With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘M . . . my—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My . . . bro . . . o—’

  ‘Your brooch? The one with the tiger’s eye? Blink once for yes, Ma.’

  The left lid winked slowly.

  ‘Is it in the box?’

  Again the eye closed. Molly reached under the bed and brought out a heavy miniature chest. No-one ever touched this. Ma’s box was absolutely forbidden territory – even her only son would never have dared to interfere with its private contents.

  Molly smiled as she fingered the carved lid. ‘We’re back to Uncle Porrick, are we? I remember you telling me about the leprechauns and the tiger’s eye. Didn’t Uncle Porrick say the little people would come and help you if you wore the brooch? Shall I get a bowl on the table same as he did, leave it out so they can call in for a swim?’

  ‘N . . . no . . . !’

  ‘All right then.’ Molly prayed silently that the poor old thing was not going to put too much faith in this brooch. After all, there’d been enough novenas and masses said, enough prayers to move a mountain never mind a sick woman. If prayer couldn’t do it, then some stupid Irish folk tale never would.

  The key to the box was on a chain with an Immaculate Conception medal round Ma’s neck and Molly unfastened the clasp hesitantly. It seemed strange, going in the box like this. As if . . . as if Ma wasn’t here any more. After undoing the lid, Molly paused, a hand to her throat. The chest was filled to the brim with papers and small leather pouches. Her fingers crept round one of these and felt the coins inside. ‘Ma,’ she gasped. ‘Is this . . . money?’

  ‘L . . . eave . . . lea—’

  ‘All right, don’t worry, I’ll not touch it. But where . . . I mean whose . . . ?

  But that look was in the sharp eyes again and Molly removed several sealed envelopes before finally closing her fingers around the brooch. ‘Here it is. Will I pin it to your nightie?’

  The eye signalled yes.

  Molly replaced the contents, locked the box and pushed it under the bed before fastening the chain, with its key and medal, around her mother-in-law’s throat. ‘You’ve got secrets in there, haven’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll not let on to Paddy. If he knew you’d money, he’d make a miraculous recovery and we wouldn’t see him again until he’d drunk the lot. Aye, once he gets over this fever, he’ll find his thirst again, I don’t doubt.’

  She looked down at the brooch, turning and twisting it in her fingers. It was a large item, about the size of an infant’s hand, all silver filigree except for the centre where the tiger’s eye glowed yellow, smooth and rounded. ‘I hope this helps you, Ma.’ She pinned the brooch to Ma’s high-necked nightdress and immediately the old lady’s eyes softened and filled with grateful tears.

  ‘I’m doing all I can.’ Molly patted the waxlike right hand reassuringly. ‘Doctor says you’ll likely talk a bit in time, though he’s not all that sure about your hand and your leg. Still, we keep on doing the exercises, don’t we? Mind, I’m wondering whether we’re going about it the right road, because I made them up meself. Only it stands to reason that if we don’t jiggle you about from time to time, then you’ll go to waste. Tell you what – how would you like our Janet to come in and read to you? Happen she could teach you some of your letters for when you’re better. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes.’ The left hand closed over the brooch. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well!’ Molly’s face beamed. ‘That was clear enough, wasn’t it? I reckon you’re on the mend, Ma Maguire. And may God help Bella Seddon the day you walk out over that doorstep.’

  ‘Mo . . . ll . . . ee—?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘G . . . good . . . g . . . g . . . girl.’

  Molly stared down at the poor diminished creature on the bed, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. ‘I’m not a good girl, Ma. There’s things about me you don’t know – things I hope you’ll never know. Just hurry up and get better.’ She rubbed the end of her nose on the heel of her hand. ‘Paddy’s took the fever again. I don’t know what they think they’re doing at that blinking hospital, only he’s no better. Mind, I think he brings a lot of it on himself – he’d be best out working. Smashed the bedroom up good and proper this time, he has. I’ve hid all the best stuff in your little room, shoved it in the bottom of your chest of drawers. I’d have nothing left worth keeping else.’ She sighed deeply. ‘He’ll never be no different, I know it. Not that he was up to much before – aye, that’s one thing you and I have agreed about, isn’t it? But whatever he’s got comes back over and over, plagues him out of his mind at times. And when he’s well he’s drinking, so it’s all the same whichever way.’

  She leaned forward and straightened the top quilt. ‘I’ll do your heels and your back with some spirit in a bit. You know, I’m sure he’d pick up if he could get some work. When I tell him to go and look for a job, he curses me for mithering. I don’t know what to do. Happen I’ll get took on as unskilled in the mill – I can fold and knock the sizing out of quilt fringes, do a bit of cleaning . . .’

  The left hand closed about Molly’s wrist. ‘N . . . no . . . nee . . . d. No.’

  ‘But Ma . . .’

  ‘No!’ There was energy in this monosyllable.

  Molly rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘Where did you get all that money, Ma? What’s it for? How long have you had it – they’re sovereigns, aren’t they? Did they force your husband to pay up at last?’

  Ma Maguire gazed steadily at her daughter-in-law. Even if she had been able to speak up, she wouldn’t have told, not just now. No, the time wasn’t right yet. Not quite.

  After Molly had left, Ma lay staring at the ceiling for a long time. The words in her mind had come back, most of them anyway. Sometimes she looked at a thing and couldn’t quite remember the name for it, then it would jump into her head at an unexpected moment. Silly, it was. How could she look at a chair without knowing it was a chair? Still, life was a little clearer now. But what use was it to know that a chair was a chair if she couldn’t speak? Might as well be an elephant or a giraffe, anything with four legs. Chair, table, bed, curtains. All arranged in her mind, all collected and relearned. And not an ounce of use without a voice.

  She was sick to death of the sight of this room, it was beginning to feel like a prison cell. She had counted the flowers on the wallpaper a dozen times, firstly to get her brain working, secondly to use them as a rosary while she remembered her prayers. And the damp patches over the window were getting on her nerves too; that idle son of hers needed a boot on the backside to persuade him to put the house to rights, for as sure as damnation awaited sinners, the landlord would never spend another halfpenny on these dwellings.

  The landlord. She concentrated for a long time, sweating with the effort of remembering his name. How long had she lived here? For ever! He owned a mill, that she recalled vividly. Yes, the mill stood at the end of the street in another street. Now. What was the name of that street? No, it wasn’t a street she was looking for, it was a man’s name. Which man? Concentrate! The landlord. Cows. Something from a cow, that’s what he was called after. Milk? What else? Cheese? Cream? She smiled a lopsided smile of victory. Leather. His name was Leatherbarrow and he hadn’t much hair, just a few long strands pulled across his head to fill in the gaps.

  The box. Aye, she knew what was in the box all right. It was to do with Janet and Joey and she’d have to see to it soon. She drifted away, her hand clasping the tiger’s eye.

  ‘Hello there, Philly!’

  ‘Uncle Porrick!’ The young girl ran across the muddy yard to greet him.

  ‘See what did I fetch for you.’ The big man opened his pocket and drew out a small package. ‘From the little people.’

  ‘Is it?’

  And he told her the story of the dish left out, the tiny footprints on the table, the brooch left for his favourite girl.

  ‘Can I keep it for ever, Uncle Porrick?’

  ‘You can indeed. In times of trouble, you just turn to i
t and the little people will come.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Always and anywhere.’

  They never had come. Even so, Philly had worn the brooch in times of stress, just to feel nearer to such a grand man, a man who took time from a busy life to tell stories to a young girl. Ah but she’d give her right arm for the sight of Uncle Porrick again. Yes, her right arm had been given at last . . .

  The door flew open. ‘Granny!’

  The two times blended together and Ma found herself in bed, half-paralysed and with the damp patch still over the window.

  ‘Granny? Are you awake?’

  Janet. I’d talk to you if I could. Is it fifteen you are now? You and Joey, so like himself the both of you. But specially Joey.

  ‘Mam says I’ve got to learn you how to read. I’m lucky – the others have to stop upstairs as punishment. Dad’s raving fit to burst again – I think he’s got a bottle of rum in the bed with him. So we’re all in trouble one way or another.’

  That’s the way of it, child. The biggest trouble, all that explaining, is yet to come . . .

  ‘We got nearly mangled off Mam for pinching apples from the back of Greenhalgh’s cart. Mam was mortified to death, ’cos her next door came round in a big huff. It was our Joey’s idea. He wanted to get his own back for all the bad stuff we’ve had off that cart. Mam was all riled up only she’d a job on not to laugh.’

  Yes, laughing was always your mother’s problem. Up at the big house, I bet she laughed, kept them all going. She used to do turns, didn’t she? That’s right, she had a lot of voices. That would be what attracted the other feller, him who brought all the big trouble to this house. She probably made him laugh too with all her voices. Wish I had just one voice, any one would do. She doesn’t giggle like she once did, hasn’t since you were born. When she was your age, I used to wonder how she managed to be so happy and her an orphan.

  Janet threw herself into a chair and thrust a slate under Ma’s nose. ‘See. I’ve wrote all our names down. Now, this long one is you – Philomena. It should really begin with an F but them two letters stuck together make the F sound. These are Molly and Michael – they have the same beginning letter. Now Janet and Joey – they start with a J. Daisy is a D, though she should be another M with her real name being Margaret, then Paddy is a P, only it’s not the same as yours with having no H after it.’ She paused for breath after this long speech. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, Gran.’

  Janet, this English is a desperate difficult language written down. I’m tired just now and I keep drifting off back home. Sometimes I’m fourteen, walking along the edge of a bog with Uncle Porrick, then suddenly I’m an old lady going on sixty. Mammy and Daddy are dead, I know that for sure. And I’ve a husband Seamus probably still in prison. Things from long ago are coming back, so perhaps I’ll get to grips soon with more recent events. I’m trying so hard. But it’s all in little patches like a crocheted blanket, all squares that need sewing together.

  ‘Our Michael’s got to go to church every day,’ Janet was saying now. ‘On account of what happened last Sunday. He was fishing, see, early on, caught a couple of sticklebacks down the pond in the park. Anyway, comes time for church and all the bells ringing like mad, he’s mucky as a chimney sweep and carrying this jam jar. Oh, it was so embarrassing, Gran! He gets to the church and drops the jar outside, picks up the fish and dumps them in the font of holy water by the door. I’ve never known anybody who can show you up like our Michael can. None of my friends have brothers like him. Not fit to be seen half the time, always covered in mud and with his clothes hanging off him.’

  Ma’s face broke into a half-smile. That boy was so lovable, so misunderstood . . .

  ‘They were all blessing themselves as they came in, then this lady started shrieking as if the world was ending. Course, our Michael was only worried about the blinking fish. Black as a pot, he walked right down the church, grabbed a collection dish and scooped his sticklebacks up in the holy water. I could have died with shame on the spot. I kept hoping it was just a dream and I’d wake up in a minute. He’d his hair stood on end as if he’d just seen a ghost, the socks pushed down like a couple of wet dishcloths and his shirt was hanging behind him like a loose nappy. And everybody knows he’s my brother! Anyway, he’s got to polish two pews every morning and get trained for an altar boy. Can you see him? Dressed up in white and helping the priest? He’ll never do it. There’ll be incense spilled, bells ringing at the wrong time and he’ll never learn his Latin responses. Oh, the shame of it. I think I’ll start walking to St Patrick’s.’

  Yes, you’re getting to that age now, aren’t you? The age when things matter, when everything has to look right. Don’t be ashamed of us. We are your family. Your real family . . .

  ‘I’ll read to you from the paper.’ She rustled the pages of the Evening News. ‘Some folk say there’s going to be another war on account of that Hitler feller getting too big for his boots. Me dad says not. He says there was enough bother last time and nobody can afford to fight.’ The page turned as Ma began to fall asleep, lulled and comforted by the sound of Janet’s voice.

  ‘Man up Daubhill’s murdered his wife. Well, they say he did, but he says he never ’cos he was in the pub at the time playing darts. Coal’s going up tuppence. Births and deaths are pretty well full up again – ooh, here’s a big one. Bet that cost a bob or two. “Tragically, as the result of an accident on June 14th 1937, John and Peter, beloved sons of Charles and Amelia Swainbank.” Isn’t that awful? I wonder how old they were? Aren’t they the big mill-owners, the Swainbanks? Granny? Gran, are you asleep?’

  Don’t shout, love. I was just getting into it. Now, where was I? Oh yes, if I buy four pennyworth of fish and a tuppeny swede, that will be sixpence. Out of a shilling, I shall get another sixpence change. Now, I’ll have to go on to something harder, up to half a crown. Leatherbarrow. Yes, that was his name.

  Janet rushed into the scullery. ‘Mam! She’s talking!’

  Molly turned from the slopstone where she was peeling potatoes. ‘Aye, she mumbled a bit at me. Just yes and no, then a few odd words—’

  ‘No, not mumbling, In her sleep, she talks. Plain as day I heard her say something about Leatherbarrow and sixpence change.’

  ‘Must be raving, then. Nobody ever got change out of Leatherbarrow. He’s about as generous as old Scrooge on a very bad day.’

  ‘But she still said the words, Mam. Honest.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes! I was reading to her out of the paper, just bits and pieces, then she started talking – proper like she used to.’

  ‘With a brogue as thick as a new clog bottom, you mean.’

  ‘But she’s talking in her sleep, using words. If she can talk in her sleep, then she can talk awake, can’t she?’

  Molly dried her hands. ‘I’m not so sure about that, lass. Asleep, she doesn’t have to think about talking. Happen when she’s awake and trying too hard she just can’t master it. But it’s a good sign, our Janet. You must spend more time with your Granny. From the sound of things, it looks as if you might be doing her some good.’

  Janet sidled along the edge of the small scullery table. ‘Mam?’

  ‘What?’ She recognized the wheedling tone in her daughter’s voice.

  ‘Can we come down? It’s only five o’clock. Think of all the winter days when we have to stop in.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘Seems a shame that children should miss the best weather.’

  Molly puffed out her cheeks and blew noisily. ‘Will you behave?’

  ‘Course! We’ll play jacks and bobbers on the six flags.’

  ‘No stepping over?’

  ‘Cross me heart.’

  ‘All right then. But steer clear of that one next door. She’ll be fetching the landlord up next news, getting us evicted as not fit to live in the street.’

  Janet’s chin jutted forward. ‘Only ’cos Gran stopped her squeezing the lodgers in.’

  ‘Aye well.
Just don’t push your luck till Granny’s up and about. She’s for taking over, is Mrs Seddon, so give no cheek and make sure you stick to playing on your own patch.’

  ‘Ta, Mam.’ Then she was gone with the pigtails flying behind her. Molly wiped the scullery table, her mind busy with something she was having trouble pinpointing. There were goings-on, things she needed to get to the bottom of, yet at the same time didn’t want to know about. What was this niggle at the back of her mind?

  She took in a sharp breath. All that money, all those papers Ma couldn’t even read. But wait – what about that time she’d spotted Ma – ooh, about five or six years ago – yes, just before Daisy was born.

  Molly walked to the slopstone and filled a pan with water for the spuds. That was right. Ma Maguire scuttling out of that lawyer’s place on St George’s Road, said she’d been seeing after a cleaning job. Why, Ma had been full-time weaving then. And when Molly had questioned her, the answer had been that Ma was considering giving up at the mill, taking a little job so she’d be around to help with the new baby. That had never been true, not in a month of Sundays.

  She poured salt into the pan then set it to boil on the gas ring. Aye, they were legal documents in that box, seals and all they had on them. What was going on and why all the secrecy?

  Paddy was banging on the floor again, likely feeling sorry for himself and after a bit of attention. Resignedly, she poured him a pint of tea and carried it through to the kitchen. The door to the stairway was in the corner, diagonally opposite the front door and well away from the best room. But even from the foot of the stairs she could hear Ma talking. Not the words, but she could tell that phrases were being strung together. He banged once more and she began her ascent, wondering what she’d find this time.

  He was on the floor, head in hands and weeping again.

  ‘Back into bed now, Paddy.’

  She placed the large mug on the mantel shelf and went to help him to his feet.

  ‘Nobody bloody cares,’ he wailed. ‘I feel as if there’s spiders walking all over me body—’

  ‘Aye and pink elephants doing a waltz in the middle of the ceiling, I shouldn’t wonder.’