With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  Charles remained where he was, determinedly seeing the task through to its end, trying to conceal boredom as he talked to other pale-faced applicants, a sombre group all scrubbed and dressed as if for Sunday school. Not one of them asked a question; few replied to his in better than a monosyllable. But then, none of them was a Swainbank and every last one had probably been terrified by teachers, perhaps even threatened by parents who desperately needed another worker in the house.

  During the tour which followed, Charles found himself looking at this, his oldest mill, with eyes opened by Janet Maguire. Oh, he knew every inch of the place, but he could not help wondering how it looked to her.

  He stood in the opening and blending rooms where the process began, watching her as she questioned a foreman closely. All around, groups of men were breaking bales and feeding raw cotton into blenders. The foreman explained as best he could above the noise that this was to guarantee uniformity, that even a single bale from one field could vary according to soil and sun. They followed the raw down the line from blending, through opening and picking, then right down to carding.

  She arrived at Charles’s side, exclaiming over the large spikes protruding from a carding drum. ‘They look dangerous. Scalp you in two seconds, they could.’

  ‘Ah, but this is probably the most important single operation,’ he answered while she read his lips. ‘All the dirt comes out here – and you’ll notice cotton in a recognizable form at the end – see?’ He pointed to the cylinders that stood ready to receive thick strands of carded material. ‘After drawing and slubbing, this will be fine enough to spin.’

  ‘And I’ll finish up weaving it into cloth!’

  He laughed. ‘Not yet, you won’t. You must walk before you can run.’

  ‘I’ll learn, Mr Swainbank.’

  ‘I reckon you will, child. But it’s still a very hard life in here.’

  After following the cotton to its inevitable end in the weaving sheds, the party left for number three mill. As this had the only canteen, each factory used it in turn throughout the day, staggering meal-breaks so that all might be fed a decent cheap dinner. Refreshments for the new recruits were served by older apprentices, boys and girls with a year or more under their belts.

  Again, Charles felt himself drawn to the table at which she sat with several of the silent ones, children used to the mindless discipline of a classroom, people who seemed scarcely ready to launch themselves into the world of work. She stood out as one who ought to have been educated properly, a candidate for management rather than manual labour. But he would train her from the bottom. This girl and her brother would come up in the world if he must drag them by the bootlaces.

  He sat opposite her and accepted a mug of tea from the trolley.

  ‘Why isn’t it all done in the one place, Mr Swainbank?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, I just wondered – why can’t you do your own bleaching? Or do we need to be near a stream for that? Only if you did the bleaching and dyeing and printing, happen you could make things like frocks and curtains. Then everything would be cheaper at the finish.’

  Goodness, she talked like some kind of bloody economist! Here she sat, fifteen years old, expounding a concept that had been pushed around many a cotton meeting – hadn’t they all been warned about over-specializing, about the possible danger of cheaper imports? ‘Bleaching’s an art, Janet. So is dressmaking – we can’t do everything.’

  ‘It’d be good though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t doubt that it would be good.’

  She stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into the thick brew, then dipped a biscuit into the beaker. There was little of the lady about her, much of the woman. He sighed. Ah well, any fool could learn to crook a little finger while holding a cup, but what she possessed had not arrived through a drawing-room, was not a copied pattern taught by elders and so-called betters. Janet would make her own pattern – and not just at the loom. The girl had raw brains, fertile, unspoiled, she displayed vivacity, enthusiasm, breadth of vision. Her faults he skimmed over. Her faults would be ironed out.

  ‘This is a nicer mill,’ she announced while those around her gaped and nudged one another.

  ‘Would you rather work here?’

  She gazed around thoughtfully. ‘No. You’ve bigger sheds at number one and a lot of old weavers near retiring. I shall get me own looms faster there. Everybody wants to work at number three, so there wouldn’t be as much room for us learners. Mind you, that weaving looked a bit complicated. And you were right about the din! I think I’ll make meself some ear-muffs. I noticed it’s mostly men in them sheds, isn’t it?’

  ‘A master weaver was traditionally male. It’s a very taxing job.’

  She glanced sideways at the other two recruits who had opted for weaving. ‘Not too hard for us, is it? This pair were at school with me Mr Swainbank. They’re not really shy and daft – I think they’re having you on. Ronnie here were dead good at drawing – weren’t you, Ron?’

  Ronnie blushed a deeper red and muttered something unintelligible.

  Unperturbed, Janet continued, ‘And Lizzie were the best at embroidery – she even did some of Father Mahoney’s vestments in gold. Can you imagine that? Thread made out of real gold? Her mother does lace-making for the church . . .’

  A Catholic, of course. There’d never been one of those in the Swainbank clan – a few corpses would be turning if Charles left the inheritance to a pair of papists! Still. Better that than pathetic Cyril with his grasping mother and all her airs and graces. Even Amelia had agreed . . .

  Good God, he’d almost forgotten! Alice and Cyril would be up at the Hall now waiting for him! He took the watch from his top pocket and glanced at the time. Five to four – they’d been expected at three! He jumped up from the table. ‘Goodbye for now,’ he said to the awestruck group. ‘I’ll see you next week.’ He turned to Janet. ‘As for you, young lady – we shall make a boss of you yet. Your mother’s right – you do chatter like a cageful of monkeys. No bad thing. Tell your parents – all of you – that I’m very impressed.’

  Charles left for home, more than satisfied with what he had seen in his daughter thus far.

  Back at Briars Hall, Alice Fenner was pacing about, her face twisted by a rage she deemed to be self-righteous. ‘He’s gone too far this time, Cyril. Not only was I deprived of seeing my poor dear sister-in-law during her last days, not only were we left ignorant of her death until after the funeral – we now suffer this indignity! It is twenty minutes past four, Cyril. And take your hands from your pockets, or the suit will be ruined before it’s been worn twice.’

  Cyril obeyed, leaving long arms to dangle uselessly by his sides. This was going to be so embarrassing, having to listen while his mother begged for items of jewellery, for money she’d been promised by Aunt Amelia, for a job for himself. He didn’t want a job, couldn’t have cared less about filthy cotton mills. He was quite happily engaged now as a junior in an accountant’s office, and would be more than pleased to work his way up in the firm. Cyril liked figures as long as they were disembodied, as long as he didn’t have to handle the items he accounted for. If only he could find the courage to stand up to her!

  ‘And you might make more of yourself,’ she snapped now, her tone accusatory. ‘Do you realize how much Charles is worth? Tens of thousands – if not more! And there you stand, ready to allow it all to pour through your fingers—’

  ‘I . . . don’t want it, Mother . . . I . . .’

  ‘What? Do you think my life has been easy? The money from my parents is almost gone – the little your stepfather left behind when he sought pastures new. What next? For years I have scrimped and saved so that you might have an education. Even if John and Peter had lived, there would have been a place for you at Swainbanks’ had you shown some interest. Now, it could all have been ours! Yet you repay me in this way, by allowing everyone to see that you don’t want the mills . . . oh!’ Exasperated beyond words, she tur
ned her back on him.

  ‘It will come to me whether I want it or not – there’s no-one else.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that! He might leave you with a fight on your hands, Cyril, because he can’t stand the sight of either of us . . .’

  ‘Very perceptive of you, Alice.’

  She swung round to face Charles. ‘How could you?’ she muttered between gritted teeth. ‘How could you keep me away from the funeral?’

  ‘Quite easily. I simply made sure that Amelia’s death was announced only in the local papers.’

  ‘You are . . . unfeeling! And now, to keep us waiting for hours after we have travelled so far—’

  ‘Your journey has not been in vain, I assure you. The terms of my wife’s will are being observed to the letter.’ He thrust a sheet of paper into her hand. ‘Much of the jewellery is yours. Amelia felt you had a right to it because you were Harold’s wife. She also left a thousand pounds each for you and Cyril. That should keep the wolf from the door for a while.’ He passed a large brown envelope to Cyril. ‘You know, lad, with a different mother you might have done quite well.’

  ‘How dare you?’ she cried, twisting the will into a ball between her fingers. ‘We are your only living relatives . . .’

  ‘Hmm.’ His eyes swept over her.

  ‘Who will follow if you don’t re-marry?’ she cried. ‘Why don’t you train Cyril in case he’s needed one of these fine days?’

  ‘Because Cyril does not wish it. Neither do I.’

  She turned her attention to the unfortunate boy. ‘Tell him!’ she screamed. ‘Tell him that you wish to go into mill management!’

  For answer, the youth simply bowed his head.

  ‘Tell me,’ whispered Charles. ‘Tell me you want to work in cotton.’

  ‘Cyril!’ She arrived at his side and shook his sleeve fiercely. ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘The matter is quite simple, Alice,’ said Charles. ‘You have orchestrated every movement of his life so far, held his hand for too long, made him depend so that he would eventually feel obligated and guilty enough to indulge your every whim. But Cyril has his own opinions and his own life to lead. You made a laughing-stock of him, turned him into a mother’s boy, dragged him around like a dog on a leash. He will still be a wealthy man – don’t worry, his interests are being catered for. No Swainbank will ever be poor, certainly not my brother’s son. The lad has a head for figures, a brain that should do well in accounting. But he would never make a direct living from cotton.’

  The young man flashed a look of gratitude in his uncle’s direction.

  ‘He will leave you soon, Alice.’ There was a trace of sadness in Charles’ tone. ‘And you’ll be alone. So take this money and enjoy it – there will be little else from me except for Cyril’s dividends in the trust fund.’ He grinned. ‘Which can’t be touched yet. Now, I must return to my business. A meal has been prepared – if you wish to partake of it, Emmie will serve you at the small table in my study.’ He came forward and shook Cyril’s hand solemnly. ‘More to you than meets the eye, son. I wish you all the best in your chosen walk.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And I’ll put work your way. You know, I could grow quite proud of you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Throughout all this, Alice stood glowering, her hands clawing at the paper containing Amelia’s last wishes. Now she stepped nearer to Charles. ‘Who will get the mills if you have no children?’ she asked, her voice cracking with temper.

  ‘My will is made. It’s a private matter between my lawyer and myself. Nothing you can say will undo it, so I suggest you hang on to your pride and ask no more questions.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘No more, Alice. I believe we shall not meet again.’ He strode out of the room, leaving her standing with her mouth agape.

  ‘You fool, Cyril!’ she finally muttered as Charles’s footsteps faded away across the hall floor.

  ‘I think we should go, Mother—’

  ‘Oh no! We shall take the meal in his office. His office is precisely where I want to be!’

  She strode across the hall and into the small book-lined study where Charles kept his desk. Cyril followed at a slower pace, instinctively aware that his mother was up to no good. They sat at the tiny central table until Emmie had served them with fruit juices and a roast meal. ‘This will suffice,’ said Alice, her voice saccharine-sweet. ‘Don’t disturb us by bringing another course – I shall rest in Mr Swainbank’s chair after we have eaten. It’s such a tiring journey home.’

  As soon as the servant had left, Alice leapt up and took a little key from behind the curtain. ‘He doesn’t change his habits,’ she said almost to herself. ‘We must be grateful for such mercies.’

  Cyril’s mouth fell open as he watched his mother undoing a small drawer in the bureau. She lifted out a pile of papers and brought them to the table.

  ‘Mother! What are you doing? Those are private—’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake – eat your roast beef – enjoy it while you can, because there won’t be a great deal of that on our table unless I can work something out! I need to see if this is a will we can fight—’

  ‘Uncle Charles is not dead!’

  ‘It is as well to be prepared.’

  Both meals grew cold as Alice pored over the papers while Cyril jumped at every slight sound in the old house. At last she found her goal, a copy of Charles Swainbank’s latest testament among all the deeds and bonds. These latter items she waved at Cyril. ‘The man’s practically a millionaire,’ she declared. ‘Shares in Australian and African minerals, British stocks, the mills—’

  Cyril rose to his feet, his face reddened by embarrassment. ‘I will not stay to watch you do this thing.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, boy! We’ll be finished if we’re not careful!’

  ‘I am finished now, Mother!’ When no response was forthcoming, Cyril crept out of the room. He stood in the wide hallway, his heart beating so fiercely that it seemed to be trying to escape from his chest. Whatever any will contained, he had no wish to know about it!

  Alice Fenner folded the papers as exactly as she could, taking care to keep them in their original order. No-one must suspect that she knew; no evidence of her behaviour must remain. It was perhaps a good thing that Cyril had left the room – this information was too precious to share, too valuable to dilute by distribution. Everything must look right, no hint of what she had learned must be passed on or even suspected. The immediate thing was to keep cool, give the impression of normality. She forced herself to eat as much of both meals as she could manage, shuddering as she swallowed congealing gravy and cold potato.

  While everything was fresh in her mind, she took a small pencil and a notepad from her bag and began to scribble. So. He had two children, the result of a liaison with a servant. Could she blackmail him with this fact, force him to either pay up or name Cyril as his successor? No. A man who could bare his breast so freely on paper would not be averse to bringing all out into the open if pushed.

  What else? Yes, the alternatives were terrifying, even to someone as angry and desperate as she was. But the truth stared plainly from her pad – if the Maguires were eliminated, then nothing could stand between Cyril and what was rightfully his. Unless Charles were to take another wife, of course. Yet that would be at least acceptable, a defeat she might face with dignity. But to be disinherited by the offspring of a housemaid, a pair of urchins from the wrong side of the blanket?

  In those moments, Alice felt so much hatred for Charles Swainbank that she wanted to rush down to the mills and scream his inadequacies for all to hear. He would suffer for this betrayal! She paced the room, her agitation increased by the discomfort of an overloaded stomach. She must compose herself, act as if nothing were amiss.

  Angrily she pulled at the bellcord until Emmie, breathless from running, arrived in the doorway. Alice turned on her. ‘I need a remedy for my stomach,’ she snapped. �
��I have never before eaten such an ill-prepared meal!’

  Cyril entered the room as the flustered servant left. ‘Have you done what you came to do, Mother?’

  ‘How dare you address me in that tone?!’

  He shuffled about, badly co-ordinated limbs jerking as he moved towards her. ‘I am . . . ashamed,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve always known you valued money above all else, but I never thought you’d resort to—’

  ‘You ungrateful fool! This was for your sake!’

  He shook his narrow head, Adam’s apple sliding up and down his thin neck as he fought the great tide of anger that welled in him. ‘This is terrible,’ he whispered. ‘And it was for your own sake, not mine. If these are the depths you’ll sink to for the sake of money . . . I’m sorry, but I shall be seeking lodgings after today.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I can’t live with you any more. Aunt Amelia’s thousand pounds will get me a place.’ He straightened his over-long spine. ‘I’ve a good mind to tell Uncle Charles what went on here today—’

  ‘Very little went on. There is no copy of the will – it must be with his lawyer. So, I know nothing of Charles’ intentions.’

  ‘And you have returned the key?’

  ‘Yes! Don’t judge me, Cyril! Can’t you see – after your stepfather went off with most of my money’—

  ‘That’s wearing thin, Mother. You could have worked – honest people do.’

  ‘And you would condemn me to that? After all I’ve done for you?’

  Emmie entered with a glass of milky liquid on a tray. ‘For your trouble, Mrs Fenner. Mrs M sends her regards and apologies for the meal. And she says to take care, Ma’am, for the mistress started off with what she thought was indigestion.’

  Alice opened her mouth to reply, but Emmie was closing the door before the words were framed.

  ‘I’m leaving now.’ Cyril moved towards the hall.

  ‘Wait for me! We’re going in the same direction.’

  He turned and stared at her. ‘Not any more, Mother.’

  Again the door was closed. Alice picked up the large envelope of jewellery – the man hadn’t even bothered to leave it in the inlaid case where Amelia had used to store it. The plain brown package was a visible token of his contempt, a final gesture of dismissal. Now she was also rejected by her own son, cast aside as unimportant, a thing to be discarded after long use.