With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Go home, Fred. And thanks for everything.’

  ‘Are you sure? What if she gets past handling?’

  ‘She won’t.’

  After he had left, Philly sat and watched while Edie stoked the fire and filled the huge copper with water for her husband’s bath. Not a word was uttered as the little woman pushed tripe and onions into the oven and set places for the customary evening meal.

  ‘It’s ten o’clock,’ said Philly at last. ‘Shouldn’t you be thinking of your bed, Edie?’

  The small woman looked at her friend as if noticing her for the first time. ‘I never go to bed without Arthur. He’s . . . he’s happen having trouble getting home . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With the weather so bad and it’s a long way to walk up Westhoughton and back every day.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Edie leaned against the table. ‘Have you noticed he’s a bit bandy? His legs, like. I’ve often said we could drive a coach and horses between his knees.’

  Philly smoothed her apron and watched her friend’s quickening movements, table to dresser, dresser to door, door to table. ‘Go on, Edie.’

  ‘Did you know why he’s bandy? Did you know? ’Cos he spends half his time doubled over in a little hole in the ground, hardly big enough for a kiddy to stand up in. Like a mole, he is, digging away, never stood up proper on his feet except when he’s coming out. Or going in.’

  ‘Sure, that’s a terrible life now, Edie.’

  The small round woman waved a hand towards the bath. ‘I do this every day. I always scrub his back with Pinkabolic where he can’t reach, then I take his clothes outside and bat them with me carpet beater. You should see what comes out! I could keep the blinking fire going with all that dust.’

  ‘I’m sure you could.’

  Edie took salt, pepper and malt vinegar from the dresser and placed them in the centre of the table. ‘I told him it were tripe this morning. I said “You be home early for your tea,” but he’s not come, has he? I wonder if he’s gone straight to meeting?’

  ‘Not in his dirt, girl.’

  Edie stared hard and long at her best friend, eyes locking into those bright blue orbs which contained that terrible message, the message she would not open her mind to. But she could not deny for ever such merciless honesty and in the end, her gaze was averted towards the fire. She steadied herself against the dresser, her face a mask of confusion and incredulity. ‘He were a grand man, Philly.’

  ‘He was indeed.’

  ‘It’s not true, is it? I mean, anybody can be a bit late. And it didn’t really look like him, did it?’ Her voice began to rise with hysteria. ‘That weren’t my Arthur! That were some other feller with the same hair. And there wasn’t enough of him . . . he’s such a big feller . . . that one they brought out seemed so little . . . Oh God! Oh my God!’

  Philly jumped up and grabbed this tormented piece of humanity, drawing her close against her breast. ‘It was himself, Edie. And he was not alone, for hundreds of his fellows perished today.’

  ‘No! No! It can’t be right! I’ve his bath ready and his tripe . . . I don’t like tripe, neither does Molly. He’s got to come home and eat it else it’ll go to waste.’ Her mouth opened wide as she screamed, ‘Who’ll eat me tripe, Philly? Who’s going to eat it now?’

  The larger woman fought to swallow her own rising tide of grief. It was always the same with these Lancashire girls – probably the same with all grieving wives and mothers. In the end, it was something small that got to them, an empty chair, a cold pipe, an old sock on the bedroom floor. With this one it was a plate of tripe and onion and no man to eat it. She spoke gruffly into Edie’s hair, bending to reach the tiny head. ‘Remember Mrs Murphy’s ginger tom? Arthur loved that cat, always fetched it in for a taste of his dinner. If Arthur could speak now, he’d tell you to give the tripe to old Ginger. Shall we do that? Then it won’t be wasted?’

  ‘All right.’

  After steering Edie to a chair, Philly took the dish from the oven and placed it on the table.

  ‘Some milk too,’ said Edie. ‘He likes milk, does Ginger.’

  This strange procession of two made its way down the street to the Murphys’ house and Philly knocked quietly. Pierce Murphy opened the door, his face still red with weeping. ‘Ah, ’tis Mrs Dobson now. Come in.’

  The women stepped into the room. ‘We’ve brought Arthur’s supper,’ said Philly, her eyes fixed on Pierce’s face as if telling him to simply go along with everything. ‘Edie had a notion that Ginger might like to eat it.’

  ‘To be sure, he would,’ replied the burly Irishman.

  ‘You’ll have to pick the onion out.’ Edie’s voice trembled. ‘Arthur likes . . . liked onion, but the cat doesn’t.’

  Philly left the dishes on the table and returned to her friend’s side.

  ‘I . . . was there,’ mumbled Pierce. ‘It’s not my pit, but I went all the same. We all did, but there was nothing . . .’

  ‘I know. We were there too. Come along now, Edie.’

  Mrs Murphy appeared at the stairway door, her eyes still streaming. ‘You poor woman!’ she exclaimed before turning to run back to her children.

  Pierce coughed self-consciously. ‘She’s thinking I’ll be next. We’re very sorry, Mrs Dobson.’

  ‘Thank you. Don’t forget to pick the onion out.’

  It seemed that the giving away of Arthur’s dinner had done the trick because as soon as they got back, Edie began to grieve in earnest, going about the house in a terrible rage, screaming at God and man alike as if she didn’t know which to blame for the death of her husband. Philly allowed this to run its full course, using quieter moments to move the bath and make several brews of tea. She knew better than to try and reason with Edie; grief was not responsive to rational argument. When all the swear words had had a good airing, the little body slumped on to the sofa and drifted into fitful sleep.

  Philly took the opportunity to run next door with Molly’s bear, only to find the two children wrapped together in the big bed, both still fully clothed and tear-stained. She laid the toy on the pillow by Molly’s head and left the pair of them to sleep out their shared pain.

  Bolton saw too many funerals that week. In a strange way, those who had funerals were lucky, because many bodies remained undiscovered, some in places that would not be reached for months. Up at Westhoughton where the pit head stood, one street lost every man and boy, while almost fifty residents were taken from a single street in Daubhill. Arthur’s was not the only death in School Hill, but there were sufficiently few for the funeral to be over in time for Christmas. Normally, a body would be kept in a house for several days, but in deference to Molly and Paddy, the two women did away with the niceties and hastened matters. It was a very plain affair, for Arthur had been a plain man, a chapelgoer with no time for frills. There was no gathering after the simple burial, just the four of them together in Philly’s house with a small meal of ham, bread and butter.

  The two children retired to play quietly on the frozen pavement outside, making a few half-hearted attempts at sliding along the flags. It didn’t seem right to play, but the mothers wanted to talk in private.

  Philly poured yet more tea into two of the best cups and studied her friend and neighbour covertly. She was quiet enough, though the suffering was etched deeply into the round, plump face. There was little money, Philly knew that. Apart from the burial fund, no provision had been made against this terrible eventuality because the means to furnish such provision had never been available. ‘What will you do now, Edie?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve not thought. He’s only been gone two days and buried already – it’s not decent. We should have sat with him—’

  ‘Over Christmas and two children to consider? Arthur would never have allowed that and you know it. So. What next?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Christmas Eve tomorrow—’

  ‘Don’t be worrying about that now, for the neighbour
s have seen to the shopping and you will both eat here. I mean after Christmas, love. Whatever will you do about the rent with no proper wage coming in?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Nor did she care, from the sound of her voice.

  Philly took a deep breath. ‘I want you both to live here with me,’ she said. ‘There’s the extra bedroom and we’ll open up the parlour to give you a place to be a family.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It makes sense, does it not? The house has three rooms upstairs, so you and Molly can share, leaving Paddy with the smallest one.’

  ‘But . . . but I can’t pay any rent.’

  ‘Did I mention rent, now? Did you hear me asking . . . ?’

  ‘No. But I’m not living on charity, even yours.’

  Philly pursed her lips in frustration. ‘You can help with the shop, take the cart out if you like – and there’s the compensation fund, you will surely be given something . . .’

  ‘I’ll get a job off Swainbank. I worked there before, so he’ll likely have me back, I were a good tenter. I may be newly widowed, Philly, but I’ve got me pride. That’s your business, the medicines and—’

  ‘But you’ve always helped me!’

  ‘That were different, that were for extras! I’m . . . I’m the head of a family now, like it or not – and I’ve to earn keep for me and my daughter.’

  ‘Will you move in here, though?’

  Edie stared hard and long into the fire. ‘Aye. The one thing as terrifies me is being on me own. Oh, I know I’d have Molly, but it’s not the same as having somebody older, somebody to turn to. He were always there for me, you see—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You don’t, lass.’ She shook her head thoughtfully. ‘You go up to any woman in this street and ask her how much her husband earns. She’ll likely tell you she’s no idea, ’cos she just gets what she’s given and he keeps the rest. Most of these men look on their wives as servants – they never think to hand over more money when kids are born. So, the wives go on, another mouth to feed, then another, having to make the money stretch from here to bloody Manchester. After a few years, there’s no love lost and no respect given, ’cos they’ve grown that far apart with him at work or down the pub and her tied to the kitchen. Aye, you wonder why the women gossip over the backs. Gossip’s cheap, all they can afford, it’s their entertainment.’ She lifted her head proudly. ‘We weren’t like that. I got the full packet and he took what he needed, different every week according to what he wanted to do. If I needed more, he’d give me some back. We never lost our . . . dignity, me and Arthur. I’ll not clap eyes on his likes again.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It weren’t . . . exciting or nothing, but it was . . . good.’

  ‘I know that, Edie. I’ve eyes in me head. There’s many a time I’ve been glad of Arthur’s reliable ways. But we’ve got to go on, make the best we can. I think he would have liked us to stick together.’

  ‘He would. I’ve no family and neither has he. So. It’s thee and me then, Philly Maguire?’

  ‘If you can put up with Paddy.’

  Edie smiled sadly. ‘Nay, lass. This is his house. It’s him as’ll have to put up with me. And I’ve noticed how he’s kept his eye on little Madam for me. Oh aye, I’ve not been completely blind these past days. I reckon we might make something of him after all.’

  Paddy put his head round the door. ‘She wants to go to church, light a candle for Uncle Arthur. I know he weren’t a Catholic, Auntie Edie, but it’s the same heaven, isn’t it?’

  Edie’s tears flowed anew and she opened her arms to the small boy, pulling him tightly to her knee. ‘Go and light your candles, lad. It’s the same God for all of us, the same heaven.’ After the children had left, she raised her haggard face to Philly. ‘And the same hell, eh? Here on earth . . .’

  Philly ran to her side. ‘No! We might be different, but beneath it all, we’re Christians and despair is a mortal sin in anybody’s book, girl. If it had been you gone and Arthur left, do you think he’d have looked on the world as a bad place? No, he would not. There was hope in Arthur, always hope. Remember? How he’d say, “Never mind, lass, it’ll all come out in the wash with a bit of soap and a few prayers”? He never missed a meeting, never gave up even though he worked on hands and knees under the ground every hour God sent him. We’ve a business, Edie. There’s lemon and thick spanish to boil for coughs, oatmeal and comfrey to mix for poultices, your famous hand-cream to make! There’s ever tomorrow, don’t forget it.’

  ‘I’ll try, Philly,’ sobbed the grieving woman.

  ‘Of course you will.’

  ‘Will it get better, easier?’

  ‘Yes. After a while, you’ll just think of him with gladness in your heart. But it takes time, Edie. Everything takes time . . .’

  He hadn’t seen much of her over the past few years. She sometimes walked through the market on a Tuesday, noticeable by being a head taller than most other women, stalking about as if she owned the place. His leg still plagued the hell out of him, but he sent the lad for powders now, wouldn’t dare expose himself to that anger in the street again. And she’d kept herself so well protected, moving the old woman in, now her neighbour, so there was no point trying to reason with her over the doorstep. Bloody women! Especially that one with her airs and graces, well above her station, she acted. Why, she was nothing but another Irish fishwife, all mouth and flaming cheek, all dark hair, alabaster skin and filthy temper.

  He paused at the corner of Market Street and took the watch from his waistcoat pocket. Well, he wasn’t going to hang about for ever like a lovelorn idiot; she was likely at the shop anyway, though she did stock up on a Tuesday . . .

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Swainbank. How’s the leg?’

  Dear God, you never knew where you were with this one at all! Was that a part of being Irish, he wondered obtusely. They were supposed to be a bit fickle, rather changeable and unpredictable. Was this the same who’d hunted him out of the shop five or six years ago?

  She rested a large basket on her hip and looked down at his cane. ‘Is that for decoration or support? Did you lose your tongue, now? Come on, man, it’s older and wiser we are now, the both of us. Isn’t that all long forgotten? I’ve been giving the powders to your man—’

  ‘Aye. For a price.’

  ‘Well now, you can consider that your bit of charity, for your extra pounds go to help the poor of School Hill. You heard of last week’s disaster, I take it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘My neighbour was taken. At times like this, Mr Swainbank, I always feel we should try to forget past quarrels. Life is extremely short.’

  He coughed. ‘The wife has moved in with you?’

  Her eyebrows shot upwards in amazement. ‘And how did you know that when we only yesterday told the landlord?’

  ‘He’s a friend. I told you before—’

  ‘Ah yes.’ She faltered now, because wasn’t this evidence of his continuing interest? Surely, by now he had someone else, some other woman with whom he could while away his time? ‘I’ll be on my way, then. Look after that leg.’

  ‘Wait!’

  She turned and stared at him, noticing the grey in his whiskers, the many lines around his eyes. ‘What?’

  He moved closer, shifting his head around in order to ensure that no-one of import was nearby. ‘It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous and so do you. But I’ve never got you out of my mind, not completely. It’s like . . . like an obsession.’ His cheeks glowed as crimson as those of a young boy making his first declaration. ‘Philly, I’ve never told a woman that I—’

  ‘Then don’t do it now, please. Especially here in Market Street with the world and his horse passing by.’ Her pulses were racing. Yes, it was still there and no, he was not the only ridiculous one. ‘It’s no good, Mr Swainbank—’

  ‘No good?’ His teeth were gritted. ‘How do you know it’s no good? And traffic like this doesn’t run just one way. I must have felt somet
hing coming back from you to me—’

  ‘You were mistaken, sir.’

  ‘No.’ He removed his hat to display a shock of thick greying hair. ‘I have not been mistaken, Ma Maguire. Since that first time when you walked into the manager’s office, I’ve known you were for me. Do you realize that if I could divest myself of my wife and ignore my sons, then I’d . . . I’d—’

  ‘Marry me? I’m already taken.’

  ‘By an absentee?’

  ‘The Faith allows no divorce. I am married for life—’

  ‘And therefore safe from me?’

  She would never be safe, not from him and certainly not from herself until one of them died. Why, though? How could she feel so desperately drawn and yet so reviled? Then she remembered her granny, wise old bird, not a tooth in her head, yet with the wisdom of Job. ‘Philly, we all get the one special temptation. Look at Jesus now. Did he not go with Satan into the wilderness and Him the Son of God Almighty? And Satan asked Jesus did He want the whole world, promised Him all the land and sea including Ireland, he did. Your special temptation will come across the waters, for I can see there’s little here for you . . .’ Philly swallowed hard, dragging herself back into the here and now. ‘I’ll always be safe from you. Although you struck me once with your stick, I know that it is not in your heart to injure me again. I wish I could say you displayed the same concern for those who work for you.’

  ‘Just tell me, tell me once that you feel something for me. That will have to be enough.’

  She steadied herself against the wall. ‘I will not lie any more, because there is no use in doing that. You are a handsome man and I always thought of you as . . . presentable. I don’t like you and never will, but . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There was something. With you, I always felt . . . matched. We could have had some fights, discussions at best. I sometimes had the cheek to imagine I might alter your ways, make you a better person. And . . . the animal thing, whatever that is, was there too.’ She lifted her chin defiantly as she spoke these terrible words. ‘But I’m a hard creature, Mr Swainbank. There has been nothing between us because I decided, I made sure.’