somewhere to kick a ball. But Daisy had become lethargic yet tense all at once, as if she must accept the inevitable and would not fight it, although she obviously worried about the outcome. She sat obediently now at Bella Seddon’s table, a disinterested eye sweeping over the food before her.

  ‘Aren’t you having any tea then?’ asked the woman. ‘Seems to me you don’t know good food when it stares you in the face. How about a nice bit of steak and kidley with a few peas, eh?’

  The child nodded and stared unseeing at the heaped plate.

  ‘Hey! You’re not having one of them turns, are you?’ Bella’s face was taut with worry. She’d heard about fits, and didn’t want any in her house. Why, that Tommy Weir down Isabel Street had some shockers by all accounts, finished up many a time foaming at the mouth and jerking about like a wild animal in the gutter. They weren’t right, people with fits, shouldn’t be allowed to mix with normal folk.

  Michael looked at his little sister. ‘She don’t have turns,’ he said, his mouth full of steak and kidney pie. ‘She sees things like what our gran’s gran could see. When she grows up, Daisy’s going to be a desperate powerful force, Gran says.’

  ‘Ooh aye? So the doctor’s wrong when he says she’s got the epileptics? Tommy Weir’s got them.’ She shivered visibly.

  Daisy’s eyes focused on Bella Seddon. She didn’t like Bella Seddon. If she were to draw a picture of her – which she never would anyway – it would be a scribbly picture all black and empty, not coloured in like a drawing of Mam. ‘I haven’t got the same as that Tommy,’ she said clearly. ‘Even if I had, it wouldn’t be my fault. And some right clever people have fits and I don’t like kidney in my steak pie!’

  ‘Well!’ Bella folded her arms tightly. ‘Not good enough for you? Rather have bread and scrape?’ She stamped across the room towards the scullery and turned in the doorway. ‘What do you see then, Daisy Maguire? What’s all these visions?’

  Daisy got out of the chair slowly, her bright blue eyes fixed on Bella’s bitter face. ‘You go too fast in here, Mrs Seddon. Boom-boom . . . ’ She beat her little chest with a closed fist. ‘That might make you poorly.’

  Bella Seddon’s mouth opened and closed around words that refused to come out. Not yet six and with enough cheek to talk to her elders and betters like that! Never had been a kid, that one, always did have a head on her like an old woman. But it was all true! These palpitations were getting her down and no mistake. And there was a look in the child’s eye, an expression seldom worn by a face under sixty years old.

  So. Had it come out then, the so-called magic Ma Maguire’s grandmother was reputed to have known? Could it do that – leap across the sea, across a generation or two? Nay. It was rubbish, all of it! A load of stuff for the muck-cart, nowt else. With a sigh of frustration, Bella left the room and slammed the scullery door.

  Michael finished his own meal, then polished off Daisy’s as well. ‘Coming out?’ he asked as his spoon clattered on to the plate. ‘What’s up, Daisy? Are you sickening for something or what?’

  ‘I’m fed up.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘They all think I’m daft ’cos I fall asleep stood up! I can’t help it! And I have these dreams . . .’

  ‘When you’re asleep stood up?’

  She cast a withering glance in his direction. ‘No, don’t talk soft. I don’t remember nothing when I go still. It’s when I’m in bed. I keep seeing our Joey all quiet. Joey’s never quiet. Same as I dreamed about fires before our Janet’s shed burned down.’

  ‘Then tell somebody!’

  ‘I have done! They won’t listen to me ’cept for Gran and she’s too busy making pies all the while. But Joey—’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ She was almost shouting now.

  He grabbed her hand. ‘Look, you come with me. We’ll fasten one end of the rope to the drainpipe and I’ll turn. You can play run in run out.’

  Daisy hopped about on the spot, her face brightening with gratitude. All she could feel now was joy because a game was promised, because her big brother would demean himself by playing with her. For a while, she could live in this sixth year of her life without being different, without fits or remembered nightmares. With that superior single-mindedness common to all infants, Daisy cast aside her worries and ran into Delia Street. A red October sun bounced off windows and echoed its brilliance across the way, turning much of the glass bronze and radiant. In such a world, there was no room for visions . . .

  The shops had been the making of Paddy too. He wore a suit with a stiff-collared shirt, treated the customers with deference and charm, kept a set of overalls round the back for dirtier jobs. The family had never known him so industrious and clean-living. Each evening, he sent Michael for a jug of draught black, then set to work with paring knife and apron, sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he peeled spuds or kneaded bread dough for the following day. Not once since the opening had he gone astray, not once had he been fetched home by police or by comrades too inebriated to negotiate a sensible direction before the early hours.

  Janet and Molly worked the haberdashery side of the business, though Janet spent much of her time in a back room where she made curtains and chair covers. The orders arrived thick and fast; soon, anyone who was anyone at all bought Maguire’s soft furnishings because the quality was good while prices remained competitive.

  Ma’s kitchen was a sight for sore eyes. The walls were of thick stippled plaster and the open fireplace was flanked by a pair of Irish dressers covered in brass, copper and clay cookware. Pies were brought straight from the huge fireside ovens and served steaming hot to hungry customers. A pan of Irish stew sat eternally on the grate while bread dough rose in white enamel pans on the hearth. Often a line formed as people waited for space at one of the six tables where two young waitresses, hair scraped tightly under white caps, took orders and gave out meals. Ma, noticing that the queue grew daily, took to serving ‘carry-outs’ to those who brought their own dishes for spare ribs, baked potatoes, slices of pie. The box of herbal remedies would make an appearance once the dinner trade slackened and Ma sold cures while the waitresses washed dishes and took their own meal.

  Faces became familiar after a time. Ma, remembering the lesson learned in Freddie Chadwick’s clog shop, took a careful interest in her regulars and their daily problems. When a customer came in for advice or escape, a space was made next to the sink in the small scullery and here Ma listened and nodded while keeping a weather eye on the staff through the open door. Thus the shop became a place of refuge with Ma as unofficial Mother Confessor, a woman who might be trusted with secrets. It paid off. They came in to moan, went out with nothing more than a lighter heart, then returned days later with a friend or two and an order for ham and eggs all round. Things were going well, everything according to plans laid fifteen years ago.

  It was a F
riday evening at the end of October. All the shop signs showed ‘closed’ and the five of them sat at a table polishing off the day’s leavings. Paddy leaned back expansively and picked his teeth with a matchstick. ‘I never thought as how I’d feel so well again in me life!’ He beamed at his family. ‘No sign of me fevers – even this here hand feels on the better side just lately.’

  ‘And your stomach improves too!’ Ma clattered the plates into a pile. ‘You’ve eaten more than the rest of us put together!’

  Molly smiled at her husband. ‘And we all believed he was at death’s door, the road he carried on. Still, coming off the drink has done you good, lad.’

  ‘He’ll outlive us all,’ pronounced Ma. ‘Like a creaking gate, he’ll carry on and never mind the rust.’

  Janet glanced down at her new wristwatch. ‘I’ve a big order on. Happen I’ll stay behind and get it done. If I make a good job of it, I’ll likely get more work off Chorley New Road and they go in for velvet and brocade up there, pelmets too.’

  Molly tutted impatiently. ‘You’ll make yourself ill, mark my words. There’s no need to go hammer and tongs all the while. Leave it till tomorrow.’

  ‘But Mam—’

  ‘Do as you’re told for once,’ snapped Ma. ‘And you’ll be needing to take on help, child, or you won’t manage at all. That’s a desperate big order now, isn’t it? How can you hang curtains nine feet long without an assistant?’

  ‘I know. I will take somebody on. Ronnie’s mam’s going to start soon and I’ll set a girl on, somebody young and hefty.’

  ‘Aye.’ Paddy grinned. ‘Somebody with arms six feet long eh, lass?’

  Ma and Molly went through to the scullery to wash dishes while Paddy, who was now considered fairly trustworthy, wandered off to count the day’s takings in the bike shop. For the first time in weeks, the twins were left alone together.

  ‘It were electrical!’ began Joey without preamble. ‘I’m glad you’re here with us, Jan, glad you’re not still in the mill. But what happened – that fire – don’t go on blaming him. He’s a nice bloke in his own way—’