With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  Ma decided to let this pass for now and she turned her attention to Janet. ‘You and Ronnie’s mother can see to the haberdashery, pick up on the curtains when you’re ready.’

  Janet nodded her assent. ‘Mam – we’ve been shut down weeks now. Please – we have to get on with life!’

  ‘Life?’ Molly shrugged her shoulders carelessly. ‘How can we have a life with that in it?’

  Michael tugged at his mother’s sleeve. ‘Mam! That’s my brother. He can’t help the road he is.’

  Molly smiled wanly at her younger son. ‘No, Michael. He can’t help it. But it’s never Joey, never my lad. That’s just a shell, like an empty house not fit to live in. My Joey was a fine boy. Wayward, but fine. Whatever that is in my kitchen, taking up room so’s we can’t sit down proper – whatever it is, it’s nowt to do with me, for I reared a strong healthy boy.’

  Daisy wandered over to the bed and stroked Joey’s hair. ‘Hiya, Joey. We know it’s still you, don’t we? Hippy-chippy-Charlie, round and round we go, I am the leader don’t you see . . . Remember that song? And Janet in trouble for using Mam’s best curtain as a train for May-queen? Come here, Mam. Come and talk to him.’

  ‘Do as you’re told!’ snapped Ma.

  ‘By a blinking six-year-old?’

  ‘She’s no ordinary baby, Molly! You know what she saw! We all know what she saw!’ Ma gripped her daughter-in-law’s hand. ‘The child is sighted!’

  ‘Rubbish!’ screamed Molly. ‘She’s just like the next, nowt wrong with her.’

  Daisy stood by the bed, her hand still resting on Joey’s head. ‘I am nordinary,’ she declared. ‘And if I’ve said that wrong, our Michael, they know what I mean. I just know a few little things, things what can help us sometimes. There’s a lot of people like me, isn’t there, Gran? Only they don’t know they’re like me. Please come to Joey, Mam. Please!’

  ‘Just do it, woman,’ yelled Paddy. ‘You’ll not turn your back on the lad! Only a cruel-hearted bitch could do that!’ He rose and dragged his wife from her chair, pulling her across the room, forcing her to face the boy on the bed. ‘Look at him, for God’s sake! Have you no love in you, no charity at all?’

  ‘Paddy!’ Ma arrived at his side. ‘It’s not heartlessness, son. That’s shock and depression – she’s been like this weeks. I know we’ve to reach her somehow, but don’t push her too hard.’

  Daisy took her mother’s hand and guided it to Joey’s disfigured face. And the miracle simply happened. The single eye lit up as if a switch had been turned on. A solitary tear made its way to the pillow while the mouth, twisted though it was, managed to frame a syllable. ‘Mam.’ It was enough. Just one word and Molly was on her knees, all the grief she’d ever known pouring out of her, wetting the bedspread as she hung on to what remained of her boy. ‘Dear God, what have they done to you? Oh, Joey . . . Joey . . . Joey.’

  There remained not a dry eye in the room. Michael, too young to cope with the shame of weeping, ran to the scullery to howl alone. The two girls clung together for comfort while Ma held on to her drunken son.

  ‘He’ll talk again, Mam,’ Daisy cried between sobs. ‘We can learn him, I know we can. Specially after I’ve passed for a doctor – then I’ll know what to do, how to help him.’

  Ma fell against Paddy’s chest. So that was the end of Daisy’s road, was it? The fourth generation of doctors in this family would be properly certificated, oaths sworn, books learned, papers written. Little Daisy was already dictating her own special path. ‘You’ll have to go to Mount St Joseph’s then,’ said Ma. ‘Pass exams, get to one of them universities.’

  ‘That’s right.’ The little girl dried her eyes. ‘No more dreams, Gran. I don’t get them now. And I haven’t fell asleep stood up since Joey’s accident.’

  Molly lifted her head from the quilt. ‘Ma – take Janet down and sort that new house out. Paddy – get to the corner for some boiled ham to save us cooking. Michael!’ He ran into the room drying his eyes on the cuff of the school jersey. ‘Get some coal in, son. I’ll set the table. Everything’s going to be all right. Isn’t it, Daisy?’

  ‘Yes, Mam.’

  ‘So put the kettle on, child. We could all do with a nice strong cup of tea.’

  They dispersed to carry out the various orders.

  Molly looked down at her boy and noticed the gleam in his eye. ‘We’ll stick it out together, son,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry for what I said. I love you, Joey.’

  The mouth quivered. ‘Mam.’

  ‘That’s it, lad. I’m your mother. I’ll never forget that again, not as long as I live.’

  Part Four

  Chapter 17

  1940

  They had lived in the corner house for almost three years now. It was a substantial semi-detached in red Accrington brick, well-built, a great improvement on Delia Street. Janet wished with all her heart that she might feel grateful, interested or even settled. But she didn’t. Not since this rotten war, at least. She sauntered into the long back garden, her eyes drifting skyward as if she expected Adolf himself to arrive at any minute to drop his personal bomb on their home even though this was Sunday. But Janet had always taken the war personally, treated it as some kind of affront, a terrible blemish on the face of her life, something that would alter her destiny, leave her scarred and powerless for ever. Unless . . .

  She paused by the familiar mound, staring down at the air-raid shelter, a corrugated object half-buried in the ground. Almost angrily, she dropped on to this item, kicking her heels against the ugly green-painted metal. Most of the family spent nights in the cellar when the siren went off, but Joey was easier to wheel outside, so Dad endured many a long hour interred here with her twin brother.

  Oh, it wasn’t fair! Gran and Mam had gone all clucky like mother hens since Joey’s terrible accident – nobody could move without handing in a full report about destination, estimated time of arrival, intended time of return, name rank and flaming number of anyone likely to be encountered during an expedition to the grocer’s or to a friend’s house. Since last year, the two of them had become even more neurotic, often forcing Janet to stay at home ‘in case the Jerries come over’.

  Mind, they did have their troubles. There’d been food rationing since January and Gran was struggling with the Irish Kitchen, working hard to make a pound of meat feed a dozen, doing clever things with egg-powder and tinned jam. But as for Janet’s side of the business – well, it was a laugh a minute, wasn’t it? With folk worrying over their ration points and where could they get a bit of extra on the black market, few were interested in renewing their soft furnishings. Thus Janet had become just another salesgirl, half a yard of knicker elastic and a card of shirt buttons, please!

  She was restless. Especially since reading in the paper that the Metropolitan Police were appointing women detectives at last. Not that she wanted to be a blinking detective. But she needed to do something – anything as long as it was useful. Of course, they’d hardly let her fly over Berlin and deliver her retribution, a nice neat stick of bombs to flatten some of their houses. And anyway, it wouldn’t be right to kill kiddies even if they were only Jerries. But there must be a job somewhere! Joey couldn’t fight, couldn’t even walk or talk sensibly. Dad would always be exempt because of his thumb. And there was no bloody cloth to make curtains with even if anybody had wanted rotten curtains! So why couldn’t she be in the war, make this family’s contribution? After all, she’d be eighteen next birthday.

  Eighteen. Eighteen and on the shelf. It was a stinking mess, this narrow life, these long days with no young men to turn their heads as she passed, no admiration, no excitement, no fun!

  She looked through the French window to where Joey lolled in his chair, a rug spread over him to keep off draughts. He had the dining room all to himself – bed, wireless, special chairs, then a load of mirrors and bells hanging from the ceiling to draw his attention, make him focus. He took up a lot of space for someone who couldn’t move, needed equip
ment, time and care. Fortunately, there was a fine big parlour at the front, a breakfast room running down the side of the house between hall and kitchen, an extra downstairs lavatory put in specially for the disposal of Joey’s eternal mess. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, though Janet was still forced to continue sharing with Daisy. Gran and Michael had the two smaller rooms, while Dad and Mam occupied the biggest, leaving a moderate sized area for the sisters. Not that they slept up there much. The RAF might be knocking spots off the Luftwaffe, but the loud warnings still arrived almost every night, sending the two of them downstairs to shiver in the cellar beneath a pile of blankets while Mam and Gran brewed tea on a paraffin stove and argued about safety.

  Daisy. Yes, Daisy looked as if she’d have it all, one way or another. And bloody good luck to her too! She was streets ahead of everybody else at the new school, was virtually sure of getting the Entrance. So she’d be educated, a doctor or some such fancy profession. Janet rocked back and forth as she fought with so many mixed emotions. Why couldn’t it have been herself? It was her money that had brought them up to scratch, yet she was the one missing out! No qualifications, no hope for the future, not till this war was over. Why couldn’t she go off to university and become something interesting? Her teeth sank sharply into the lower lip. Joey, poor Joey, she must never forget him. Janet Maguire should be grateful, shouldn’t she?

  She drew her knees up to her chin, folding the blue cotton frock around her thighs. It was a comfortable life except for the air-raids. Carpets, good furniture, money in the bank. Janet’s money. Her eyes rested once more on the twisted figure in the wheelchair. The money hung round her neck like an albatross, because it was his too! And on account of that fact, Janet would have to take care of him for ever and ever. She hated herself for these thoughts, hated the knowledge that their last real words had been spoken in anger, disliked herself intensely for the slight resentment she held towards a brother who would always be dependent. But what were her chances of marriage now? No young men worth looking at, fewer still who would contemplate taking on her crippled twin . . .

  Lizzie Corcoran stepped round the side of the house, a large brown envelope clutched tightly in her hand. ‘Anybody in?’ she called.

  ‘Only Joey. They’ve all gone to church.’

  ‘Oh. Have you been to early Mass?’

  ‘No. I’m not going any more.’

  ‘Why not?’ Lizzie’s face was a picture of surprise. ‘I still go. Me mam would kill me if I ever missed. I went to seven o’clock – no sermon – it only lasts half an hour—’

  ‘Good for you. But I don’t see the sense in praying when half the world’s trying to blow the other half to bits.’

  ‘All the more reason – according to me mam.’

  ‘We were made in His image, Liz. If this is part of His image, I’d sooner not stare too long in a mirror. I pretend to go, else Gran would have me guts for garters. Only I usually take a walk, enjoy a bit of freedom. Well, what have you found out? Is it in that packet?’

  Lizzie joined her friend on top of the Anderson’s roof. ‘They need all sorts, Janet. There’s drivers for ambulances, folk to do auxiliary nursing, land army girls, cooks, washers-up, laundry workers—’

  ‘Are we old enough?’

  ‘Well, we don’t need to talk about our age, do we? And seventeen’s likely all right – we’re both near our birthdays too. With half the place wiped out and the rest waiting to be bombed, I reckon they’ll take anybody willing.’

  Janet jumped up. ‘Right. Let’s go then.’

  Lizzie’s mouth fell open. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yes! As soon as possible, anyway. Look, you can stop here if you want to, you can carry on with your weaving. But I’m going to defend my capital city.’

  ‘Defend it? They’ll not let you have an anti-aircraft gun, Janet!’

  ‘Clean it up, then! Look after the walking wounded – anything at all rather than sell another reel of sewing thread or any more khaki wool for army socks! It’s our war too, love! It doesn’t just belong to the men, you know. That Hitler feller wants to take England over – Mr Churchill said so. Well, I’m blowed if I’m having him at Buckingham Palace with his funny flag flying on the roof! No bloody way! He’s too ugly by a mile. Daft moustache and a walk like an egg-bound pigeon. Do what you want, but I’m going and that’s for definite.’ She strode towards the house, Lizzie running anxiously behind.

  ‘Now? Are you going now, Janet?’

  ‘Don’t talk so daft. I’ve got to sort some money out, then get away while nobody’s looking.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’m not telling them.’ Janet swivelled in the doorway and faced her companion. ‘They’ll not let me and they’ll not stop me. So why make them suffer twice over? They’ll only worry till I’m gone, then worry again afterwards. This way, they get less bother.’

  Lizzie paused by Joey’s chair, her eyes misting over as she looked at him. They’d had hopes, dreams, ideas – well – the two girls had. Janet and Ronnie, Lizzie and Joey. All blown away with the dust now, Ronnie burnt to death, Joey a shrivelled old man. ‘Hello Joey,’ she said quietly.

  He grinned in a lopsided fashion and mumbled something unintelligible.

  ‘I might as well get some practice in.’ Janet’s tone was hard. ‘This money from Ireland was left between the two of us. He’ll be with me for ever, Liz. So I’m going to work in an army hospital or wherever they take bomb victims. That way, I’ll learn how to look after my brother.’

  ‘It’s a shame,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Yes.’ Janet ruffled her twin’s hair. ‘It’s a shame for all of us, but specially for him. That’s why I have to do something, because he can’t and I know he would have fought. Does your mam want you going to London?’

  Lizzie shrugged. ‘She’s praying on it. But I think she’d like me to do what’s right. So it’s up to me, I suppose. If you go, then I’ll go. It’ll be easier if we’ve got each other.’

  ‘It’ll be an adventure! We’ve never been further than Blackpool, either of us. New people, a different place, a chance to have a go at something real. But you mustn’t tell anybody. If this lot here finds out, there’ll be ructions. I can’t get past the front gate these days without having my passport stamped by somebody or other. Promise! Promise you won’t tell!’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Right. I’ll see you next week, get it sorted out properly. How we’re going to travel, what we need to take. And I’ll have to give three days’ notice on my own bit of savings at the bank—’

  ‘Janet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You sound . . . all excited. It’s a war, love, not a blinking holiday by the sea!’

  ‘I know! But it’ll change us, make us grow up. We’ll never be the same again, not after this. And it’ll all be over by Christmas, you’ll see . . .’

  Charles wasn’t eavesdropping. It so happened that when Janet visited Sarah Leason, he was at the back of the lodge counting dead chickens after the local vixen’s latest visit. Silly creatures, foxes. They killed a dozen, yet took only one, neither rhyme nor reason to this mass slaughter. Still. It was probably caused by all these flapping feathers getting up the animal’s nose and driving her crazy. Just as the fear-filled chickens were driving him mad now. But Sarah would never let him take a gun to Mrs Fox. Though the old one grieved over her dead birds, she would doubtless insist that the responsible party should remain alive for the sake of what she termed ‘the balance of nature’. Well, Sarah’s idea of fairly weighted scales certainly involved a lot of blood and mayhem, that was plain.

  Jim and Carrie Higgins ambled along the lane, arm in arm as usual. Now that Jim’s daughter was securely settled and his old father had passed away, they had complete freedom to come and go as they chose when Carrie wasn’t working. It had all turned out so well for them and Charles didn’t like himself for the stab of jealousy caused by the closeness and obvious happiness of their marriage.

&nbs
p; ‘Coming for a drink, Charlie? They’ve copped hold of a nice drop of Irish down at the Red Cat,’ yelled Jim.

  ‘No thanks. I’m up to my eyes in feathers and squawking hens. Have a double for me – and make sure you’re back before blackout. Cheerio!’ He watched as they disappeared along the road, each engrossed in the other, their world complete at last. After pacing the garden until the vixen’s entry point was located, he sat on the step to make notes about necessary materials. Not that he held out much hope. Once a female fox made her mind up, there was no keeping her out.

  It was then that he heard the voice. ‘Miss Leason! There you are, a picture of what Gran calls rumbustious health. It’s just a quick visit, ’cos I’m off to London in a few days. Don’t tell Gran. You’re one of the few folk I trust enough to say ta-ra to.’

  ‘To London?’ Sarah’s tone was clipped. ‘Whatever for? It’s not a particularly healthy place to visit just now, Janet.’

  ‘Well, I want to get in the war, do my bit.’

  ‘Really? I should have thought you’d had enough of fighting. That family of yours re-creates Waterloo at least once a week – if my memory serves me correctly. Never before did I witness so much crossfire at a dinner table. How’s Yorick?’

  ‘Fine. Still a bit crackers, but not as soft in the head as he used to be. He thinks the Anderson’s a kennel, though. Keeps burying his bones under Dad’s emergency supply tins.’

  ‘And everyone else?’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t bury people, Miss Leason. At least, he hasn’t up to now.’

  ‘Very droll.’ The sniff was audible even from the back door. ‘I suppose you might make yourself useful by getting a pot of tea.’

  Charles remained seated on the doorstep while she walked into the kitchen, heard the hesitation in her step once he was noticed.

  ‘Oh.’ She coughed quietly. ‘I didn’t realize Miss Leason already had a visitor.’