With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  Ma looked quickly from Molly to Paddy. ‘Yes. I knew all about that. The man was already going down on business . . . er . . . to talk to the government about the cotton mills,’ she lied hurriedly. After all, she didn’t want Bella Seddon running round the old neighbourhood with tales of Janet making off with the landlord. ‘I didn’t say anything, for I knew the two of you would try to prevent the poor child going for a nurse. I’m very proud of my granddaughter, Bella. Very proud indeed. And yes, it was good of Mr Swainbank to take them.’

  Bella, her sails collapsing for lack of wind, went to have a look at Joey. It seemed there was going to be little to gossip about after all.

  ‘Get in the van,’ whispered Ma between gritted teeth. ‘No, I didn’t know. But I wasn’t giving you-know-who any advantage. Come on now, Paddy. The man likely thought she had permission.’

  ‘Lizzie had permission.’ Paddy continued to look confused.

  ‘Well, our young madam certainly didn’t.’ Molly’s face wore that closed look, the expression Ma recognized as ‘I’ve made my mind up to get to the bottom of this and don’t try and stop me’.

  Ma called a farewell to Bella, then pushed the other two through the front door. They sat in the van, Molly on a pile of sacks behind the passenger seat. ‘Get back inside for the stuff, Paddy,’ snapped Ma. ‘We’ll be forgetting our heads next.’

  ‘Bastard!’ cursed Molly as soon as her husband was out of earshot.

  ‘Don’t you dare say one thing, Molly Maguire! Throw your weight about with Swainbank now and he’ll tell Janet what you don’t want her to hear. And how would she handle the news in the middle of a blitz, eh? Would she take care of herself with all that on her mind? Leave it alone.’

  ‘He’s already told her,’ wailed Molly. ‘That’s why she’s run away—’

  ‘Rubbish! Stop talking a load of potato peelings, will you? Dear Lord of mercy—’

  ‘I want to go to London,’ Molly sobbed. ‘I want to follow him and bring my Janet back.’

  ‘In this boneshaker? You’d never catch him.’

  ‘We could try!’

  Ma swivelled as far as she could manage in the uncomfortable seat. Molly wept hysterically, her breath taken by violent sobs. ‘Asthma next,’ pronounced Ma before delivering a sizeable blow to her daughter-in-law’s cheek. ‘Stop it! Stop it now, this very minute! You’ve other children to care for, a husband to think about and a business to run. We carry on as usual. We carry on so that there’ll be something for Janet to come back for.’

  ‘You hard-faced miserable old bitch!’

  ‘And the top of the morning to you too, Molly Maguire. Here’s Paddy with the food. Don’t be weeping into the bread now.’

  ‘Ma!’

  ‘What?’

  Molly swallowed hard. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘That, my love, makes several of us.’

  It was Friday evening. Perkins was polishing the car, trying to achieve a decent shine with the cheap wax he’d been forced to buy. This was a damned shame. Money counted for nowt these days. You could have a drawerful and still get nothing with it because there was little to sell. He straightened from his task to find Molly Maguire standing quietly by his side, an expression of calm determination on her face. ‘Oh.’ Perkins stepped back a pace. She looked grand, all poshed up in a nice suit and with her hair done. But she was on the bounce again – he could tell that from the hard look in her eyes. The anger might be cold, even frozen, but it was there all right. ‘I . . . er . . .’ he mumbled ineffectually, suddenly tongue-tied. If she was the mother of . . . eeh, it didn’t bear thinking about, not with a face on her hard enough to stand clogging! ‘I were just . . . cleaning up a bit . . . er . . . tidying, like.’

  ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Well, he was. I mean . . . I mean yes, I’m sure . . . Shall I go and find him?’

  ‘It might be a good idea.’

  ‘Bit of nice weather, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll just . . . Hang on a minute, will you?’ He flew through the house, bursting unannounced into the study with a cleaning rag still clutched to his chest.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, Perkins? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘It’s a woman. I mean a lady. Her as come to see you a few years back.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Perkins coughed. ‘That one with the shop, her as used to live up School Hill way in Bolton.’

  ‘Oh.’ Charles was suddenly bolt upright in the chair.

  ‘She . . . she don’t look right pleased with life – if you get my drift, sir. In fact, I’d say she’s got the whole bloody hive in her hat, not just the one bee.’

  ‘Show her in.’

  ‘In here?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Charles waited for the man to move. ‘Preferably tonight, Perkins. Before it goes dark.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Yes.’ He backed out of the room and rushed down the steps. ‘He says you’ve to come in, Madam.’

  ‘Thank you. Are you all right?’

  ‘Me? Oh aye. Yes, I’m fine. Never been better. Touch of rheumatism now and again, mustn’t complain. Bit of nice weather, see?’

  ‘Yes.’ Molly decided that Perkins was likely a screw or two short, probably another of Charlie’s charity cases, a conscience saver. Though he’d seemed all there last time when he’d opened the door to her. Still. You never could tell. Perhaps he had something that worsened with the years, a degenerative disorder of some kind. Poor man.

  Molly wasn’t angry, not at all. What she felt was – well – nothing, really. The ability to feel had disappeared these last two days, had started to disappear once she’d found Janet’s farewell note in the bread bin. But she’d decided to come up to the Hall all the same. Charlie Swainbank had never bested her yet and he wasn’t going to start now! And she wouldn’t show herself up, not this time. She walked slowly into the study, her eyes fixed on Charles until the door closed behind her. ‘Well?’ she asked as she placed her bag on the table. ‘I’m not going to lose me rag, so there’s no need for you to fetch the suit of armour. Just tell me what’s gone on.’

  ‘I was coming to see you anyway, Molly . . . to explain a few things . . .’

  ‘That’s easy to say now, isn’t it? The bloody filly has gone and bolted!’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Look. I promised not to tell you of her intentions, but I said nothing about presenting you with a fait accompli.’

  She tutted quietly under her breath. ‘It’s all right, lad. I’m not thick, I do know what fait accompli means.’

  ‘She’s safe.’

  ‘Is she? How can anyone be safe among that lot down there?’

  ‘She’s as safe as possible. I’ve placed her with some friends. They’ll try to direct her into work that’s not too exposed.’

  ‘Janet’s not a particularly directable item, Charlie. Even if she was a weathervane, she’d turn her own road against the wind.’

  ‘I know.’

  They stared at one another in silence for a while, then Charles rose to fetch a bottle and two glasses. Without asking, he poured her a hefty measure of port. ‘Drink it up, girl. That must have come as a terrible shock.’

  ‘It did. Ma knew, though. I think she’d been helping with the packing without even Janet realizing. Why did she come to you? I want the truth now.’ She dropped into the chair opposite his.

  ‘She didn’t come to me, Molly.’

  ‘So she . . . I mean, you didn’t—’

  ‘She doesn’t know. She’ll never know while Paddy lives – unless I die before he does. Even then, arrangements might be considered—’

  ‘Oh. Why this sudden concern for my husband, eh?’

  ‘The night of Joey’s . . . accident, I sat with Paddy. I knew then that I had to back off, stay away from Janet . . .’

  She fought to keep her composure. Bloody arrogance! Janet wouldn’t have let him within a mile, not while she was still riled over the fire. Mi
nd, she’d got over that now, hadn’t she? All pals together, jaunting off to London in the middle of a flaming world-war! ‘That was a good decision, a really charitable thing to do. You’ve gone in for charity lately, I notice. So. If you were stopping away, how come you took my daughter and Lizzie Corcoran all the way to London?’

  ‘She came to say goodbye to old Sarah. I was there. When I heard her talking about London, I knew she’d already made up her mind. Oh, I could have come to you and told you, but what would that have achieved? She’d have found a way, Molly. So I did what I could, put her with decent people in a good house with clean sheets. And that’s all.’

  Considerably deflated, Molly picked up the glass and drained it before sinking back into the chair. ‘I called you a bastard on Wednesday morning. If I could have got my hands on you then, I’d have strangled you.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Oh, your luck’s in now. I just feel numb.’

  ‘The port will warm you.’

  ‘It’s not that kind of numb. It’s like after Joey, like I’ve lost something precious, a thing I can’t replace. She’ll change, you see. When she comes back, she’ll be different. And I’ll have missed part of her growing up. Like I’ve missed my Joey. And by Christ, have I missed him!’

  He squeezed hard on the glass until it threatened to shatter. This was one area in which he would forever remain a coward. As long as he lived, he would never tell Molly who had finished Joey’s life. Fenner was dead, murdered by some unnamed gangster. But if Molly knew . . . No! It wasn’t his fault. Time and time again he had gone over this. All he had done was to leave a will in a locked drawer. There was no need for Molly to hear the story, no need for her to be hurt even more. Or for himself to suffer further . . .

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she was asking now.

  ‘Joey.’

  She nodded sadly. ‘Aye. All that for an empty till, eh? And they never caught them. So that’s your son out of the picture. Just Janet now. And how long will she last with Jerries dropping tons every day? Happen it’ll finish up with Cyril after all.’

  ‘She’ll come back, love. I know she will.’ He reached across to refill her glass.

  Molly gazed past him and through the small window. He was right about the port. It made her feel mellower, kinder. ‘We could have been friends, you and me. If we hadn’t had kids between us, I reckon we might have even liked one another. Remember your mam? Remember all the laughs we had?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘And Mrs Amelia with all her pretty frocks and Mrs Alice trying to look as nice. She never managed it, did she?’

  ‘You should see her now! A face like parchment and a figure like a coat stand!’ He shivered in an exaggerated fashion. ‘She lives abroad on one of the Greek islands. I’ve sent directions to the RAF and the Luftwaffe. Between them, they might just find her.’

  She drained the glass a second time. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Charlie Swainbank.’

  ‘I’m a terrible man. You’ve always said I was a terrible man.’

  ‘Aye. Happen I did and happen you are. But there’s nowt we can do to change owt, eh?’

  ‘Nowt at all.’

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Bolton.’

  ‘Fluidly.’

  ‘Eh? Shouldn’t that be “fluently”?’

  ‘No. I speak it when I’m full of fluid, preferably alcoholic.’

  ‘Oh. Well, being as you’re drunk, I’d best be on my way.’

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That . . . numbness. That emptiness. I do understand. It’s with me all the time, ever since the boys died. At least you have other children.’

  She looked hard at him. It was difficult to focus, almost impossible to achieve a clear picture. Ah well. That would be the port – she wasn’t used to port. ‘Stable-yarding,’ she muttered beneath her breath as she rose to leave. He came after her, placing his hand on the doorknob to prevent her turning it.

  ‘I’m going,’ she said rather unclearly.

  ‘Not till you explain this stable-yard business.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Stable-yard.’

  She grinned. ‘That’s a place where they exercise horses and groom them, I think.’

  ‘You mentioned it the last time you were here. Has it some significance? Will you please explain it?’

  She steadied herself against the oak-panelled wall. ‘Charlie, it’s inexpl— inexplic— I don’t know how to go about telling you. You are not old enough to understand. Neither am I. We will never be old enough, not till we’re dead.’ She hiccuped politely, a hand to her mouth.

  ‘That’ll be a bit late.’

  ‘Aye. That’s why they call dead people late – you know – the late Mrs So-and-So and the late Sir Thingy Wotsisname. It’s ’cos they’re too late for everything. Too late for the bus, too late for the train—’

  ‘You are drunk, Molly Maguire!’

  ‘I know. Isn’t it awful? Nay – hang on – I thought you were the one gone to fluid, not me. Tell you what, though . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If I am tiddly – and I’m not saying I am – then I must be a disgrace. See, it’s this way. Time and again I’ve told him what I’d do if he came home drunk ever again. I’m a right one to talk! Anyroad, thanks for that nice drop of port. It’s made me worry a bit less. She’ll come home. G’night then, Charlie.’

  He pulled the door wide. ‘Perkins!’

  Perkins arrived at a trot from the kitchen.

  ‘Get your jacket and take Mrs Maguire home,’ said Charles.

  Molly watched Perkins’s disappearing back. ‘Hey,’ she whispered. ‘Is he all right in the head? Seems a bit peculiar to me. Will he get me home in one piece? Only I’d sooner walk than be left with somebody who’s got a degener— de— one of them illnesses what gets worse.’

  ‘I would happily place my life in Perkins’s hands, Molly.’

  ‘Would you?’ She made some small attempt to straighten her hat.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Oh well. If he’s good enough for the Lord of the Manor, I reckon he’ll do for me. You’ll do for me, lad,’ she shouted at the returned and very startled Perkins.

  Charles grabbed her arm. ‘What’s stable-yarding?’

  Molly gathered what remained of her shredded dignity, drawing on her gloves with infinite care before pushing a stray curl from her forehead. ‘I have no idea,’ she replied with a dazzlingly sweet smile. ‘If I find out, I’ll phone you.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Aso-blutely . . . ab . . . yes.’

  She took a few uncertain steps.

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Your gloves. They’re on the wrong hands.’

  A look of saintly patience covered her face as she said, very plainly for one so obviously the worse for drink, ‘These are the only hands I have, Charlie. Right or wrong, they’re what God gave me. Ta-ra.’

  She was gone. Charles walked back to the study and watched the car disappearing along the drive. It was still there, all of it. No change, no deterioration. Molly Maguire had survived the births of four children, had tolerated a domineering mother-in-law, a buffoon of a husband, the near brain-death of her older son, a great deal of adversity when it was all added up. More importantly, more significantly, Molly Dobson remained alive and very, very well. His little Molly had endured it all.

  Chapter 18

  1945

  Janet didn’t particularly like Sundays. But this was the quietest day for driving, so she had set out at the crack of dawn, waving a fond farewell to those who were close enough friends to rise at that ungodly hour. It was over. Part of her couldn’t believe it, perhaps didn’t want to believe it. So much to leave behind, most of it for ever, a great deal of it irretrievable whether she stayed or went.

  She pulled in at the cemetery gate and turned to look at Paul who was still fast asleep on the back seat. There was no poin
t in disturbing him. And this was something she wanted and needed to do alone. The Protestant side was nearer the entrance, so she pulled up first beside Sarah Leason’s grave, following the map Mr Swainbank had sent a couple of years ago. Defiant to the last, Sarah had been interred well away from her parents – even in a different cemetery. The gravestone was an oddity, of course, an ornate carving of foxes and cats, then a short verse commanding those who passed by to care for the creatures of the earth. Good old Sarah. Janet prayed inwardly that there would be more like her, more people with enough guts and devilment to be fiercely different from the accepted and often tedious mould.

  She drove slowly along to the Catholic side, passing the nuns’ graves with their funny little crosses, pausing now and then to refer to the sketch. Both members of her family had died without much warning. And Janet had attended neither of the funerals. In the first instance she had been ill herself, struck down by some nasty bug brought home from the front by those she nursed. The message about the second death had arrived while she was in Cornwall for a brief holiday with one of the other girls. Joey had gone with pneumonia, just slipped away in the night with no unusual symptoms. Then it was Dad, poor Dad who had apparently been riddled for years with a particularly nasty and painful tuberculosis.

  It was a simple stone, just a slab with a rose on one corner and a crucifix on the other, white marble, the names inscribed in black.

  Joseph Arthur Maguire

  July 21 1922–August 4 1942

  Beloved son and brother

  Also his dear father, Patrick Joseph Maguire

  August 15 1904–January 7 1943

  Beneath a large space for the names of future occupants were the words Requiescant In Pace. Janet placed her flowers in the vase and stepped back. ‘Oh, Paddy Maguire,’ she whispered. ‘How often did you cry wolf? How often were you really crying? I love you, Dad. And you too, Joey. I had to go, because they needed me too and I didn’t see your need, stupid girl, I was! But oh I wish I could have seen you both one more time. Just one more time. Paul’s with me. You’d like Paul.’ Tears poured down her face, but she was too miserable to wipe them away. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to face Mam, not after all that’s happened. You would have been easier, Dad. You always forgave me everything. Remember how you said I was like a film star? Mam won’t think I’m a film star, not now. I miss you. I don’t want to go home, not without you. Joey, I would have looked after you, so would Paul. It won’t be home . . .’