After his return to full-time work, Charles came home in the evenings and read the Bolton papers while Mrs M bustled around him with pots and pans, while Jacob Perkins cleaned silver and polished shoes, while Emmie chattered on about the latest film or a new kind of lipstick. As the weeks passed, Charles Swainbank remembered his dead boy’s wisdom, learned for himself that there was, at the end of a day, no division between peoples, that master and servant could sit at the one table, that crossing the invisible line had proved, for himself at least, not only painless but also necessary.
He taught his companions bridge and chess, discovering an agility of minds that had previously been unlooked for, unnoticed. From Perkins he learned to play a vicious hand of poker, while many of his spare coins were lost in games of pontoon and find-the-lady. As long as he lived, he would never forget the four people who had dragged him out of the mire and back on to the safety of firm ground.
As Nurse Fishwick had predicted, reasons for continuing began to arrive. He bought most of Delia Street, paying old Leatherbarrow a price that left the man gaping. After studying plans, he sent in a workforce to renew plumbing, wire the houses for electricity, treat walls and roofs against the eternal damp and decorate the homes to a high standard. He consulted lawyers and accountants, moved tenants from the two shops on Bradshawgate, found them decent premises elsewhere, then had the shops cleared and cleaned in preparation for the twins.
Nurse Fishwick was duly installed as Medical and Welfare with number one mill as her base. After a while she was accepted, though at first she was treated like a spy – something to do with time and motion – because she lived at the big house. While she practised what she called her ‘union smile’, Charles spent many an hour crawling on hands and knees over oily floorboards, measuring every inch of numbers one and two, trying to work out how to keep up profits while installing machines with safer space between them. He was aware of cutting a comical figure, especially after hearing on the stairs, ‘Did tha see yon Charlie afore? All mucked up like a bloody greaser he were. Tell thee summat, Jack. Them there ’ighborns is too inbred, it gets ter t’ brain at t’ finish.’ But he didn’t care. Even if he had been ‘daft in th’ ’ead’, the Bolton folk would have forgiven him. They were straight, unnervingly direct, but very warm. Had he noticed that before? Probably . . .
Thus Charles’s life, while empty in a personal sense, became meaningful once more. The truest meaning though was his interest in the Maguire family whose progress he monitored daily. It was a brave attempt they were making, an assault on a buying public set in its ways and still suffering financial depression. But whoever had dreamed up this audacious concept had imagination and an eye to a better future, that much was plain, for the shops even before they opened displayed a vigour that attracted comment from many quarters. In his bones, Charles felt that an old head had birthed this idea, that Ma Maguire was its true inventor. Three shops in one, three different businesses under one management – the novelty and daring amused him. And because of its uniqueness, the venture would probably succeed.
Behind the scenes, Charles orchestrated many a miracle, greasing the odd palm, bending the ears of the influential to make the way easier for the Maguires, smoothing out legalities and licences whenever it looked as if the path might roughen. Each day he drove past the site, watching as workmen carried in shelving or chairs and tables, supervising from afar while painters brightened the weather-stained exterior. But even he was ill-prepared when the big day arrived, for the sign was so commanding that it shortened the most nonchalant breath. A bright emerald-green rectangle was erected above the three doorways and the signwriter worked painstakingly in black and gold for several days before the message became fully plain.
MAGUIRES’ MARKET was printed out in high-case copperplate, while underneath, in smaller lettering, the building’s new purpose was explained.
Enjoy our Irish kitchen (Ma Maguire’s famous herbal teas and remedies also available)
Hand-trimmed clothing – wools and cottons – patterns and yarns
New and secondhand bicycles – also repairs and maintenance
Charles closed the door of his car and grinned widely. Ah, she had the right idea – get them in for a bowl of stew, let the ladies browse through hats and trimmings while the men and boys studied bikes. And if the stew didn’t suit their digestion, a remedy would be on hand! He found himself laughing aloud as he drove away. Why, if the old girl stayed alive long enough, there’d be Maguires’ Markets from here to Timbuctoo!
He made his way back to number one. For the first time ever, he would be there to interview the new intake, trainees straight from school, the workers of the future. The manager had been shocked at this intention, believing that his own abilities were being questioned, but Charles had pacified the man by explaining that Nurse Fishwick needed some interview experience and that Charles himself wished to supervise her induction.
The real reason for Charles’ sudden interest in these school-leavers was invested in a single name halfway down the list, one Janet Maguire who had submitted an application for a weaver’s apprenticeship. Yes, he wanted to meet the little madam who had obviously turned down the chance to work in her own family business. There was going to be more to this one than just a pretty face, he suspected.
He was right. When summoned, she stepped into the office with a firm stride, gloved hands folded neatly at her waist, head held high, eyes making bold contact each time she was addressed. Nurse Fishwick filled out the standard questionnaire with its endless enquiries about health and family situation, then Charles dismissed her to her own office, using as excuse the fact that several absentees had not been accounted for on that day.
He faced this new grown-up daughter and his heart nearly burst when he saw those straight Swainbank brows above a pair of smoke-grey eyes that were almost too beautiful to describe. He cleared his throat nervously. ‘What do you know about cotton then, Miss . . . Maguire? Did you learn anything at school?’
‘A bit. Only I’ve read more in books out of the library. I think it’s . . . well . . . really funny. Not for laughing at, I don’t mean that. But it’s like a story, isn’t it? You get a plant grown hundreds and thousands of miles away, pile it on a boat, sail it halfway round the world, then we make cloth of it.’
He was suddenly smiling. ‘Yes, if you put it that way, I suppose it must seem a bit odd.’
‘I think it’s unbelievable. I mean, if it wasn’t actually happening here in Bolton, you’d think somebody had made it all up! Course, it’s been round donkey’s years, long before we got hold of it. When we first did, it was called vegetable wool ’cos they’d all been used to getting their clothes off sheep.’ She leaned forward, clearly warming to a favourite subject. ‘Anyroad, this here Roman feller called Pliny – I think he was one of their poshknobs – he decided that cotton pods looked a bit like quince. That’s a fruit. Have you ever ate one?’
‘No.’
‘Well it is a fruit, it was in the book. Now the Latin for quince is cotoneum, so cotton could have got its name there. Only I found out it’s likely Arabic, k-o-t-o-n what sounded something like gooten. It’s dead interesting, though.’
It was in her blood! From both sides she’d got it, from himself genetically, also from the experience of being reared by a cotton family. Though the interest she’d taken in research could only have come from him, he told himself somewhat smugly. No ordinary girl would know so much about the industry and its history.
‘Am I talking too much?’ she was asking now. ‘I get in bother over that off me mam.’
‘Do you?’
‘Oh aye. She reckons I have more to say than the BBC Home Service.’
‘And you want to be a weaver?’
‘Yes. My granny’s a weaver – a good one too.’
‘You’ll not be able to talk in a weaving shed, Janet. It’s too noisy and far too busy.’
‘I know. I’ll have to shut up and learn to lip-read.’
> Charles moved a few papers on the desk and placed his elbows on its surface while he studied this personable young woman. ‘I believe your family is about to open a shop in the town centre. Have you no inclination to work there?’
She sucked in her cheeks while considering the reply to this. ‘I don’t want to sell things – I’d sooner make them. I thought if I learned enough about different cloths, I could happen make some dresses and that for the shop in me spare time, but for full-time, I’d rather come in the mill. I . . . I don’t really want to work with our Joey . . .’
‘I see. Do you mind if I ask why?’
‘Well, Mr . . . er . . . er . . . what did you say your name was?’
‘Swainbank.’
She swallowed. ‘You mean . . . you’re the boss? Ooh, I never thought—’
‘I own the mills. But I’m still an ordinary chap, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’
‘Oh, come on! Why don’t you want to work with your brother?’
She sighed resignedly, then looked him straight in the eye. ‘Might as well hang for a sheep, I suppose,’ she muttered. ‘Have you ever been a twin, Mr Swainbank?’
‘No. No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, you’ve missed nowt, I can tell you. It’s murder at times – like having your shadow with you all the while, even in the dark, somebody you’re fastened to through no fault of your own. I love my brother, Mr Swainbank, but I want to be . . . oh, I don’t know—’
‘Independent?’
‘Aye, that’s it. I want to make me own way. They’re all mad with me at home, mouthing off ’cos Gran’s got these shops and I should know which side me bread’s buttered. Only I need to be . . . separate.’
Charles stared at her. These were the things he would have known, should have known about his own daughter. That she was free-spirited, imaginative, bright. Fifteen years he had missed. Now she came to him, a grown-up new baby with her character formed by circumstances he might have altered or improved. ‘It’s a hard life in a cotton mill, dear.’
‘I’ve no fear of work. And it’s not as hard as it used to be.’ She lowered her lashes and, for the first time, averted her gaze. ‘My mother doesn’t want me working for you. Happen she’s read the same books as I have, though she doesn’t really have a lot of spare time for reading. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t seem to like you, Mr Swainbank. Perhaps she doesn’t like mill owners.’ She shrugged and drew a deep breath. ‘Your great- or maybe great-great-grandfather had men hanged for croft-breaking, sir. That doesn’t happen any more, so nothing’s as bad as it was.’ She looked down at her gloved hands and continued, as if to herself, ‘They got hanged on Bolton Moor for stealing half a dozen yards of cloth.’
‘They were similarly punished for a loaf or a cup of milk, Janet. You seem to read a lot.’
She suddenly looked at him again, her face filled with a kind of excitement he had not witnessed in years. ‘Half of me wishes I’d been alive then, before the bleachworks, when Bolton was surrounded by miles of cloth left out in the sun to whiten. I bet it looked like snow in the middle of summer.’
He hid a grin behind an outspread palm. The girl was plainly a romantic at heart. ‘And what would you have done with the croft-breakers?’
‘In your lot’s place, I’d have given them a good hiding and got me cloth back. As a worker though, I’d have stuck up for them and fought back . . .’
‘And you’d have given my lot a good hiding?’
‘Aye, I would.’ Her chin jutted forward. It was clear that though she wanted the job, she would air her views nevertheless.
He cleared his throat again. ‘My mills are being renovated. You’ll find conditions here will improve gradually and your mother can hardly disapprove of that. Number three is almost finished – work begins on one and two next year.’ Dear God, was he apologizing to this child?
‘About time too, Mr Swainbank – if you don’t mind my saying so. Happen you should have a word with Leatherbarrow, ’cos he’s still in the Iron Age. Arms and legs have been lost, not to mention lives. I want the mills great because they’re a part of our town, but I don’t want them cruel.’
Yes, this was a cheeky young imp. Her mother was right, too much to say, too careless about choosing her audience. Any other mill owner in the town would have seen her off as a possible troublemaker. But he wouldn’t. And not only because of who she was, but because she fascinated him with her clear thinking and brave expression. ‘Would you not prefer to work in the offices?’ he asked. ‘I’ve an opening for a clerk—’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘No. I can’t see meself happy pushing a pen and wading through lists. I want me own looms and me own patterns – I like what they call fancies – all them brocades and such. One day, I want to invent a cloth of mine, something a bit Chinese or Indian with squiggly bits on. Me school reports were all good. I never missed, never got in no trouble. Ooh, I do hope I’ve not got on your nerves talking out of turn.’
‘No, you haven’t. I’m pleased to hear you speak your mind, though I should expect loyalty at all times if I were to employ you. If conditions are not perfect as yet, all my workforce is well and fairly treated. I’d be happier to hear less about lost limbs – we do try to send our staff home in one piece at the end of the day.’
She hung her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, as suddenly as she had dropped it, she thrust her jaw forward once more. ‘I love the mills, Mr Swainbank. If they weren’t mills, some of them would be the most beautiful buildings I ever saw. We’ve a photo at home of Buckingham Palace – it’s dead plain, all square and flat. I always thought the king would live somewhere special – a grand posh house with castle walls and stuff. But it’s ugly and ordinary, right disappointing. If we had a garden outside this mill, it’d be like a palace, a proper one.’
‘And where would I keep the princess? In the north-east or the south-west tower? Yes, that might present a problem, having two towers. Prince Charming wouldn’t know where to look.’
Her mouth spread into a wide and extremely becoming smile. Her mother’s smile. ‘I know. I’m proper daft, aren’t I? Me mam’s always told me to keep me gob shut except for answering questions. She says me imagination runs away with itself and unless I can make a bob or two out of writing me soft tales, I’d best keep them to meself.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with pride in your town and the industry that supports it, Janet.’
‘Oh I’m not that proud, sir. Black people got put in chains for us. We shoved them on ships and sold them like animals. Them that lived through the trip got stuck in boiling cotton fields till they dropped dead. Then there was us here, spinners and weavers from way back, all living in cellars with no drains, dying of fevers, nowt to eat.’
‘And you blame my kind for that?’
‘Somebody’s to blame for it, sir. But you didn’t invent slavery, did you? And I can see you’re trying to put things right, proper wages and canteens, welfare to see to us. No. You can’t be blamed for things as happened before your time.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled wryly. This fifteen-year-old was about to turn forty if he wasn’t mistaken.
‘Oh heck.’ She slid an inch or two down in her chair. ‘I bet I haven’t got the job. I was warned – it’s me own fault. I haven’t got what me granny calls tact. Mind you, neither has she. Oh well. I’d best go to the dungeons and see old Cowcart.’
‘Who?’
She gritted her teeth against this latest faux pas. ‘That’s what we call Mr Leatherbarrow, sir. Well, it’s one of the names we call him anyroad. Cow as in leather, cart as in barrow.’
This was too much. He leapt from the chair and made a mad dash for the window.
‘Mr Swainbank?’ She stared at the shivering back.
‘Yes?’ The voice was strangled.
‘Are you ill, sir?’
‘No.’ He mopped his eyes with a large white handkerchief.
The seconds ticked away. ‘M
r Swainbank?’
‘Just . . . just a moment, my dear . . .’
She tapped the edge of the desk with the tips of her fingers, then examined the newly-washed white gloves for dust marks. ‘Are you killing yourself laughing, Mr Swainbank?’
‘Shut up, Janet!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Charles returned to the desk, mouth clamped against merriment. He spent a moment or two going through the motions, applying the odd tick or written comment in the margins of the questionnaire. ‘Your grandmother is the best weaver we ever had,’ he managed eventually. ‘She won’t be coming back, then?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘A pity. She might have taught you.’
‘No thanks! I’ve trouble enough – hey! Does that mean you’ll take me on?’
It occurred to Charles that the boot was on the other foot, that this commanding little personality might well ‘take him on’ in the future if he didn’t watch his step. If she followed Ma, then she’d be sleeping under a union banner rather than a bedspread! But this was too bright a button to put back in the box. Yes, the slender waif with her polished blue clogs and thin cotton gloves was his only tangible link with the future – she and her dark-eyed brother. ‘Start next Monday. Stay behind for the guided tour – it’s part of your education.’
She jumped up from the chair, her eyes bright with victory. For one terrible moment, he thought she would grab his hand and shake it, or worse still, run round the desk and hug him. Had she done the latter, he would surely have been reduced to a pool of tears. But she hung on to her pride, gabbled her thanks, then fled from the room to send in the next candidate.
With Love From Ma Maguire Page 39