With Love From Ma Maguire (13 page)

They brought out what was left of Arthur late in the evening. He lay under coal sacks with dozens of others, men and boys whose number would eventually total in excess of three hundred. Philly had to leave her friend with Freddie, because many of the rescuers were getting injured as they fought to reach their dead colleagues. She spent hours tearing up shirts and petticoats ripped willingly from spectators’ own backs, bathing heads in water fetched from nearby cottages, giving out sweet tea and steaming soups. There was a strange silence about the behaviour of this vast but united crowd. Women wept noiselessly while men brought out one body after another, scarcely disturbing the scarred earth as they moved with their precious bundles of dead humanity. From miles around they came, faces set and grim, many just out of their beds and ready for a shift to begin, some coming from other pits after hours of toil.

When she knew that no more could be done, Philly returned to Edie and took her hand. ‘Come on, mavourneen. ’Tis time we were home for the children.’

‘What?’

‘Time to go home.’

‘Aye. There’s Arthur’s bath to get ready. Yes, we’d best hurry up.’

Freddie grabbed hold of Philly’s arm. ‘She’s not took it in, love. Look, there’s a flat cart over yonder going Bolton way. I reckon there’s room for us three.’ They lifted Edie on to the vehicle which held miners and many grieving widows. The man next to Philly was sobbing quietly, tears making twin white rivers on coal-blackened cheeks. She took his hand. ‘God bless you all for trying.’

He sniffed loudly. ‘Stock up on coal, Missus,’ he muttered.

‘What?’

‘This is just the start. Seven months ago, we lost 136 lads up Cumberland. I reckon there’s twice that gone here today and we’ve had enough, lass.’ He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat. ‘My lad’s still down there.’

‘I hope they get him out.’

He turned to look at her. ‘What for? One burial place is as good as another. He’s been buried alive down there since he left school anyroad, so what’s the bloody difference? Nay, we’ve had it now. Mark my words, this time next year there’ll be no coal for nobody. Mills’ll shut and poor folk’ll have to spend their nights picking slack off the heaps or chopping trees.’

‘A strike, then?’

‘Aye. And it won’t just be us, neither. At the finish, we shall bring every bugger out and to hell with the bosses.’

‘And not before time, Mister, not before time.’ She looked at Edie who seemed to think she was out on a joyride, all smiles and giggles. Freddie put a heavy arm around the tiny woman as she shivered in the cold December frost. He shook Philly’s sleeve. ‘You’ll have to tell Molly. This one’s well gone with the shock. I don’t know what you’re going to do with her once you get her home. Have I to stop with you? Me wife won’t mind, she’s an understanding sort . . .’

‘It’s all right, Fred. The neighbours will all help for sure. He was such a good man. Why? Why, Fred?’

For answer, he simply shrugged broad shoulders and turned away, pulling Edie closer, trying to lend some heat to the frozen body. ‘He’s gone, lass,’ he whispered. ‘Arthur’s dead, killed down the pit. You’ll have to tell yon lass of yours.’ Edie pulled the shawl tight about her head. ‘By, it’s cowld,’ she said. ‘Good job I’ve tripe and manifold in. He likes tripe and manifold with plenty of onion and a drop of vinegar. I wonder if there’s enough swede to put to that carrot, though? Happen I should have got a penny swede today, Philly. A nice big one to put with his carrots . . .’

‘He’s dead, Edie!’ screamed Philly while everyone else on the cart remained still and quiet. ‘Get it into your head for Molly’s sake, your man is not coming home for his tripe and onions! Nobody’s coming home! Nobody!’ And she began to weep for all of them, howling their collective grief into a black sky.

When they finally reached St George’s Road, Freddie helped the two women down and led them through the maze of streets until they were home. He took Edie into her own darkened house while Philly fetched the children from across the way. One look at Paddy’s face told her that he already knew and she nodded her grim confirmation before guiding Molly to the leather chair. ‘Sit down, child.’

‘Where’s me mam?’

‘She’s . . . busy. I wonder would you like to sleep here tonight? I’ll be popping in and out to help your mammy, but you can bed down in Mother Blue’s old room . . .’

‘What about Monty? I can’t sleep without him.’

‘I’ll get your bear when I go to see Edie. All right?’

The child nodded slowly. ‘There’s something up, isn’t there, Auntie Philly?’

‘Yes.’

Paddy stepped forward, almost pushing his mother aside. ‘I’ll look after you, Molly. I’ve never had no dad, so I know what it’s like.’

The little girl swallowed hard. ‘Me dad?’

‘Yes,’ replied Paddy. ‘Gone to Jesus. He’s gone to Jesus ’cos he’s a grand man and Jesus wanted him for singing and that. They need good singers, specially at Christmas.’ He had obviously given time and effort to the preparation of this short speech.

‘Will he . . . will he come back? After Christmas, like?’

‘No.’

Philly stepped back and watched her son doing the job better than she could have ever expected – and far better than she might have managed herself. He squeezed on to the chair at the side of his little friend. ‘Your dad was chosen.’

‘But . . .’ Her lip began to quiver. ‘I want him. He’s my dad and I want him here to tell me stories and play with me.’

‘He can’t be here no more – can he, Mam?’ Paddy, beginning to flounder now, looked to his mother for help.

‘That’s true enough. He’s gone to heaven, child.’

‘He’s dead? My daddy’s dead?’

‘Yes, Molly.’

‘Killed in the pit?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s very sorry we all are, Molly, for we shall miss him very badly.’

The little girl jumped up. ‘I want me mam,’ she sobbed.

Philly caught the small girl and held her tight against her own shaking body. ‘Your mammy’s taken it badly, love – she’s not herself just now. You must stay here and look after Paddy, just as he will take care of you. Mammy’s in dire need of my help just now. Paddy!’

‘Yes, Mam?’

‘Keep her here. I must away next door and see what does she need. Get some bread and butter from the scullery, put a bit of life into the fire and give this child a small glass of barley wine – that will make her sleep.’

She ran next door. Freddie was sitting by the dying fire, exhaustion plain in his eyes. ‘Where is she?’ asked Philly anxiously. Freddie pointed towards the scullery door where Edie was struggling to drag in the tin bath. ‘Whatever is she doing?’

Freddie ran a hand over his balding pate. ‘Nothing that makes sense, lass.’

‘Go home, Fred. And thanks for everything.’

‘Are you sure? What if she gets past handling?’

‘She won’t.’

After he had left, Philly sat and watched while Edie stoked the fire and filled the huge copper with water for her husband’s bath. Not a word was uttered as the little woman pushed tripe and onions into the oven and set places for the customary evening meal.

‘It’s ten o’clock,’ said Philly at last. ‘Shouldn’t you be thinking of your bed, Edie?’

The small woman looked at her friend as if noticing her for the first time. ‘I never go to bed without Arthur. He’s . . . he’s happen having trouble getting home . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘With the weather so bad and it’s a long way to walk up Westhoughton and back every day.’

‘I know that.’

Edie leaned against the table. ‘Have you noticed he’s a bit bandy? His legs, like. I’ve often said we could drive a coach and horses between his knees.’

Philly smoothed her apron and watched her friend’s quickening movements, table to dresser, dresser to door, door to table. ‘Go on, Edie.’

‘Did you know why he’s bandy? Did you know? ’Cos he spends half his time doubled over in a little hole in the ground, hardly big enough for a kiddy to stand up in. Like a mole, he is, digging away, never stood up proper on his feet except when he’s coming out. Or going in.’

‘Sure, that’s a terrible life now, Edie.’

The small round woman waved a hand towards the bath. ‘I do this every day. I always scrub his back with Pinkabolic where he can’t reach, then I take his clothes outside and bat them with me carpet beater. You should see what comes out! I could keep the blinking fire going with all that dust.’

‘I’m sure you could.’

Edie took salt, pepper and malt vinegar from the dresser and placed them in the centre of the table. ‘I told him it were tripe this morning. I said “You be home early for your tea,” but he’s not come, has he? I wonder if he’s gone straight to meeting?’

‘Not in his dirt, girl.’

Edie stared hard and long at her best friend, eyes locking into those bright blue orbs which contained that terrible message, the message she would not open her mind to. But she could not deny for ever such merciless honesty and in the end, her gaze was averted towards the fire. She steadied herself against the dresser, her face a mask of confusion and incredulity. ‘He were a grand man, Philly.’

‘He was indeed.’

‘It’s not true, is it? I mean, anybody can be a bit late. And it didn’t really look like him, did it?’ Her voice began to rise with hysteria. ‘That weren’t my Arthur! That were some other feller with the same hair. And there wasn’t enough of him . . . he’s such a big feller . . . that one they brought out seemed so little . . . Oh God! Oh my God!’

Philly jumped up and grabbed this tormented piece of humanity, drawing her close against her breast. ‘It was himself, Edie. And he was not alone, for hundreds of his fellows perished today.’

‘No! No! It can’t be right! I’ve his bath ready and his tripe . . . I don’t like tripe, neither does Molly. He’s got to come home and eat it else it’ll go to waste.’ Her mouth opened wide as she screamed, ‘Who’ll eat me tripe, Philly? Who’s going to eat it now?’

The larger woman fought to swallow her own rising tide of grief. It was always the same with these Lancashire girls – probably the same with all grieving wives and mothers. In the end, it was something small that got to them, an empty chair, a cold pipe, an old sock on the bedroom floor. With this one it was a plate of tripe and onion and no man to eat it. She spoke gruffly into Edie’s hair, bending to reach the tiny head. ‘Remember Mrs Murphy’s ginger tom? Arthur loved that cat, always fetched it in for a taste of his dinner. If Arthur could speak now, he’d tell you to give the tripe to old Ginger. Shall we do that? Then it won’t be wasted?’

‘All right.’

After steering Edie to a chair, Philly took the dish from the oven and placed it on the table.

‘Some milk too,’ said Edie. ‘He likes milk, does Ginger.’

This strange procession of two made its way down the street to the Murphys’ house and Philly knocked quietly. Pierce Murphy opened the door, his face still red with weeping. ‘Ah, ’tis Mrs Dobson now. Come in.’

The women stepped into the room. ‘We’ve brought Arthur’s supper,’ said Philly, her eyes fixed on Pierce’s face as if telling him to simply go along with everything. ‘Edie had a notion that Ginger might like to eat it.’

‘To be sure, he would,’ replied the burly Irishman.

‘You’ll have to pick the onion out.’ Edie’s voice trembled. ‘Arthur likes . . . liked onion, but the cat doesn’t.’

Philly left the dishes on the table and returned to her friend’s side.

‘I . . . was there,’ mumbled Pierce. ‘It’s not my pit, but I went all the same. We all did, but there was nothing . . .’

‘I know. We were there too. Come along now, Edie.’

Mrs Murphy appeared at the stairway door, her eyes still streaming. ‘You poor woman!’ she exclaimed before turning to run back to her children.

Pierce coughed self-consciously. ‘She’s thinking I’ll be next. We’re very sorry, Mrs Dobson.’

‘Thank you. Don’t forget to pick the onion out.’

It seemed that the giving away of Arthur’s dinner had done the trick because as soon as they got back, Edie began to grieve in earnest, going about the house in a terrible rage, screaming at God and man alike as if she didn’t know which to blame for the death of her husband. Philly allowed this to run its full course, using quieter moments to move the bath and make several brews of tea. She knew better than to try and reason with Edie; grief was not responsive to rational argument. When all the swear words had had a good airing, the little body slumped on to the sofa and drifted into fitful sleep.

Philly took the opportunity to run next door with Molly’s bear, only to find the two children wrapped together in the big bed, both still fully clothed and tear-stained. She laid the toy on the pillow by Molly’s head and left the pair of them to sleep out their shared pain.

Bolton saw too many funerals that week. In a strange way, those who had funerals were lucky, because many bodies remained undiscovered, some in places that would not be reached for months. Up at Westhoughton where the pit head stood, one street lost every man and boy, while almost fifty residents were taken from a single street in Daubhill. Arthur’s was not the only death in School Hill, but there were sufficiently few for the funeral to be over in time for Christmas. Normally, a body would be kept in a house for several days, but in deference to Molly and Paddy, the two women did away with the niceties and hastened matters. It was a very plain affair, for Arthur had been a plain man, a chapelgoer with no time for frills. There was no gathering after the simple burial, just the four of them together in Philly’s house with a small meal of ham, bread and butter.

The two children retired to play quietly on the frozen pavement outside, making a few half-hearted attempts at sliding along the flags. It didn’t seem right to play, but the mothers wanted to talk in private.

Philly poured yet more tea into two of the best cups and studied her friend and neighbour covertly. She was quiet enough, though the suffering was etched deeply into the round, plump face. There was little money, Philly knew that. Apart from the burial fund, no provision had been made against this terrible eventuality because the means to furnish such provision had never been available. ‘What will you do now, Edie?’