With Love From Ma Maguire (19 page)

Like his father, Charles had unusual colouring in that his hair was quite fair – a sort of dark blond or light brown – while near-black eyes were fringed by thick dark lashes. The old man’s hair was pepper and salt now, but the heavy black eyebrows had remained dark, just like his elder son’s. Harold was a different kettle altogether, very like his mother, shorter than Charles and with more fat than muscle. The younger son was ordinary in comparison to his other male relatives – pale hazel eyes, fair skin, no real evidence that he was a Swainbank except for the completely straight eyebrows, fairer than those of the other two men, yet still geometrically perfect, as if drawn with the aid of a ruler.

Molly watched Charles now as he parked his car in the rear courtyard, so handsome he looked in his white silk scarf, like one of those blokes who flew planes during the day and drank champagne in clubs at night. The car was an Armstrong something or other, all shiny new paint and great silver headlights stuck on the front, a real big monster of a thing, it was. The noise it made terrified and excited her simultaneously and she often wondered how it would feel to travel at such speed with the trees and houses flashing by, the world a blur of sound and colour.

She turned away deliberately, stifling that silly dream before it could start up again. Ridiculous, it was. Aye and so was she, imagining what it would be like to be a lady and married to somebody like Master Charles. It plagued her, annoyed her half to death some days, yet she still went back to it time after time. While the sensible side of her nature dictated that her status was already decided, some devil in her forced her to carry on, sitting at the big table when she was supposed to be polishing it, handling crystal goblets and china plates as if they were her own, posing before mirrors in one of the three new dresses she now owned, things she was allowed to wear in her few free hours.

She could hear his feet approaching, so she deliberately quickened her steps, telling her inward self sharply that it was no use, that even if he hadn’t already been married he’d never have looked twice at her. She was a servant while he was a master and there was no mixing the two, ever.

‘All right, Molly?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She looked into his warm dark eyes. ‘Just taking me afternoon off, keeping out of the road in case Cook finds summat for idle hands to do. Last time I stayed here on me day off, she had me cleaning silver up to teatime, said it was good for me soul. I don’t know about me soul, sir, but it near took the skin off me fingers.’

He slowed and matched his steps to hers. ‘Why aren’t you going home?’

She shrugged lightly. Oh no, she wasn’t going to tell him about the real excuse for staying here, to keep away from Paddy and his mithering. Then there was the other daft reason, of course, best not spoken of to anyone at all. No, it was hard enough admitting even to herself that she was parading up and down at the back of the house pretending the place was hers, imagining she was some sort of princess that talked proper and had modern frocks and her hair cut like Mrs Alice. ‘It’s too far,’ she muttered lamely. ‘I can’t be bothered there and back just for the afternoon. If I’m not in by nine o’clock, Cook sends the army out to find me.’

They stopped by the corner of the house, she preparing to walk towards the kitchen, he obviously undecided about continuing round to the front door. He fiddled with his driving gloves, eyes cast down as he said casually, ‘I’ve a few hours off myself. Would you like a ride in the car? We could go up to Affetside or perhaps to Barrow Bridge.’

‘Rivington!’ She clapped her hands like a two-year-old. ‘I’ve not been up the Pike for ages. We used to go when we were little, take our eggs up at Easter and roll them down. We used to roll ourselves down too – you know – lie down and turn over and over sideways till we reached the bottom where all the mothers sat with picnics laid out ready. My, we got in some bother for ending up stuck to folks’ scones and jam butties, I can tell you.’

He cleared his throat. ‘Very well. Rivington it is.’ He paused, a hand resting lightly on her arm. ‘Meet me at the end of the drive – out in the lane.’ Brown eyes were slowly raised until they encountered the expression of puzzlement on her face. ‘It isn’t done, Molly,’ he whispered. ‘We know we’re friends, but the other staff may become jealous if they think you are favoured.’ His voice was husky, as if his throat had suddenly become dry and constricted.

She thought about this for several seconds. Wasn’t she good enough then? Wasn’t she fit to be seen in his precious car? She looked over her shoulder at this beloved possession of his, torn between pride and the desire to tear along the roads at forty miles an hour. In the end, the latter won, though she told herself she was daft all the same. What was the point of getting a taste if you couldn’t finish the plateful? But Molly’s wisdom extended only as far as her youth would permit and she knew that she would have to indulge her exuberance this once. After all, how many of her kind got thrown a crumb, a chance to pretend that life went beyond the kitchen sink and the polishing of brasses? ‘All right,’ she said, chin raised defiantly. ‘I’ll just run in and fetch me coat. Will I tell Cook I’m getting the bus home after all?’

He smiled as reassuringly as he could manage. ‘Yes, that’s it. Say you’re visiting family – that’ll stop any chatter before it starts.’

She ran towards the kitchen like an elated child. He watched her quick movements, his heart racing as if to keep pace with her flying feet. She was an infant, probably untouched by human hand, as clean as the day she’d been born. What the hell was he doing? His eyes travelled up the gable end, upward and upward until they reached the windows of his and Amelia’s quarters. The bedroom curtains were closed, shut fast against him. She didn’t care, was too concerned about the child to wonder where he was, whom he was with, too bound up in herself to love him any more. But was that any reason for him to follow such a dangerous path? On his own doorstep too? Better some other woman, someone from the town, an anonymous face in an anonymous setting. No. It was Molly or no-one and he would do his best to make sure it would be no-one. Just a ride in a car, a bit of conversation, some fun . . .

Father was down at the mills for once, the leg giving slightly less trouble than usual. Yet still Charles heard his voice delivering that homily about intentions and fastened trousers. Oh, to hell with it all! Nothing would happen – he was just taking the girl out for a bit of fresh air. Angrily he cranked the car to life, jumped into the driver’s seat and hurtled off down the driveway, dust and gravel flying in his wake. With fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, he waited for Molly to arrive.

Then she was suddenly at the side window, smiling face bent to look at him, tiny hands fiddling excitedly with the door handle. He reached to release the catch and she jumped in, bringing with her the perfume of eternal springtime, the plain aroma of freshness and youth.

He took the Chorley road, driving quickly and almost furiously until he noticed whitened knuckles clamped tightly to the edge of the dashboard. With deliberation he eased the speed down and glanced at her ashen face. ‘Frightened?’

‘Never been in a car before, sir. It’s worse than I expected – and better too. I keep thinking we’re going to hit something.’

‘We’ll be all right. Just wait a few years till everybody has one of these things – that’ll be the time to worry.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The name’s Charles. Charlie to my friends—’

‘Ooh, I couldn’t! What if I tripped meself up and said “Here’s your dinner, Charlie” back at the house? I reckon your mother would die of shock.’

‘You’re not quite so clumsy, are you?’

‘I don’t know about that.’ She smiled wanly. ‘If I can trip over a rug every other day, I reckon I can fall over me tongue. It’s long enough at times. Ma says I could talk me road to Manchester and back twice over without stopping for breath.’

He made a careful left turn. Yes, there was Ma to consider, wasn’t there? Dear God, what would that one say if she could see the pair of them together now, master and servant rolling merrily towards Rivington and heaven only knew what else? She’d probably explode on the spot, go mad at the very thought, because it would reinforce every one of her myths about the continuing cruelty of the bosses. Nothing would happen. He would make sure of that. Was he about to allow his masculinity to become so overpowering? Never! Or was his manhood weak, did it need scaffolding to support it, were his bodily hungers going to win over sense and reason? He gripped the wheel tightly. Why the hell did the girl have to be so damned beautiful? Servants should be ugly, ugly and characterless. They should not be people . . .

As soon as they reached the foot of the steep mound, she leapt from the car and raced towards the Pike, scrambling here and there on hands and knees so that she might win some age-old race, a game that seemed to be bred into the working classes hereabouts. Show them the Pike and they would run for the top, climbing over each other if necessary, every one of them determined to be the first to reach the folly. He watched her for a while, enjoying the child in her, relishing the sight of this primeval joy, regretting somewhat that he’d never been a part of the Easter races, that his class and status had precluded so much pleasure.

He slammed the car door and chased after her, puffing and panting as he tried to match her swift progress. At the top they paused, both breathless after coping with such a steep gradient at speed. ‘I beat you!’ she gasped triumphantly.

He bent, hands on knees, fighting to regain an acceptable level of oxygen. ‘You . . . cheated. Set off . . . before I did!’

‘Aye. And you’re about a foot taller than me.’ She blew out her cheeks noisily. ‘My little legs have to work twice as hard to get half as far.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘It’s not! Stands to reason if you think on it. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I’m fine.’ He straightened. ‘No picnics today, eh?’

They gazed at the deserted area like a pair of monarchs surveying their domain, carpets of varying greens all lush with frequent rain, church towers in the distance, clumps of tree and shrub punctuating the rolling landscape. Everything was edged with the mellow tints of autumn, golds and reds made brighter by an unseasonably warm sun. The sky was stained here and there, streaked by the greyish emissions from faraway chimneys.

‘Lancashire’s beautiful,’ he said quietly. ‘People think it’s all machinery and filth, but they’ve never taken time to look at these moors.’

‘Aye. Only it’s not all like this, is it?’ Her tone was clipped. ‘Most folk don’t get chance nor time to come up here that often. They’re too busy running the rest of it.’

‘Oh, Molly.’ He leaned against the small stone tower, hands thrust deep in his pockets, brow creased into a frown. ‘If it wasn’t for the moors, there’d be no mills, no work. These hills keep the damp in. They help the cotton spin without breaking. There’s no sense in resenting what’s down there. What’s down there is affluence and a way of life. Would you rather we all begged for a living?’

‘No sir.’

‘Charlie!’ He tutted quietly and shook his head. She’d never use his Christian name, would she? ‘Oh, I know what it’s all about. There’s us and there’s you, the owners and the workers. Neither could exist without the other. Have you ever seen a picture of underwater life, Molly?’

‘No. There’s enough goes on up here without me being right bothered about the blinking sea. What’s underwater got to do with it anyroad?’

‘Well, there are fish down there the size of battleships. They could swallow a piano in one gulp – stool, sheet-music and all. Great mouths, they have, bigger than the Town Hall doors.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Yet there’ll be one particular little fish, a very ordinary sort of chap, swimming in and out of the big fellow’s mouth, cleaning his teeth and eating up what he leaves. Does the big fish swallow the little fish? No. Never. Because he depends on the little scavenger for his life, you see, couldn’t manage without him. They’re interdependent – almost married to one another. The big fish would die without the little fish – and vice versa. It’s called a symbiotic relationship. We have that – you and I.’

‘Do we? How?’

He sank to the grass and squatted on his haunches. ‘You serve my meals, clean my house. I pay your wages.’

‘But you wouldn’t die without me.’

‘No.’ He shook his head thoughtfully, wondering obliquely whether or not life would be worth living anyway without characters like Molly. ‘I’d live on shop-bought bread and lumps of cheese if I had no servants. I don’t know the first thing about baking and looking after a house.’

‘Then you’d have to bloody learn, wouldn’t you?’

‘I haven’t the time! It’s the same at the mills – do you think I could run hundreds of mules and looms . . . ?’

‘Without the little fish?’

‘Exactly.’

She joined him, spreading out her yellow skirt as she sat. ‘What I want to know is this. How do I get to be a big fish, ’cos I’m sick unto death of swimming in and out of other folks’ gobs and feeling grateful for the leavings.’

‘Molly.’ He took her hand. ‘You don’t need to be a big fish to be necessary and important. Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? Giant fish have mammoth responsibilities. First, they’ve got to take care not to swallow a friend by mistake and that takes practice . . .’

‘I could learn . . .’

‘Secondly, there are always even bigger fish with huge teeth lurking behind every rock. There’s the bank manager fish – an ugly brute which eats everything in its path. Even he pales into insignificance at the side of the government fish with the kangaroo pouch on his belly for collecting taxes in. He’s the real thief, everybody’s enemy. Then there’s the union shark – that one used to be a stickleback, but he grew while no-one was looking. It’s not safe for any of us, my dear.’

‘Then we’d best stop out of the water, eh?’ His grip on her hand had tightened and she made some small effort to pull away, but he held on fast. ‘Master Charles?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you holding my hand?’ Her eyes were wide – not with fear, but with amazement.