With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  Philomena folded her arms across her chest. Oh yes, she knew of Mother Blue, right enough. A filthy old woman with a black cloth bag who went from door to door ‘doctoring’. The drunken fool in her navy straw poke bonnet caused many a mischief, going straight from laying-out to childbed with her hands unwashed, the nails decorated by rims of dirt, her numerous layers of stained clothing reeking of sickroom smells. ‘Then why do you come for me, boy? Answer, for I shall not bite. Though I’m still in want of a supper.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Why me?’

  He swallowed, glancing over his shoulder towards a house across the street. ‘Because . . . because you’re a . . . a . . . wi—We know you make cures and that . . . Because me mam says as how you know things, like.’

  ‘I do. Sure enough, I know things. We all know things, don’t we now? But I’m not a witch, son—’

  ‘I never said—’

  ‘Indeed, you didn’t. You didn’t say a thing. So, let’s away and see what’s to be done just now.’

  She took the startled child’s hand and led him home. The smell at the front door was enough to confirm her worst fears. How many more would perish of this dreaded summer sickness and May not yet over? The room was crowded with inquisitive neighbours and family members. Philomena pushed her way through to the couch where a pale woman lay, legs drawn up to her chest with cramp. A clawlike hand reached out. ‘Can anyone help me? The baby gone with it, now it’s taking me . . .’

  ‘What has she eaten?’ The whole room fell silent as soon as Philomena spoke.

  ‘Pobs,’ replied the little boy.

  ‘Bread and milk? Holy Mother . . . Look child, how many are you in the house?’

  ‘Seven with me dad.’

  ‘Then the six of you will remain upstairs except when it is unavoidable. Stay out of this room.’ She turned to face the small crowd. ‘Will one of you go into my house and fetch my fly killer? It’s an odd contraption made by my husband – a sort of rubber ball fastened to a stone jam jar. Don’t spill the contents on your skin. And I suggest that the rest of you go out of this place and pray.’

  The visitors turned to leave, but she continued to shout after them, ‘Clean your drains every day, kill flies and burn old food. Put fire ashes down the closet morning and night . . .’

  They were gone, melted into the dusk. Grimly, she rolled up her sleeves and set to work, washing the fevered woman on the couch, boiling a pan of water for drinking after it was cooled, searching dingy cupboards for necessary ingredients, then finally laying-out the tiny corpse of a baby girl.

  She turned from these unpalatable tasks to find Edie Dobson standing behind her.

  ‘I’ve . . . er . . . fetched your contraption, Mrs Maguire.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Philomena took the item, a crude spray made up of tubes, jar and metal funnel. ‘It’s a bit hit and miss, but it kills a fair few of them.’ And she squirted the vile-smelling droplets into the room. ‘’Tis the flies bring the illness, Mrs Dobson. And in your condition, you had better be going home.’

  ‘But . . . what about you?’

  ‘I’ve had a touch of it, so I hope I’m still fighting. The mill, you see. I keep the house clean, but the spinning room’s a breeding place for this sort of thing. And I’m strong, Mrs Dobson. How many babies have you lost? Didn’t you give up your place at the loom to carry this one?’

  ‘Aye. But I didn’t know you knew . . .’

  ‘I hear things, I’m not deaf. But let me tell you now – if you want that child in your belly to thrive, keep Mother Blue out of your house.’ She turned to stare at the writhing figure on the couch. ‘The old woman delivered this last one, I believe. And I’ve no doubt she killed it too.’

  ‘I’d . . . best be off, then.’

  Philomena followed her neighbour to the door. ‘Leave some things on the step for me, would you? Go into my kitchen and fetch pearl barley, some lime water and the arrowroot. I shall be here till morning.’

  Edie Dobson turned on the pavement. ‘But what about your work, Mrs Maguire?’

  ‘Ah, no matter. I’ve been up many a night at a calf-birthing and with my own mother’s labours too. There’s no rest for the wicked, is there now?’

  ‘Right enough.’ Edie paused and studied this odd, tall person who had been labelled ‘queer’ and ‘witch’. ‘Only you’re not wicked, are you?’

  Philomena smiled. ‘Ask my husband – if you can find him. Good night now.’

  She sat for an hour with the delirious patient, spooning drops of boiled water between parched lips to prevent a total drying out. With no outward sign of revulsion, she cleaned away the constant messes and sponged the fevered body with cool cloths. At eight o’clock, she went to the foot of the stairs. ‘Master?’ she called. The man of the house, a thin, sad-faced creature, presented himself on the small landing. ‘I’ve placed a pan of boiled water on the stairs. You and the children will drink from it. If it tastes a bit sour, sure that’s only a drop of lime added in. You will eat nothing for two days.’

  ‘What about me work?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘If you want to give this sickness to your fellow men, then I cannot stop you.’

  ‘And the kiddies are clemmed – can’t they have some bread and milk?’

  ‘Not before Wednesday night. And no milk at all this week, for milk can be a killer. But a body never died for two days without nourishment. Keep the closet clean and let me know if anyone else becomes ill.’ She closed the stairway door firmly.

  It was an endless night and from time to time it looked as if all might be lost, for the wretched soul on the couch had few resources to call upon. Malnourishment and poor housing had left her weak, while recent childbirth had also taken its inevitable toll. But by morning the fever had broken and a transparent hand reached out gratefully to encircle the visitor’s wrist. ‘I’m reet now. I’ll not forget thee, Missus. You’ve saved me, God knows.’

  ‘Not yet, I haven’t. You’re still weak as a kitten from childbed. Now, listen to me carefully. See these three cups? This is all you can have today. This large one is plain boiled water – take as much of that as you can hold. Then I’ve brewed up some pearl barley and here’s a nice lime drink. No food at all, especially milk. I’ll be back to see you after work.’

  Philomena Maguire made her weary way across the street. It was five-fifteen and her shift would begin at six. When she opened the front door her breath was taken away by what she saw. A small fire burned in the grate, the copper kettle bubbled on the hob while the table was set with bread and Lancashire cheese for breakfast. She sank on to a chair, tears coursing freely down her cheeks. How did they know that the woman had survived? Ah yes, news soaked through walls in this street. If you sneezed twice, the clogger at the other end would get to know.

  The front door opened and Edie Dobson’s head poked through the gap. ‘Are you alreet, lass?’

  She dried her streaming eyes. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t fret thyself, for we shall see you right, Missus. “Pey” Peter’s going to take you to work on his cart, save you walking. Can I come in?’

  ‘No! I’ve the disease on my clothes.’

  ‘Oh.’ The young woman hesitated before continuing. ‘I’ll be baking today, later on, like. Will tatie pie and peas do you a supper? Only I know you’ll be busy seeing to Mrs Critchley . . .’

  ‘Mrs Who?’

  ‘The lass you’ve been all night with! Eeh, to think you’ve likely saved her life without knowing her name!’

  ‘Death and illness don’t know any names, Mrs Dobson. And I’ll be glad of your pie, just as I’m grateful for this.’ She waved an arm towards the fire. ‘The . . . the baby’s body is in a box in the back yard. I meant no disrespect, only to save the rest of them . . .’

  ‘Aye. It’ll all get seen to, don’t you fret. No need for tears, Mrs Maguire.’

  ‘My name’s Philly.’

  ‘Is it? Like a young horse?’

  ‘Yes. Like a young horse
.’

  ‘Bet you feel ninety this morning though, eh? I’m Edie, by the way.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh.’ The small round face broke into a hesitant smile. ‘I’d best get going, then. See you later, eh?’

  ‘Yes. See you later.’

  As she stripped off her clothes for a wash in the scullery, Philly Maguire found herself humming quietly in spite of tiredness and the sound shocked her to the core. Singing? When did she last have a tune in her? She looked round the whitewashed brick walls and all along the shelves where her bottles and jars sat. And in that moment, she recognized that she was happy because she was at home. Philly belonged, would make a place for herself. For the first time since her marriage, she had stopped feeling alone.

  The morning was long, tiring and tedious. By the time eight o’clock arrived with its half-hour breakfast break, Philomena was too exhausted to eat her meal of bread and butter. Everyone else sat round the edges of the room, some on skips, others on the floor, eating their food on the oil-covered boards, using as tools fingers thick with heavy yellow grease. Her stomach heaved and she made a mad dash for the toilet. There was only one on each floor, so she was forced to stand and gag while others took their turn. When at last she closed the door and relieved herself, she noticed, not for the first time, the degree of infestation in the tiny room. A particularly vile type of cockroach – a strange and unusually huge beast – patrolled this area in vast numbers and she reached for the worn-out brush that had been placed here to keep these foragers at bay. It wasn’t right, any of it. Fifty-five and a half hours a week she worked in this place for a few paltry shillings, out of which sum she was forced to pay her little- and side-piecers, children who would break their backs for a chance of an extra penny. For what hellish reason? For them all to finish up sick or dead, killed off by accident or by disease carried on the backs of rodents and other vermin?

  During the rest of that morning, Philly looked at the spinning room with newly opened eyes. Twelve-year-old half-timers slid about in thick oil, bare-feet skating to keep up with the work. From time to time a shrivelled little-piecer with the body of an infant and the face of an old man ducked under a mule with brush and wiper to clean, bent over double so as not to break the precious ends of cotton. Although she was paid by the draw, which meant she depended for her living on how many times her mule opened and closed, she deliberately slowed herself down to look around. It was a waking nightmare of dirt, noise, heat and damp.

  Then, just before the dinner hooter was due, a minder across the room trapped his piecer when the mule returned to its creel. No screams were heard above the deafening noise of machinery, yet some instinct told everyone that something was amiss. Work stopped as the limp child was carried out in the minder’s arms, then resumed as soon as the drama was over. With a living to earn and piecers to pay, no spinner could pause for more than a minute. Within half an hour, the child had been replaced and life continued as if the incident had never occurred.

  When the dinner break sounded, Philly stopped her mule and walked over to the accident site. ‘How is he?’ she asked.

  The man shrugged thick shoulders. ‘Alreet. Lost a finger, though. I’ve had a look round, can’t seem to lay me hand on it at all.’ He grinned crudely. ‘I’d have a job to find it round here, wouldn’t I? Never mind, the mice’ll happen get a good supper . . .’

  She delivered a resounding slap to the side of his surprised face. ‘I see it,’ she said. ‘And it will be eaten by no mouse.’

  Philly stalked out of the room, her heart pounding loudly. Well, today was as good a time as any other to leave this infernal place, she reckoned. Boldly, she hammered on the manager’s door.

  ‘Come,’ boomed a loud voice.

  She entered the small office only to find no less a person than Mr Richard Swainbank himself, mill owner, landlord, gentleman farmer and respected citizen of these parts. He sat at the large desk, thumbs in waistcoat pockets, heavy gold chain across his chest, a diamond pin securing his silk tie. She took in all the trappings, the shiny black hat on the table, a silver-headed cane leaning against bookshelves, a pair of handsome grey kid gloves tossed carelessly on to a chair.

  She hesitated fractionally, her hand resting on the door knob. Swainbank was a quantity relatively unknown, a being that passed occasionally through the spinning room with a time-piece in its hand. A spectator. A creature that escaped frequently to fresher and cooler air. This was a hard man, one whose supposedly regal posture commanded immediate respect and unquestioning obedience.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, a straight eyebrow raised towards thick brown hair. ‘What can I do for you?’

  With a bravado fed by anger, she fixed her eyes on him, although her knees seemed to have gone to jelly. The cotton barons of Bolton were a breed apart, a breed that defied both description and explanation. Here sat a gentleman who was not a gentleman, a monied person who owned lands and cattle without ever touching plough or feedbag. Yet his vowels were often as flat as those of any winder, while his manner fell far short of the genteel. What was he, then? A self-made man? No. His money was old, passed down along the line from earlier generations of mill tyrants. But this man of means had been known to roll up his sleeves a time or two during epidemics, could kick a mechanical mule to life when every engineer in the town had signed its death certificate. Aye. She nodded slightly. Himself would work the mills until the day he died . . . A self-made gentleman? Was such a creature a possibility, even a fact? He was, she concluded with an almost imperceptible shrug, an improbability . . .

  ‘What is it you want?’ He folded his arms and leaned back in the chair.

  It was the edge to his words that thrust her forward, propelled her through the space between door and desk. The tone, the very cadence of his voice, that mixture of superiority, condescension and . . . and amusement! With grim determination, she stared into eyes as black as hell itself, irises of a brown so dark as to leave the pupils unremarkable. Richard Swainbank was a man of great beauty, the sort of beauty that went beyond the merely handsome. In spite of more than forty summers, his face remained unmarked by time, while the odd combination of colourings with which he was endowed set him even further apart from the general run. Hair and whiskers were fair to mid-brown, while lashes and eyebrows echoed the darkness they so clearly framed. But Philly was not impressed by such arresting packaging.

  ‘Well?’ he asked impatiently.

  Her hackles were fully risen by this time. He was known far and wide for his tantrums, was Mr Swainbank, had never been averse to on-the-spot sackings or wage dockings. But she didn’t care, didn’t choose to care! Straightening her shoulders, Philly slapped the grisly parcel on to his desk where, lying between inkstand and blotter, it slowly unwound to reveal the sad contents.

  ‘I expected the manager, but I suppose you’ll have to do. That, Mr Swainbank, is a severed finger. The child to whom it was recently attached is twelve years old with ricketty legs and not a pick of flesh to his bones . . .’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ He returned the woman’s furious stare. She talked as if she were educated, as if she imagined herself to be his equal! ‘And what, pray, would you have me do with this item? Shall I use it as a paperweight? If the damn fool lad can’t run fast enough to save his hands, then he’s no use to me!’

  She leaned forward, tightly clenched fists pressing against the edge of the desk. ‘You can shove it, Mr Swainbank!’

  ‘Pardon?’ The second eyebrow joined its twin.

  ‘You heard me sure enough! Shove that and the job up your waistcoat front!’

  He fought a chuckle that rumbled ominously in the region of his chest. What a fighter, eh?

  ‘The poor boy is no use to anyone from this day! And that is your fault!’ After a moment or two, she added a derogatory ‘Sir’ to this shouted accusation.

  His whole countenance was suddenly darkened by a rush of colour as he jumped to his feet. ‘Get out of here, Mrs . . . Mrs . . .’

&
nbsp; ‘Maguire,’ she spat. ‘I was going anyway for my health’s sake. This place is teeming with disease – do you hear? Tics, fleas, rats, mice, cockroaches as big as horses . . .’

  ‘Silence!’ He held up a large hand and she studied a heavy gold cufflink that peeped out beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘All right then,’ she whispered. ‘Silence me, why don’t you? I’m used to it, so I am, for me husband tried often enough – too often for his own good . . .’ Her voice was rising now, quickening in tempo, keeping pace with the temper that had long plagued her, a temper that would, according to her family at least, be her downfall one day.

  ‘And so he should try!’ shouted Swainbank. ‘With you in the house, he’d need the patience of a saint!’

  ‘He’s not in my house any more. I have ways of ridding myself of vermin!’

  They stared at one another for several moments of crackling tension.

  ‘So have I!’ he yelled now. ‘Full name?’

  ‘Philomena Theresa Maguire,’ she replied at the top of her not inconsiderable vocal powers.

  ‘Address?’

  ‘34 Delia Street.’

  ‘Good!’ He glanced across at the workers’ register which lay on top of the bookcase. ‘You will be struck off the list as from this noon.’

  ‘Ah no!’ She wagged a finger dangerously near to the end of his nose. ‘You will not strike me off, Mister, for I came in here just now to withdraw without notice!’

  ‘Excellent. I don’t need your kind here, Mrs Maguire. Barging around as if you own the place . . .’

  ‘Own it? Own it? God help me, I live in it except when I’m asleep – which is more than you do!’

  His pulses were racing erratically as he slumped back into the chair. It wasn’t just her appearance, though that alone would have made her special in spite of her advanced pregnancy. No. It was something else, something beyond those intelligent blue eyes, that pale smooth skin, the fine high cheekbones, the glossy raven’s wing sweep of her hair. This was a woman, a real woman with the ability to warm a room simply by being in it. She was magnificent. Insubordinate, out of order, uncontrollable and bloody magnificent!