With Love From Ma Maguire (23 page)

The older woman turned in the doorway. ‘Don’t get too tired now – leave the housework to me until this sickness passes. You’ll be better soon, I’m sure of it.’

‘But Ma!’ The door was closing.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ came the muffled reply.

Molly sat for an hour or so waiting for Paddy to come home, her fevered mind dancing about like a dog recently released from its leash, tearing here and there with no real sense of direction. There were choices. Somewhere underneath all this mess, she could catch the edge of them if she concentrated hard enough. She could leave, pack her things and throw herself on Charles Swainbank’s mercy. Or she could stay and marry Paddy. Between these two opposing poles there was no space for compromise. But she might not be pregnant! And if she was, would Paddy guess, would Ma find out?

Her head sank until it met tightly clenched hands, elbows resting on Ma’s green plush table cover. No. She couldn’t go back to Swainbank, wouldn’t ask him for help. And there were people a lot worse than Paddy Maguire – she knew that only too well now. But to have a child and pretend that it was his . . .

The door opened. Molly looked up expecting to see Ma who had been gone such a long time just for a bit of soda. She screwed up her eyes against the invasive light, then pushed herself to rise.

‘Hello, Molly. Up and about again, I see?’

‘Yes.’ And she took those first few steps, steps she would never be able to retrace, into the arms of her future husband.

Ma lingered in a back pew, a carton of soda crushed between clenched fingers. To lie, even for a reason such as this, was not a natural part of her being. In fact, she was going against every principle in her book, doing the very things she preached against, manipulating people, trying to act like a boss. Like God Himself. She looked around the walls at the Stations of the Cross, so beautifully portrayed in this particular church, three-dimensional and coloured, each arrangement set on a semi-circular plinth. It was a lovely church, was this. Most just had plaques, flat stone etchings of Jesus’ sufferings, not much more than a set of brownish tablets. But St Peter’s was a proud church, immaculately clean and cared for, a credit to the poor Irish and Lancashire folk who contributed weekly to the support of their pastors.

Her eye finally rested on the figure of Simon trying to help Jesus carry the Cross up Calvary. Wasn’t she just helping Molly up her hill? Didn’t the girl have a terrible cross of her own to carry and wouldn’t Simon of Cyrene have done exactly the same thing? Dear God in heaven, was life ever going to be simple at all?

She looked down at her fingers all covered in white powder now, the container flattened past mending. Still, no-one would starve for the lack of soda. There was a good thick stew in the pot – if only Molly would manage to eat a little and hang on to it. Yes, even the soda was a lie, a visible one spread all over her hands and down the front of her coat.

She got up, dusted herself off, then genuflected before going to light a candle in front of Mary. The small flame flickered then rose upward, a wisp of blue smoke preceding its ascent. ‘Help us all, Mother,’ she whispered. ‘Make her eat, make her laugh again. Give my Paddy just enough sense to look after her, but little enough to guess what is really happening. And forgive me. What I’m trying to do for this little unborn soul is not strictly honest, but you know I think the father should pay in some way.’

She turned and walked out of the church. This was just the beginning, the start of a lifetime built on lies. How on earth would she explain away the child’s sudden wealth when the time came? Uncle Porrick and his leprechauns, a pot of gold found in a thunderstorm? She lifted her chin and strode deliberately in the direction of home. There she would find either an engaged couple or an empty room. From now on, Molly would be making decisions by herself, never realizing Ma’s involvement. And, if the girl had decided to stay, keeping her in ignorance would take a lot of luck. Luck and not a little prayer.

‘Molly, it’s no use sitting there dreaming and getting morbid. That’s a desperate unhappy face you’re wearing these days – what happened to your laughter? The child will surely feel it too if you sit about long-mouthed and weary the whole day—’

‘I’ve done the dishes and got your teas. What else would you like? A bit of clog-dancing, happen the can-can on the table? I’m hot, Ma, hot and heavy.’

Ma shook her head grimly. ‘Tell me about it, why don’t you? You’d know what hot meant if you’d been stuck with me in that inferno the whole week. It’s like hell at times, yet I love the weaving – always knew I would.’

‘I just wish it was all over and done with, Ma.’

‘Ah well, isn’t that perfectly understandable now? Every expectant mother loses her patience towards the end, for it seems to go on for ever.’ And thank God it had gone on forever. Almost eight months married now. If the child came this very day, there’d be no cause for suspicion. ‘I’ve had special permission for a week off,’ she went on carefully. ‘I told the manager you weren’t very well. I think your baby will be here soon.’

Molly’s face was suddenly filled with fear. ‘Will it?’

Ma nodded, a comforting smile accompanying the quick movement of her head. ‘I know the signs, love. There’s but few go full term in these parts. That backache of yours is a sure enough sign that he’ll pop out any minute.’

‘He?’

‘Young Joseph. Didn’t we agree that we’d call him after my favourite brother? A caution, he was – and still is, I shouldn’t wonder. We could never find him, because he was forever running off after the wild ponies. I still miss them all at home, you know. Family is very important, Molly. Life can be a desperate hard thing without the support of a family.’

‘Yes.’ Molly lifted a potato pie from the oven. ‘But I think it’s a girl. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt that way.’ She placed the pie in the centre of the table. ‘Janet,’ she said, her voice stripped of emotion.

‘Why Janet?’

The girl shrugged listlessly. ‘It’s as good a name as any, I suppose.’

‘What about your mother’s name? The child will be half Dobson, after all.’

‘I don’t like Edith. But I’ll call her Janet Edith all the same. And if you’re right and it’s a boy, it’ll be Joseph Arthur after me dad.’

‘So be it. Then we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? Where’s our terrible husband and son? Rampaging, is he?’

At last a tiny smile played over Molly’s lips. ‘He’s out doing Swainbank.’

‘He’s what?’

‘Him and the chap from Chase farm, him as runs it. They’re out performing push-ups or summat with the boss’s money.’

‘Push-ups? What in heaven’s name are they?’

Molly eased herself into the carpet chair, a difficult task as she was now hugely pregnant and her shortness of stature was a sore impediment. ‘I don’t rightly understand it, but they’re making money. They get to the market early on and look for likely beasts. Then they make a low offer. If the offer’s accepted, then some clever beggar forges a slip with the auctioneer’s name on it, as if they’ve paid more and his fee on top. Paddy and the farmer split the difference.’

‘Well!’ Ma threw her coat onto the dresser. ‘Isn’t that stealing?’

‘Paddy calls it surviving. Mind, they lose out at times. If the feller doesn’t sell cheap, then they all agree on a price. Paddy and his own farmer do what they call a stand-in, keep bidding and pushing the price up. If it goes no further than what they agreed, then Paddy has to buy. But if somebody else bids more, then Paddy, the farmer from Swainbank’s and the selling farmer all split the extra money.’

‘Well! I knew he’d brains, sure enough, but I never thought he’d be following so closely in his father’s footsteps. What if they get found out?’

‘They won’t. Paddy’s too clever for that.’

The subject of discussion suddenly burst in at the front door, his usually pale cheeks ablaze with excitement. ‘Ma! Molly! Guess what?’

‘We know,’ said Ma grimly. ‘You’re making a small fortune out of certain gentleman farmers who shall remain nameless . . .’

‘No! I mean yes . . . only that’s not it!’

‘Paddy!’ There was a stern warning in Ma’s tone. ‘Wasn’t the two hundred pounds compensation enough for you? Not that it’ll last, the way you drink . . .’

‘Will you listen! I’ve got a surprise for you.’

‘Have you now? Well sit down and eat this meal before it spoils, Paddy Maguire.’

He twisted his cap between nervous fingers. ‘Is there enough for a visitor?’

‘Of course,’ said Ma. ‘You know I would never turn away a friend of yours. Set another place, Molly, while Paddy brings in his visitor. I’m away to wash a day’s dirt from my hands.’

When Ma returned from the scullery, she found herself face to face with a man she had never expected to find in her house again. Shocked to the core, she leaned heavily against the dresser, her eyes wide and staring. He hadn’t changed that much, she thought to herself while her heart pounded loudly. Still long, lanky and pale, still mean around the eyes and lips. ‘Get out,’ she muttered between clenched teeth.

‘Now, Philly. Don’t you be starting off again with the lashing tongue. Sure, I always knew your bark was worse than your bite . . .’

‘Did you now? Well it’s plain you know little enough!’ She turned on her son. ‘How could you? Have you no sense, no feelings at all in that thick head of yours? Whatever are you thinking of?’

‘I . . . I recognized him, Ma, ’cos he looks like me. Soon as I saw him, I knew who he was.’

‘Have a heart now, Philly,’ said the man, his tone wheedling. ‘’Tis a clever man recognizes his own father . . .’ His voice tailed away as he noticed the fierce expression on her face.

‘A father?’ she screamed now. ‘A father, you say? What kind of a father would leave his child before it was ever born? And what’s a father at the end of the day? Just an instrument, something that starts a life then ceases to worry. This is my son, my daughter-in-law and my house! So get out this instant before I get my neighbours to throw you out.’

Paddy took a hesitant step towards his mother. ‘He’s over selling cows, comes over nearly every year—’

‘Does he now? Well, where’s the child support due to me these last years, Seamus Maguire? I’ve seen a solicitor and you can be made to pay even now. Didn’t you think to come and visit your son ever? Didn’t you worry and wonder was he all right, was I all right?’

‘I knew you’d be fine—’

‘Ah well, isn’t that just great, now? Will I go out and kill the fatted calf, invite the street in for the celebrations? Or would you prefer me to get the police, for there’s an order out, a desertion order. An English court would be interested in you and your arrears.’

He blanched and backed away towards the door. ‘No poliss,’ he muttered.

She nodded slowly. Strange how she hadn’t noticed till now how much of her accent had disappeared, how Boltonese her speech was becoming. Compared to this estranged husband of hers, she was practically English. ‘In trouble again, I take it? Lighting fires and smuggling bullets, having a go at the innocent who cannot fend for themselves?’

He straightened. ‘I am at war,’ he declared clearly.

‘Indeed?’ She walked to the table and removed the extra place-setting, flinging surplus items on to the dresser. ‘Where’s your uniform? I thought war involved a few soldiers lined up and a bit of ground between them?’

‘It’s not that kind of war—’

‘No,’ she hissed. ‘And it never will be, because you know the English would wipe you out in ten seconds flat. Not that I’m taking sides, mind, only I know I’m not on yours.’ She turned to Paddy now. ‘This hero is preparing to wipe out the British Empire single-handed.’

‘I’m not on me own—’

‘Ah no. I was forgetting the half dozen others hidden in the bushes. Paddy, they kill defenceless people—’

‘We kill those who stole our lands! There’s English parading up and down as if they own my country.’

‘I’m not saying it’s fair, Seamus Maguire! Life was never fair, but several wrongs do not make one single right!’ She sighed, her head wagging quickly in exasperation. ‘A hundred times we argued over this. After eighteen years, I’d have thought you might have learned a bit of sense at least! But no. You’ll carry on planning and killing, a few years’ breathing space then off again with your shenanigans. You cannot stay here. I will give no space to a rebel, just as I would give none to those you fight against.’

‘Your own country.’ He spat these words. ‘Not a damn do you give, even for family. Did you know your mammy and daddy are dead?’ He smiled as she slumped against the wall. ‘And your brother Kevin sits in a Belfast jail waiting on what they call British justice? We’ve done nothing, nothing at all, but we will some day and then let the eejits watch out for us.’

Ma pulled herself together with difficulty. ‘If you were a man, you’d have been to my house before this to tell me about my own people.’

He hung his head slightly. ‘It hasn’t been possible.’

‘No.’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm now. ‘Because you’ve been in prison yourself, no doubt. And I’ll have you back there before morning unless you leave now.’

Seamus hesitated, then took a step towards his new-found son. ‘Believe me, I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of—’

‘Oh aye?’ Paddy stared hard and long at this stranger until the room crackled with tension.

‘I see I’m to be a granddaddy soon.’

Molly, who had not attempted to speak during all this, heaved herself out of the chair and moved towards the staircase. ‘I’ll see you later, Ma,’ she said before opening the door.

‘But . . .’ Seamus looked from Paddy to Ma. ‘What’s the matter with everybody? I’m his daddy, for God’s sake—’

Paddy crossed the room and stood beside his mother. ‘You are no relation to me and I’m sorry I brought you here. You’d best get out before I throw you out.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. I often wondered what you’d be like, specially when I was a kid. A kid you walked out on. Any idea what she’s been through?’ He jerked a thumb towards his mother. ‘Worked herself daft, she has.’

‘And turned you against me!’