With Love From Ma Maguire (27 page)

‘Fool,’ he muttered, eyes still closed.

‘Am I? Look what happened with Charles and Molly. That was foolishness, Richard.’

‘Different kind . . .’

‘Ah yes. But what would have become of us? You’d have visited, I’d have missed you. My religion would have gone by the board – and my self-esteem too. We would have quarrelled—’

‘We did . . .’

‘Yes, but about other things, things separate from us. We never got tired of one another, never killed the love. It’s still there. I feel now as if you’re my husband lying in this bed.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. Though himself is very much alive, languishing in some jail either in Manchester or over to Dublin. Our love, mine and yours, was of the spirit, Richard.’

‘It wouldn’t have been.’

‘I know. If you’d had your way. Don’t waste your breath.’

He groaned. ‘I’m going any minute, I know it.’

‘Will I bring Charles?’

‘No. No, he’d never handle it. The death. The moment. You understand?’

‘Yes.’

He was slipping. Through her hand she could almost feel the life ebbing away out of his fingers, as if he were letting go, as if a decision had been made between the two of them.

‘Richard?’

‘Yes?’ No more than a very weak whisper.

‘I love you.’

‘Keep . . . keep . . . saying—’

‘I love you, Richard Swainbank. I loved you when you followed me through town at Christmas, when you came into my house, when you met me in Market Street and you all poshed up in the hat and gloves. Beautiful, you were. I’ve always loved you. I’ll go to my grave loving you. You were the finest and most handsome man I ever met. I wanted to lie down with you, Richard. I wanted to live with you and look after you. I needed you. I still need you. Don’t go! Please, please don’t leave me!’ she heard herself crying.

But she couldn’t hold him. Nothing could hold him now. There wasn’t even a death rattle. He just drifted away leaving a very lonely woman in a very empty room.

She stood at the window of the house she had cursed, great sobs shaking her body from head to foot. Was it a sin to wish now that she’d given him her love just once? So lonely. She looked back at the bed. Yes, he was lonely too, had always been lonely in spite of everything. He had lived and died alone, locked into a situation from which there could never be an escape. Just like she was locked, trapped, caught in life’s web. And at the end, what was there? A sigh, an empty shell, a soul gone to find its first, last and only freedom.

She shook herself fiercely, took hold of her body and rocked back and forth in an effort to rid her mind of these sombre and hopeless thoughts.

Charles entered, a tea tray in his hands. ‘We thought you might like—’ He stopped in his tracks.

‘He’s gone,’ she said simply.

‘When?’ The cup and saucer shivered.

‘Just now. It was sudden in a way. Quiet, but very sudden.’

He placed the tray on a side table. ‘Didn’t he ask for me?’

‘He asked for nobody. I don’t think he realized it was quite the end,’ she lied. ‘And that’s probably the best for everyone.’

Charles walked to the bed and looked down at his father’s shrunken body. ‘He told me he loved you,’ he said eventually.

‘Did he now?’

‘Yes. He said you were the only woman to make him feel alive.’

‘I see.’

He coughed away his tears savagely. ‘Are you sure he’s dead? He doesn’t look any different—’

‘He’s gone all right.’

‘And you’ve been crying.’ A statement, not a question.

‘Yes. It’s funny. I hated what he was and loved who he was. Though we never—’

‘I know. Father told me a while ago. There’s something for you – it’s in the drawer.’ He fumbled in the cabinet next to the bed, then held out an envelope.

‘I can’t read,’ she said simply.

‘Oh. Oh yes, of course. What shall I do with it then?’

‘Read it to me. No one else can. Only Edie knew, you see—’ She turned and stared through the window again. ‘When you and Molly . . . well, it was like . . . like him and me. Except we managed not to. We loved enough not to—’ Her voice cracked and she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. ‘You’ll never understand in a million years. But read it to me all the same.’

He opened the envelope and cleared his throat. ‘It’s very personal.’

‘So what?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What’s to lose or gain now, eh? The man is gone, so there’s nothing to hide.’

He spoke in a whisper. ‘It’s a poem. Called “To the Girl with the Long Black Hair”.’

‘I’m listening.’

He rustled the page. ‘Must be years old – the paper’s yellow.’

‘For goodness sake, read it!’

‘Right. Here goes.

“If at night I hear a sound

A creaking on the stair

O Lord, I pray, please let it be

The girl with the long black hair.

“I stare at fields and miles of sky

In weathers wild and fair

But all I see is the lovely face

Of the girl with the long black hair.

“Those Irish eyes are mocking me

A smile and then a glare

She’s haunting all my days and nights

The girl with the long black hair.

“I’ll love her till the day I die

And then more days to spare

Because she is the heart of me

The girl with the long black hair.”’

Ma turned to face the reader. ‘Is that it?’ A sob escaped from her lips as she saw that Charles was weeping openly now.

‘Yes. Not much of a poem, but—’

‘I wouldn’t know one poem from another. I thought it was very pretty. And very, very sad.’

‘Oh Dad!’ He flung himself to his knees at the side of the bed, his face buried in the white coverlet. She brushed away her tears and joined him, a rosary in her hands.

‘He really cared about you, Ma. He must have. I’ve never known him read a poem, let alone write one.’

‘Hush now. We’ve a soul to pray for.’

She knelt there the whole night, moving only when the doctor came to make Richard’s death legal and proper, then when the undertaker arrived in the morning.

It was freezing. She slipped out at the front door without making any goodbyes. The one important farewell had been said and she had no wish to linger. Two small white faces were pressed against an upstairs window. Richard’s grandchildren. Richard’s official grandchildren. She clutched the poem in her pocket and set forth for home.

In spite of the bitter cold, a lone figure sat on a bench in Queen’s Park, a crumpled paper in her hand, all thoughts of work and family commitments set aside for now. She didn’t feel the cold. It was as if she were stocktaking, going through her life, remembering, regretting, savouring the few good times.

No, it hadn’t been all bad. Oh definitely no. She smiled as she remembered Mother Blue and the terrible teeth, Edie and her lumpy handcream, Paddy and his crafty ways of getting out of school work. And Richard. Richard Swainbank had loved her. Would he have loved her if she’d gone for a cottage like his other women? Or would he have tired of her? There was no point in any of these unanswerable questions, because she’d never have gone for a cottage no matter what.

She looked towards the town where smoke already rose to colour and stain the sky, where hooters sounded and clogs were no doubt pounding along worn pavements in that daily effort to beat the clock. A clock Richard had set, a clock that had finally beaten him.

What did it all mean? And how could a poor middle-aged Irish woman work out the meaning when she was frozen to the bench and hadn’t the sense to realize it? She rose as Swainbank’s hooter sounded again, a long mournful wail pouring out into the crisp bright morning. That was the announcement for the town. After a few moments the answers came, each factory sending back a drawn-out signal of sympathy.

In the silence that followed, Ma made her way homeward, head bent against a sudden bitter wind. Yes, he was gone. And the world would be colder without him. A bad man, a wicked man, a user of the poor. Where was the boy without the finger, she wondered suddenly. Had he found work, was he fed, was he happy? Oh, Richard. If only he’d been different. If only she’d been different. If only it wasn’t so blessed cold! If only . . .

Part Three

The Thirties

Chapter 5

The sun was cracking the flags. Michael had already been sent to bed once for having a go with three good back rashers and a couple of eggs, trying to fry them on the pavement because he’d heard somebody say it was possible to cook like that in this fierce heat. Of course, he’d been allowed out again. Most people could get round Mam if they put a sorry face on and wailed a bit about unfairness and cruelty to children.

Molly sat in the kitchen, a hand to her heated brow. They were getting out of hand and she knew it, all four of them running as daft as screw-necked chickens just because their dad was out of flunter. He wasn’t much use at the best of times, but the kids always played up when he wasn’t around to threaten the two lads with a beating. Paddy seldom carried out his threats, but the children were learning fast that there was a first time for everything, especially since Ma’s bad do. Yes, that was affecting them and all, because they missed her sharp tongue, weren’t as biddable without the old girl ranting all over the house.

The four of them fell in at the door, a tangle of limbs, skipping ropes and whips for spinning tops. She looked at them sadly, exhaustion nagging behind her eyes where lurked the promise of a sizeable headache. It occurred to her briefly that she now had six children if she thought about it. Not that she ever had time to think. This lot she’d birthed and the other two she’d collected by accident along the way. Two accidents – him with his TB hand and his mother with the stroke. And the washing was still out and all . . .

She lined up her offspring in front of the long fireguard, giving Joey a premature clip round the ear for good measure before she started. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on now?’ she asked quietly, dropping her voice in case she was heard swearing again. Though Ma Maguire couldn’t say much about anything at the moment, she still had the power to skewer you to the floor with a glance.

‘Nowt Mam – honest!’ Joey dug their Janet in the ribs but got no response. Janet stared at the floor, her toe straightening the centre of the peg rug.

‘Nowt? It doesn’t seem like nowt! Organize your face, Joey Maguire, before I smooth it out for you with the flat of my hand! Now.’ She began to pace the room, arms folded closely about her chest. ‘All I know is this. I’ve got your Granny in there . . .’ She waved a hand towards the parlour then folded her arms again, hoping to look severe. ‘Your poor Granny who needs everything doing for her. Then I’ve your dad upstairs ranting and raving with fever.’ She turned at the window and glared at them. ‘So. I open my own front door and what do I find?’ She paused for effect. ‘Well?’

‘We . . . we don’t know, Mam,’ lisped Daisy. ‘Acos we wasn’t here.’

Molly sucked in her cheeks bravely. She wouldn’t laugh. Not this time, she wouldn’t. If the kids went wayward while she was in sole charge, then she’d get blamed from all sides. And anyway, nobody laughed with a headache. ‘I’ll tell you what I found. Bella Seddon with a face on her like the Town Hall clock stopped at midnight. “Mrs Maguire,” she says, all sweetness and light. “I think as how you ought to know that your Joey and Janet have been at it again.” And when I ask her what she means, she comes back with “the usual, Mrs Maguire.” So I think an explanation’s called for.’

Joey opened his mouth to speak, but Molly shook her head. ‘No, I’ll have it off our Janet. Happen I might get a penn’orth of truth out of her. You wouldn’t know an honesty, Joey, if it hit you across the chops in broad daylight.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Come on, lady. Out with it!’

Janet glanced sideways at her twin before answering. ‘I . . . we . . . I mean, it was just a few apples, Mam.’

‘Where from?’ Molly continued to fight the urge to smile.

Michael stepped out of the line. He was only six, but he already displayed the courage of a lion on such occasions. ‘We all done it,’ he announced.

‘All of you?’

Michael nodded seriously. ‘Yes. We done it to the baddie fruit-cart man, not the nice one with the red wagon. See, our Daisy laid herself down in the road and pretended to be dead—’

‘What?’ Molly’s mouth gaped. ‘Dead?’

‘Not really dead,’ said Daisy. ‘Only pretend, only a bit dead—’

‘Then, when he stopped the horse, our Janet and our Joey reached the good apples off the back, the ones he never sells . . .’ Michael’s voice tailed away as Joey pulled him back into line.

‘But that’s stealing!’ cried Molly.

‘Never is!’ Joey’s colour rose as he shouted. ‘You bought a bag of rotters off him last time, Mam. We just got our own back, that’s all. Mind, he went mad when our Daisy hopped it good as new.’

Molly swivelled on her heel and faced the dresser. Exhausted as she was, she’d have laughed outright if she’d looked at her children for one moment longer. ‘Where . . . where are the apples now?’ she managed at last.

‘All ate up,’ came Daisy’s plaintive reply. ‘And I’ve got the belly-ache.’

Molly reached into her pocket and brought out a large white handkerchief, covering her nose and mouth against the bubble of mirth in her throat. ‘No more than you deserve, all of you,’ she mumbled. ‘Now get in that scullery for a scrub, then it’s up to bed with the lot of you. And mind you keep quiet while your father’s badly.’

The four of them scuttled away while the going was good – no point in getting Mam riled up proper. Molly stood by the table and listened as they fought in whispers for space at the slopstone.

Ah well, she’d better get the washing in. But she wasn’t going through the scullery, oh no, she didn’t want the cheeky little beggars seeing her near doubled up laughing. She removed the five steel curlers from the front of her head, smoothed her hair and walked out through the front door. All the houses sat right on the pavements, but she was luckier than most because theirs was an end house, so as well as the extra downstairs room, there was the added advantage of a short walk round to the backs.