With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  She looked at the two youngsters and, realizing that the usual subject was about to rear its head, picked up the basket and carried it through to the scullery. It was obvious that Paddy had set his heart on marrying the girl for all he was only seventeen. And with his track record thus far, Ma would not be too surprised if he got his way simply by expecting to get it. She closed the door. This was one area where she would not interfere directly. She had said her piece and if he was still determined to pursue Molly, there was little to be done.

  ‘I’m too young to get wed.’ Molly smoothed the folds of her new dress. ‘And so are you, Paddy. There’s loads of girls out there . . .’ She waved a hand towards the window.

  ‘Aye and they can stop out there and all. Come home, lass. We can live here and you could happen get something part-time if you want to carry on working. Then there’s Ma and her medicines – you could help her. Since Freddie Chadwick shut the shop, she’s been on her own here, nobody to talk to all day—’

  ‘Don’t, Paddy.’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Well . . . getting me worried, making me feel guilty ’cos Ma’s stuck here by herself. It’s not my fault, is it? I went into service because I’d sooner that than the mill and I don’t see why you should carry on like this. Why shouldn’t I work? I went up to Briars Hall to better meself – I could end up a ladies’ maid in London or somewhere interesting if I got trained proper.’

  He stretched his legs across the peg rug and kicked her toe gently. ‘To hell with London! You went up there to get away from me, didn’t you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Course you did. You were feared in case I touched you, frightened I’d get you in trouble deliberate so’s we’d have to get wed. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. There was no need for you to take on and run away like that . . .’

  She jumped up, cheeks blazing with temper. ‘I didn’t run away! I went for a job, same as any girl would after leaving school. I didn’t run at that age, did I? We’d no notions of getting wed at fourteen, for God’s sake! Mind, you were getting a bit too interested even then, I will admit that much. Look Paddy, I’ve served three years in that bloody kitchen, three years past me elbows in grease and mucky water. Do you think I went through all that for nowt? I want to work me way up, happen be a housekeeper in time . . .’

  ‘In somebody else’s house?’

  She stamped her foot angrily. ‘What’s the difference? Somebody else’s house, somebody else’s farm or factory? What do you expect me to do? Go out and buy me own business just like that?’ She snapped finger and thumb together. ‘You’ve always been a dreamer, Paddy—’

  ‘So have you. When we were kids, you said every day that we’d get married. Mithered to death with it, I was, all about your long white frock and the matching rosary beads. Why have you changed? You never go to church no more – and you were all for turning. What’s happened? Did the sky fall down and I never noticed?’

  Molly leaned heavily against the table’s edge. ‘I grew up. We both did. Look, I’m not saying we won’t get wed, ’cos we might. Only we should meet other people first, so we can choose, like—’

  ‘What for? I don’t need to pick one out, I’ve already chosen! If you don’t marry me, Molly Dobson, I’ll be like a priest all me life.’

  She threw back her head and howled with laughter. ‘You? Like a priest? Well, I’ve never heard a priest swear like you do, Paddy Maguire.’

  ‘Hush – she’ll hear you.’

  ‘You’re not still a-feared of your mam, are you? ’Cos I’ve never found her all that frightening.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ He drew in his chin and stared down at the rug. ‘You never had a bad chest and funny hands, did you? Molly – listen to me.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  He swallowed. ‘I might die.’

  Molly paused fractionally. ‘So might we all any minute. With Master Charles racing round the estate in his car and Master Harold leaping about on his horse, I could be a pancake three times a day.’

  He leaned forward and held out the bandaged hand. ‘See that? They said it can go into me blood and kill me. Well, when it does, I’ll have the words printed on me gravestone, “Broken heart thanks to Molly Dobson”. They’ll come for miles to read that and you’ll be branded as a wicked woman.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Could you live with that?’

  She began to pace back and forth about the room, arms waving wildly as she shouted, ‘Give over, will you? I’ll make up me own mind in me own time. And if we do ever get wed, it’ll be nowt to do with your hand or with your mam needing company.’ She swung round to face him, checking herself as she noticed the pain in his eyes. It was real pain, physical hurt, not just from her words. The hand must be bad, really bad . . . ‘Please let me think, love. Give me time. Happen when we’re nearer twenty . . .’

  Ma entered with a tray of ham sandwiches. ‘Cook has done us proud again, sure enough. Give her my regards, Molly. Oh, and take the kettle off the fire and scald the pot, there’s a good girl.’ She placed the tray on the table. ‘Have ye settled the differences or will it take an Act of Parliament?’

  While Molly brewed the tea, Paddy stared sullenly into the fire. With a tenderness she had seldom displayed in recent years, Ma came to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know, son,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  After the two young people had left, Paddy escorting Molly back to her work, Ma took the beads from her pocket and knelt before the Virgin, offering up decade after decade, praying till her knees were sore and her back ached with stiffness. She blessed herself and perched on the edge of a dining chair, eyes still fixed on the statue. As always, once the serious praying was done, she talked to Mary as if the two of them were the best of friends. ‘Help him, Mother.’ She sighed deeply and looked briefly at the ceiling, impatient with herself, not understanding her mixed feelings at all. ‘What sort of a woman am I, praying now for a man who wanted to sin with me?’

  But she could picture him in her mind’s eye, that fine strong man reduced to wreckage, the noble face shrivelled by time and pain. And she remembered how he’d offered to buy Paddy’s pram, how he’d tried, in his own bumbling way, to look after her, watch over her from afar. Richard Swainbank had loved her . . .

  Yes, she was for the workers, was Ma Maguire. A fighter, an orator, a troublemaker. Yet this one man had entered her heart, never invited, never properly welcomed. And she knew why he had this special place, just as she’d always known why. He might be a boss, a man of substance, yet right down to every single fibre and sinew of his body, Richard Swainbank was a worker. A cruel, lonely, sad, working man.

  Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks as she pushed the rosary into her pocket. She turned to look at the Sacred Heart whose wounds were blurred now by the moisture in her eyes. ‘Don’t let him suffer, Lord. That’s all I ask, that he should not suffer . . .’

  In Molly’s opinion, Charles Swainbank was a very handsome man, just as good-looking as a film star. In fact, he made the Rudolph Valentinos of this world seem a bit pallid and unadventurous, because Master Charles was big, heavy-muscled and colourful, a real swashbuckler striding out ready to take life by the throat, feared of nothing. She looked at him a lot these days, assessing him as if he were an object, something that would look nice in a certain setting, like on a stage or dressed up as a cowboy with a big white hat and a huge white horse. It occurred to her briefly that she was doing what men usually did to women, weighing him up for physical charm, looking at him as if she were about to buy him in the same way as she might choose a new lamp for the front room. But he was grand, right enough. At least six feet tall and with a bold, straight carriage, not like some lofty men who seemed to get round-shouldered through bending to talk down to shorter folk.

  Like his father, Charles had unusual colouring in that his hair was quite fair – a sort of dark blond or light brown – while near-black eyes were fringed by thick dark lashes. Th
e old man’s hair was pepper and salt now, but the heavy black eyebrows had remained dark, just like his elder son’s. Harold was a different kettle altogether, very like his mother, shorter than Charles and with more fat than muscle. The younger son was ordinary in comparison to his other male relatives – pale hazel eyes, fair skin, no real evidence that he was a Swainbank except for the completely straight eyebrows, fairer than those of the other two men, yet still geometrically perfect, as if drawn with the aid of a ruler.

  Molly watched Charles now as he parked his car in the rear courtyard, so handsome he looked in his white silk scarf, like one of those blokes who flew planes during the day and drank champagne in clubs at night. The car was an Armstrong something or other, all shiny new paint and great silver headlights stuck on the front, a real big monster of a thing, it was. The noise it made terrified and excited her simultaneously and she often wondered how it would feel to travel at such speed with the trees and houses flashing by, the world a blur of sound and colour.

  She turned away deliberately, stifling that silly dream before it could start up again. Ridiculous, it was. Aye and so was she, imagining what it would be like to be a lady and married to somebody like Master Charles. It plagued her, annoyed her half to death some days, yet she still went back to it time after time. While the sensible side of her nature dictated that her status was already decided, some devil in her forced her to carry on, sitting at the big table when she was supposed to be polishing it, handling crystal goblets and china plates as if they were her own, posing before mirrors in one of the three new dresses she now owned, things she was allowed to wear in her few free hours.

  She could hear his feet approaching, so she deliberately quickened her steps, telling her inward self sharply that it was no use, that even if he hadn’t already been married he’d never have looked twice at her. She was a servant while he was a master and there was no mixing the two, ever.

  ‘All right, Molly?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She looked into his warm dark eyes. ‘Just taking me afternoon off, keeping out of the road in case Cook finds summat for idle hands to do. Last time I stayed here on me day off, she had me cleaning silver up to teatime, said it was good for me soul. I don’t know about me soul, sir, but it near took the skin off me fingers.’

  He slowed and matched his steps to hers. ‘Why aren’t you going home?’

  She shrugged lightly. Oh no, she wasn’t going to tell him about the real excuse for staying here, to keep away from Paddy and his mithering. Then there was the other daft reason, of course, best not spoken of to anyone at all. No, it was hard enough admitting even to herself that she was parading up and down at the back of the house pretending the place was hers, imagining she was some sort of princess that talked proper and had modern frocks and her hair cut like Mrs Alice. ‘It’s too far,’ she muttered lamely. ‘I can’t be bothered there and back just for the afternoon. If I’m not in by nine o’clock, Cook sends the army out to find me.’

  They stopped by the corner of the house, she preparing to walk towards the kitchen, he obviously undecided about continuing round to the front door. He fiddled with his driving gloves, eyes cast down as he said casually, ‘I’ve a few hours off myself. Would you like a ride in the car? We could go up to Affetside or perhaps to Barrow Bridge.’

  ‘Rivington!’ She clapped her hands like a two-year-old. ‘I’ve not been up the Pike for ages. We used to go when we were little, take our eggs up at Easter and roll them down. We used to roll ourselves down too – you know – lie down and turn over and over sideways till we reached the bottom where all the mothers sat with picnics laid out ready. My, we got in some bother for ending up stuck to folks’ scones and jam butties, I can tell you.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Very well. Rivington it is.’ He paused, a hand resting lightly on her arm. ‘Meet me at the end of the drive – out in the lane.’ Brown eyes were slowly raised until they encountered the expression of puzzlement on her face. ‘It isn’t done, Molly,’ he whispered. ‘We know we’re friends, but the other staff may become jealous if they think you are favoured.’ His voice was husky, as if his throat had suddenly become dry and constricted.

  She thought about this for several seconds. Wasn’t she good enough then? Wasn’t she fit to be seen in his precious car? She looked over her shoulder at this beloved possession of his, torn between pride and the desire to tear along the roads at forty miles an hour. In the end, the latter won, though she told herself she was daft all the same. What was the point of getting a taste if you couldn’t finish the plateful? But Molly’s wisdom extended only as far as her youth would permit and she knew that she would have to indulge her exuberance this once. After all, how many of her kind got thrown a crumb, a chance to pretend that life went beyond the kitchen sink and the polishing of brasses? ‘All right,’ she said, chin raised defiantly. ‘I’ll just run in and fetch me coat. Will I tell Cook I’m getting the bus home after all?’

  He smiled as reassuringly as he could manage. ‘Yes, that’s it. Say you’re visiting family – that’ll stop any chatter before it starts.’

  She ran towards the kitchen like an elated child. He watched her quick movements, his heart racing as if to keep pace with her flying feet. She was an infant, probably untouched by human hand, as clean as the day she’d been born. What the hell was he doing? His eyes travelled up the gable end, upward and upward until they reached the windows of his and Amelia’s quarters. The bedroom curtains were closed, shut fast against him. She didn’t care, was too concerned about the child to wonder where he was, whom he was with, too bound up in herself to love him any more. But was that any reason for him to follow such a dangerous path? On his own doorstep too? Better some other woman, someone from the town, an anonymous face in an anonymous setting. No. It was Molly or no-one and he would do his best to make sure it would be no-one. Just a ride in a car, a bit of conversation, some fun . . .

  Father was down at the mills for once, the leg giving slightly less trouble than usual. Yet still Charles heard his voice delivering that homily about intentions and fastened trousers. Oh, to hell with it all! Nothing would happen – he was just taking the girl out for a bit of fresh air. Angrily he cranked the car to life, jumped into the driver’s seat and hurtled off down the driveway, dust and gravel flying in his wake. With fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, he waited for Molly to arrive.

  Then she was suddenly at the side window, smiling face bent to look at him, tiny hands fiddling excitedly with the door handle. He reached to release the catch and she jumped in, bringing with her the perfume of eternal springtime, the plain aroma of freshness and youth.

  He took the Chorley road, driving quickly and almost furiously until he noticed whitened knuckles clamped tightly to the edge of the dashboard. With deliberation he eased the speed down and glanced at her ashen face. ‘Frightened?’

  ‘Never been in a car before, sir. It’s worse than I expected – and better too. I keep thinking we’re going to hit something.’

  ‘We’ll be all right. Just wait a few years till everybody has one of these things – that’ll be the time to worry.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The name’s Charles. Charlie to my friends—’

  ‘Ooh, I couldn’t! What if I tripped meself up and said “Here’s your dinner, Charlie” back at the house? I reckon your mother would die of shock.’

  ‘You’re not quite so clumsy, are you?’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ She smiled wanly. ‘If I can trip over a rug every other day, I reckon I can fall over me tongue. It’s long enough at times. Ma says I could talk me road to Manchester and back twice over without stopping for breath.’

  He made a careful left turn. Yes, there was Ma to consider, wasn’t there? Dear God, what would that one say if she could see the pair of them together now, master and servant rolling merrily towards Rivington and heaven only knew what else? She’d probably explode on the spot, go mad at the very thought, because it would rein
force every one of her myths about the continuing cruelty of the bosses. Nothing would happen. He would make sure of that. Was he about to allow his masculinity to become so overpowering? Never! Or was his manhood weak, did it need scaffolding to support it, were his bodily hungers going to win over sense and reason? He gripped the wheel tightly. Why the hell did the girl have to be so damned beautiful? Servants should be ugly, ugly and characterless. They should not be people . . .

  As soon as they reached the foot of the steep mound, she leapt from the car and raced towards the Pike, scrambling here and there on hands and knees so that she might win some age-old race, a game that seemed to be bred into the working classes hereabouts. Show them the Pike and they would run for the top, climbing over each other if necessary, every one of them determined to be the first to reach the folly. He watched her for a while, enjoying the child in her, relishing the sight of this primeval joy, regretting somewhat that he’d never been a part of the Easter races, that his class and status had precluded so much pleasure.

  He slammed the car door and chased after her, puffing and panting as he tried to match her swift progress. At the top they paused, both breathless after coping with such a steep gradient at speed. ‘I beat you!’ she gasped triumphantly.

  He bent, hands on knees, fighting to regain an acceptable level of oxygen. ‘You . . . cheated. Set off . . . before I did!’