Richard returned unsteadily to his seat, leaving his son in the corner, a massive handprint staining his cheek.
‘Well?’ he asked her now. ‘What do you want?’
Ma picked up her purse. ‘I want this filled for my grandchild.’
‘Your grandchild?’
‘Yes. If you co-operate, I’ll marry her off to my son with a bit of luck and no-one need be any the wiser about it.’
‘I see.’ He took a cigar from a case on the desk and rolled it between finger and thumb. ‘And if I don’t do what you want?’
‘Then I’m afraid Molly will have to become a sacrifice, a sort of heroine, if you like.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the door. ‘It won’t take much from me, Richard, to get that lot on the march. If they realized what your son has done to my adopted daughter . . . well . . .’ She sighed dramatically. ‘I couldn’t hold them, I’m afraid. They’re fit to burst as it is. If I wave your son’s bastard under their noses, they’ll have your hide. And his too.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Try me, Richard. Just try me.’
He lit the cigar slowly, giving himself time to think. ‘If I go along with this . . . blackmail of yours, will you stay away from my mills?’
‘No. I’ve a fancy to learn the weaving.’
‘What?’ He exploded in a bout of coughing. ‘At your age? And would I let you in here knowing you’ll have them on strike within a week?’
‘I will not have them on strike. But I want to get out of the house, let her become the housewife. So, I’ll need a job.’
‘Then get a bloody job somewhere else.’
‘I will have a job here.’
Charles began to walk towards the door, his steps quick and angry. ‘Stop!’ yelled his father. ‘This is your doing and you’ll stay for the finish.’
Ma took a deep breath while the young man hovered behind her. ‘You’ve shops in town?’ she asked lightly.
‘Bolton? Aye, I hold a property or two round and about. Why?’
‘I want a couple of adjoining shops. Not now, don’t get excited. But I’ll be needing the deeds or the lease – whatever – to some sort of business in . . . shall we say fifteen years? One shop for the child, one for the mother—’
‘Bloody hell! Would you like the coat off my back as well, the bread out of my mouth?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing so unsavoury, thank you. I want your grandchild – my grandchild too in a way – to have a decent future. Would you like to see a Swainbank stuck amongst mules all day sweating for a living?’
‘He will not be a Swainbank!’ Richard’s temper was about to erupt fully any minute now. ‘A Swainbank is always born in wedlock—’
‘What a happy accident that is.’ She turned to glare venomously at Charles. ‘Nothing to say for yourself?’
‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted. ‘I love the girl—’
‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ Ma said sarcastically. ‘That makes everything all right now, doesn’t it?’ She looked at Richard again. ‘Listen, you. If there’s anything amiss, if she loses the baby or if I’ve been wrong in saying she’s pregnant, then we’ll forget the whole thing. But I want it done all legal and proper, a payment each month for the child, a future for him – or her – in business and no more said on the subject. Molly does not know I’m here. She doesn’t even know what’s wrong with her yet, though the penny will drop in time. If you agree, then I’ll persuade her to marry Paddy and your son’s name will stay out of it.’
‘And what about your own flaming son? Can’t he count? Doesn’t he know it takes nine months for a baby?’
‘That will be my concern, not yours. Babies have a habit of arriving premature when the air’s filled with filthy smoke from your chimneys.’
He placed an elbow on the table and leaned his head against a closed fist. ‘You know, Ma, if you’d been educated you would have been really dangerous.’
‘Just because I don’t read – that doesn’t mean I’ve no brain. It’s time you started looking out for my likes, Mr Swainbank. There’s many of us could better you in an argument. Right.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll be seeing one of those lawyer fellers once I’ve sorted Molly and Paddy out. I suggest you do the same. Enjoy your meeting.’ She made for the door, brushing hard against Charles as she passed him.
‘Ma!’ he said, his tone subdued.
‘Yes?’
‘Give her . . . my regards.’
She approached him until there was barely an inch of space between them. ‘I’ll give her nothing from you, boy. Don’t you think you’ve already given her enough – a lifetime of grief and worry? She’s a lot to hide from the world and I’ll not burden her further by mentioning your name in my house.’ Stepping back, she delivered a resounding slap to the other side of his face. ‘There,’ she said, dusting her hands together. ‘Now your face is more . . . what’s the word? Even, that’s it.’ She opened the door. ‘Even,’ she repeated before stepping out into the corridor.
Right, it was done. The easy bit, anyway. Compared to Molly, those two were bunny rabbits, tame ones at that, eating out of her hand. Now the hard work must begin. She listened for a few moments as Richard screamed at his son, obscenities pouring in a seemingly endless stream out of his mouth and echoing throughout the office. Poor Richard. Whatever he was, he didn’t deserve this. Neither did she. Most of all, poor little Molly deserved none of what was to come.
She made her way along Deansgate and turned left for St George’s Road, shoulders rounded for the first time in her life. He looked ill, so very ill, did Richard. And what she’d perpetrated this day would not do much to improve the man’s failing health. But those closest to her had to come first as always. Richard was not her responsibility, never had been. But that history should repeat itself in such a cruel way . . . Oh, life could be unbearable at times, making it easy to sink into the deadly sin of despair. At her front door she paused, hand poised over the latch. Now, she really would have to become a magician, persuade Molly to marry Paddy, get the pair of them down the aisle as soon as possible. And with Molly in her present frame, none of it promised to be easy.
Molly Dobson lay still as a stone, hands flat against the woven quilt, unseeing eyes staring out towards the nothingness that was her life. Three weeks she’d lain in here now, twenty-one days of emptiness and near-starvation, just a bit of bread and a sip of tea now and again. She knew it was three weeks because Ma had said so this morning. And she’d said a lot of other stuff and all, things about marrying Paddy before the neighbours started talking, about Ma not being able to allow them both to stay unless there was a wedding.
This sickness was an awful terrible mess, nothing Ma could put a name to. No fever, no spots, no sneezes or soreness in the throat. Her stomach felt as if it had been ten times through the mangle, not a drop of moisture left to squeeze out, just a dry and empty sack. What was it? She rolled her head and stared through the window. Everything outside seemed to be carrying on as normal, ragmen shouting, women gossiping, children playing their noisy games . . . Her heart suddenly lurched. Children playing. An appalling idea lurked on the edge of conscious thought, had sat there for several days now, a monster whose tentacles reached a little further with each passing hour, waiting for her to open her mind. It couldn’t be! Not after just the once – oh no, not that!
As if propelled from a gun, she sat bolt upright in the bed, her head spinning from this quick movement. Yes! She was late, a week late. And she’d always been like clockwork up to now. Her hand moved slowly downward until it reached her abdomen, but there was no swelling yet. Nothing but this vile sickness, nothing at all.
She leapt from the bed and pulled on her clothes, tearing and ripping in her haste. There was no time to think, to consider the options – and anyway, there were no valid choices. Her life from this moment was dictated completely, had been mapped out in another moment three weeks ago. She slowed her movements deliberately, determined not to let the pan
ic show. After fastening her dress, she sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, her last minutes of individuality and freedom. Yes, she’d watched what happened to women hereabouts, dragged down by children and hardship. What she had done so far was wicked; what she half planned to do in the future could only be described as evil. And so it must be.
Ma listened as Molly reached her conclusion, tuned in while the message finally dawned, heard the scuttling, the haste, then the quiet. Her heart went out to the poor girl, but she brushed away the tears savagely. This charade would have to be acted right through to its end, each member of the cast having a difficult part to play, some deceiving, some deceived. Little Molly would have to act as both victim and perpetrator, while Ma herself would doubtless be the sorceress, the one who made it all happen, the one who would be blamed should things go wrong.
‘Ma?’ The trembling girl stepped into her welcoming arms. ‘I’ve decided to stop,’ she sobbed. ‘Me and Paddy can get wed as soon as the Father will do it. I’ll . . . I’ll turn later on, so it’ll have to be mixed to start with—’
‘That’s fine then, child. Sure we can always ask for a papal blessing later on, after your baptism. We can get the banns waived – I’m sure of that. Not that there’s any real need for haste,’ she added quickly. ‘Only you know how these streets are, everybody chattering as if I’m keeping a bad house with the two of you not married.’
Molly giggled hysterically. ‘I think I should have told Paddy first, though.’
‘Ah, he’ll be in soon and I won’t say a word. Make your announcement and I’ll do me best to look surprised.’
Molly continued to shiver violently, the truth hovering on the tip of her tongue, for she felt she could never live with this deception. Ma patted the shaking back. ‘It will all turn out well, pet. You know he worships the ground you walk on – didn’t he fetch you that fearsome bunch of half-dead flowers just the other day? And did you ever see the likes? I wonder which graveyard he stole them from, eh?’
‘Oh Ma—’
‘Yes, he’s a character. When I saw the roses wrapped in Saturday’s sports page with all the footballers on it, I nearly keeled over. “Wherever did you get this lot?” I asked him. But he said not a word, just swapped the Evening News for a sheet of greaseproof. There’s no bad in him, Molly. Sure, you’re both a bit young for it, but the neighbours know he loves you and they’re waiting for the wedding. So. I’ll go up and visit the presbytery, get everything sorted out.’
‘I don’t want . . . I don’t want a white frock.’
Ma pulled the girl closer. ‘No. White is a very peculiar colour – no colour at all, really. I find it very drab myself. A little cream suit with a matching hat would be nice. How’s your tummy?’
‘A bit easier.’
‘Good.’ She drew herself away and gazed into the pale face, unable to quite meet the eyes where a terrible grief showed so plainly. ‘Yes, the job was too much for you, Molly. I’m glad you had the good sense to leave when it made you so ill. I’ll . . . er . . . go out a while, child. Better if you and Paddy are alone just now and I’m wanting some baking soda.’ She reached for her coat.
‘Ma?’
‘Ah yes – there’s me purse. Do you fancy anything special for tea?’
Molly shook her head.
‘Try to cheer up a bit. I know you aren’t too well, but this is supposed to be a happy time, is it not? Get a cold wash and comb your hair. When I get back, you’ll no doubt be engaged to me-lad-o.’
Molly dropped into a dining chair. ‘Ma?’
The older woman turned in the doorway. ‘Don’t get too tired now – leave the housework to me until this sickness passes. You’ll be better soon, I’m sure of it.’
‘But Ma!’ The door was closing.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ came the muffled reply.
Molly sat for an hour or so waiting for Paddy to come home, her fevered mind dancing about like a dog recently released from its leash, tearing here and there with no real sense of direction. There were choices. Somewhere underneath all this mess, she could catch the edge of them if she concentrated hard enough. She could leave, pack her things and throw herself on Charles Swainbank’s mercy. Or she could stay and marry Paddy. Between these two opposing poles there was no space for compromise. But she might not be pregnant! And if she was, would Paddy guess, would Ma find out?
Her head sank until it met tightly clenched hands, elbows resting on Ma’s green plush table cover. No. She couldn’t go back to Swainbank, wouldn’t ask him for help. And there were people a lot worse than Paddy Maguire – she knew that only too well now. But to have a child and pretend that it was his . . .
The door opened. Molly looked up expecting to see Ma who had been gone such a long time just for a bit of soda. She screwed up her eyes against the invasive light, then pushed herself to rise.
‘Hello, Molly. Up and about again, I see?’
‘Yes.’ And she took those first few steps, steps she would never be able to retrace, into the arms of her future husband.
Ma lingered in a back pew, a carton of soda crushed between clenched fingers. To lie, even for a reason such as this, was not a natural part of her being. In fact, she was going against every principle in her book, doing the very things she preached against, manipulating people, trying to act like a boss. Like God Himself. She looked around the walls at the Stations of the Cross, so beautifully portrayed in this particular church, three-dimensional and coloured, each arrangement set on a semi-circular plinth. It was a lovely church, was this. Most just had plaques, flat stone etchings of Jesus’ sufferings, not much more than a set of brownish tablets. But St Peter’s was a proud church, immaculately clean and cared for, a credit to the poor Irish and Lancashire folk who contributed weekly to the support of their pastors.
Her eye finally rested on the figure of Simon trying to help Jesus carry the Cross up Calvary. Wasn’t she just helping Molly up her hill? Didn’t the girl have a terrible cross of her own to carry and wouldn’t Simon of Cyrene have done exactly the same thing? Dear God in heaven, was life ever going to be simple at all?
She looked down at her fingers all covered in white powder now, the container flattened past mending. Still, no-one would starve for the lack of soda. There was a good thick stew in the pot – if only Molly would manage to eat a little and hang on to it. Yes, even the soda was a lie, a visible one spread all over her hands and down the front of her coat.
She got up, dusted herself off, then genuflected before going to light a candle in front of Mary. The small flame flickered then rose upward, a wisp of blue smoke preceding its ascent. ‘Help us all, Mother,’ she whispered. ‘Make her eat, make her laugh again. Give my Paddy just enough sense to look after her, but little enough to guess what is really happening. And forgive me. What I’m trying to do for this little unborn soul is not strictly honest, but you know I think the father should pay in some way.’
She turned and walked out of the church. This was just the beginning, the start of a lifetime built on lies. How on earth would she explain away the child’s sudden wealth when the time came? Uncle Porrick and his leprechauns, a pot of gold found in a thunderstorm? She lifted her chin and strode deliberately in the direction of home. There she would find either an engaged couple or an empty room. From now on, Molly would be making decisions by herself, never realizing Ma’s involvement. And, if the girl had decided to stay, keeping her in ignorance would take a lot of luck. Luck and not a little prayer.
‘Molly, it’s no use sitting there dreaming and getting morbid. That’s a desperate unhappy face you’re wearing these days – what happened to your laughter? The child will surely feel it too if you sit about long-mouthed and weary the whole day—’
‘I’ve done the dishes and got your teas. What else would you like? A bit of clog-dancing, happen the can-can on the table? I’m hot, Ma, hot and heavy.’
Ma shook her head grimly. ‘Tell me about it, why don’t you? You’d know what hot meant
if you’d been stuck with me in that inferno the whole week. It’s like hell at times, yet I love the weaving – always knew I would.’
‘I just wish it was all over and done with, Ma.’
‘Ah well, isn’t that perfectly understandable now? Every expectant mother loses her patience towards the end, for it seems to go on for ever.’ And thank God it had gone on forever. Almost eight months married now. If the child came this very day, there’d be no cause for suspicion. ‘I’ve had special permission for a week off,’ she went on carefully. ‘I told the manager you weren’t very well. I think your baby will be here soon.’
Molly’s face was suddenly filled with fear. ‘Will it?’
Ma nodded, a comforting smile accompanying the quick movement of her head. ‘I know the signs, love. There’s but few go full term in these parts. That backache of yours is a sure enough sign that he’ll pop out any minute.’
‘He?’
‘Young Joseph. Didn’t we agree that we’d call him after my favourite brother? A caution, he was – and still is, I shouldn’t wonder. We could never find him, because he was forever running off after the wild ponies. I still miss them all at home, you know. Family is very important, Molly. Life can be a desperate hard thing without the support of a family.’
‘Yes.’ Molly lifted a potato pie from the oven. ‘But I think it’s a girl. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt that way.’ She placed the pie in the centre of the table. ‘Janet,’ she said, her voice stripped of emotion.
‘Why Janet?’
The girl shrugged listlessly. ‘It’s as good a name as any, I suppose.’
‘What about your mother’s name? The child will be half Dobson, after all.’
‘I don’t like Edith. But I’ll call her Janet Edith all the same. And if you’re right and it’s a boy, it’ll be Joseph Arthur after me dad.’
With Love From Ma Maguire Page 18