With Love From Ma Maguire (30 page)

Little Daisy perched on the edge of the step with her doll. She’d likely get her frock covered in donkeystone, but Molly, unwilling to break the spell, said nothing. Michael crouched at the pavement’s edge with the jacks and bobbers, a diablo by his side. Although she couldn’t see his face, Molly knew it would be furrowed with concentration. He was a character, was Michael, a real fighter. Nearly seven and nearly ready to instigate and orchestrate the next world war.

She smiled sadly. A mixed bunch, they were, but what could she expect? She sat longer than she’d intended, almost mesmerized by this picture of her children framed in the doorway. If only she could pick it up, stick it in an album, keep them as they were now, safely protected from the world and its savagery. But no. Part of being a mother was letting go. And letting go of Joey and Janet was going to be the most testing thing she’d ever faced.

Philomena Maguire lay listening to the sounds of life going on around her and without her. It had been an odd few weeks – was it weeks, or was it longer? No. It was just weeks, because the twins hadn’t had their birthday yet. She would have noticed a birthday. The sums were up to ten shillings now. She could work out a pound of stewing beef, a cabbage, carrots, turnips and how much change. Faces in shops were coming back to her, the butcher, the grocer, Tommy from the tripe shop. He didn’t have a bike now. Tommy was in charge, striped apron and straw hat with a red ribbon. So proud of herself, she felt. After all, only a few days ago, she’d scarcely known her own name – even the family had looked unfamiliar for a while.

She’d nearly died. Twice she’d floated off and looked down at herself, watched Molly weeping or knitting as she sat patiently by the bed, such a good girl, she was. Both times she’d heard Uncle Porrick telling her to go back, so she’d gone back. Funny, these dreams after a stroke. Were they dreams? Whatever, they’d been powerful enough to make her ask for the brooch, specially after Granny had spoken to her. ‘Away and see to that family,’ she’d snapped, clay pipe wedged between gums.

The smell of cooking came under the door from the kitchen. Molly would be doing a hotpot or an Irish stew in the range. Amazing how that girl always managed to make a sixpence do the work of a shilling. Howandever, it would all be put right soon, just a bit more strength and Ma Maguire would be on her feet again and raring to go. But it could have been so easy to simply float away into eternity, no more worries, no more debts or promises.

Molly came in to feed her. ‘You’ve been chattering in your sleep, Ma, talking as plain as you ever did.’

Dear God, what have I been saying? Not about the twins, surely? Not about the box and Charlie Swainbank and Richard. Yes, she’d remembered his name early on, hadn’t she?

She swallowed the soup obediently.

‘What are you smiling at, Ma?’

Me? I’m thinking of . . . oh, what was her name now, Molly? Remember the black horses with plumes, the whole street following the hearse? Blue. Old Mother Blue and that tube. Frightened the daylights out of me, she did. Saved my life, much as you’re saving it now. I looked after her just as you’re looking after me. Life’s a wheel. Molly . . .

‘You’re not dribbling as much. And there’s the odd twitch on the right hand side – I reckon you’ll look yourself again, Ma.’

‘Mo . . . ll . . . ee?’

‘Yes Ma? Oh, God love you, you’re trying so hard! Except for my kids, you’ve been the best thing in my life, Ma Maguire. I’ve not forgot Mam and Dad, but I’ll never be able to pay back what you gave me. But for you, I’d have been for the orphanage. I need you. Don’t be lying there thinking you’re not needed no more. They need you too – the kiddies. And as for Paddy – well, you can manage him and I can’t. But I’ve no regrets, Ma. Specially about turning. The Faith, you, my children – all I’ve got, all I need—’

‘D . . . on c . . . ry Mo . . . ll . . . ee.’

‘Come back to me, Ma! I shall never cope else! You’ve been tipping up more than wages these years, haven’t you? I thought the extras were from your cures, only I know you nearly give them away. We’ve been living out of yon box, haven’t we? Haven’t we?’

Ma sighed and averted her gaze.

‘It’s not just the money, Ma! Money’s the least of what you’ve given me. You’ve loved me. Except for Mam and Dad, you’re the only one as ever loved me just for meself, no questions asked. Kids love you ’cos you’re their mam, not for the person you are. Paddy cares about me on a different level altogether, I’m his wife and he expects . . . things. But you’re different, I’ve seen past your rages and I know you’ve looked out for me always. Come back to me. I’ve lost one mam and I don’t want to let another go.’

‘S . . . soo . . . n.’

‘Janet’s caught you talking, gabbling away like you used to. I suppose you’re having to learn things again like a child. Do you keep going back in your mind? Back to Mayo and your mam always shouting, your dad and his still hidden out at the back in the trees? They’re dead, love. You don’t have to keep worrying about the past. You don’t need a past. You’re here in Bolton, Lancashire. It’s 1937, middle of June. Here.’ She pulled a rosary from her pocket and threaded it through Ma’s fingers. ‘I never thought to give you them last month, month of Mary. But you weren’t up to much. Now say your prayers, same as I’ve been doing.’

She picked up the soup bowl and walked towards the door, pausing on the way. ‘While you’re at it, say one for me because that son of yours has me fair flummoxed.’ She faced the bed once more. ‘He’s back on pobs again, says his stomach won’t take owt else only bread soaked in milk. Well, he’s stomached a bottle of rum and enough brown ales to refloat the Spanish Armada. Our Joey sneaks it to him. Best suit’s gone again, likely down the pawnshop with my gold cross and chain.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I know. It was your wedding present to me and you’ll kill him. But to kill him, you’ll need to be up and about, won’t you? So get shaping.’

‘Pa . . . dd . . . ee. Ne . . . ver co . . . me—’

‘I know! I know he doesn’t come to see you. He’s too busy drinking himself to death and concentrating on having some fancy illness with a big name what he can’t get his tongue round. I feel like pouring the bloody pobs over his soft head – oh, I know I’m swearing. If I didn’t swear, I’d bust me corsets. Well now, are you laughing? Just keep it that way, carry on smiling. I’m going upstairs to crown the king of the castle. If you hear any screaming, don’t think about it.’

After Molly had left, Ma Maguire reached down with the good hand and dragged the other stiffened limb up to her chest. An inch at a time, she eased the closed fist upward until it rested on Uncle Porrick’s brooch. She prayed then to the Blessed Virgin, Saints Patrick, Columba and Jude to come to her aid at this dreadful time. Just before sleep claimed her, the arm twitched involuntarily.

The time to return had almost come.

Chapter 6

Sarah Leason flung the door open. After standing for several seconds in the street, she marched into the kitchen with an expression on her face that might have stripped paint at forty paces. ‘What is becoming of this household?’ she cried.

Molly studied this odd creature, wondering, just as she’d wondered so often in the past, whether or not a normal person should take Sarah Leason seriously. Here she stood, arms akimbo, wellies up to her knees in the middle of June, lightweight men’s overalls over a collarless striped shirt, a shifty-looking mongrel fastened to her hand with a bit of rope, her hair sticking up like the contents of a manger. Taken all round, Miss Leason bore a strong resemblance to an unmade bed that hadn’t had a change of sheets in months.

‘Come in,’ said Molly.

‘I am in. Where is the rascal?’

‘Who?’

‘That bloody man of yours. He who forced me to sell up my land and come to live here in this tasteless conurbation.’

‘Oh. Him. He’s in bed.’

‘I see. And Ma Maguire?’

‘In bed.’

Sarah Leason bent down and fastened the dog to Ma’s best table. ‘Stay,’ she ordered unnecessarily as the animal cowered, unable to move much anyway with just a few inches of play left in its tether. ‘Right.’ She straightened. ‘First things first. Where’s the old one?’

Molly pointed towards the best room, her other hand coming up to hide a smile. The old one? Miss Leason was seventy if a day.

With Molly on her heels, Sarah flung open Ma’s door and strode to the foot of the bed. ‘Time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself, woman. The longer you lie, the tighter you’ll set. Like a jelly or one of those blancmange puddings. Left long enough, they go mouldy. We’ll have you up in a chair, I think.’ She glared at Molly. ‘Bring through some appropriate seating, if you please.’

‘But—’

‘But what?’

‘Well . . . she’s big – tall, I mean. How are you and I going to manage a woman this size?’

The tiny visitor clucked her tongue in irritation. ‘All right then, we’ll do it the other way round. Wait here,’ she said to Ma who winked at Molly as if to say ‘where would I be going?’

The two women walked through the house and up the stairs, Sarah muttering all the while about people having no sense and animals knowing better than to lie in a hole longer than necessary.

Paddy was snoring fit to raise slates off the roof.

‘He’s not been well,’ said Molly lamely.

‘Hasn’t he?’ Tap, tap went the rubber sole on the oilcloth. ‘What he needs is a good five mile hike across the moors, get some colour in his cheeks.’

‘He’s had a bit of TB. In his hand, like.’

‘Really? I’ve seen cows with that and they don’t go to bed. Leave him like this and it will kill him. Get him up chopping wood and he’ll have as good a chance as any man. Mind over matter.’ She drew a whistle from the top pocket of her overall and delivered a shrill blast in the direction of the bed.

Paddy sat bolt upright, mouth and eyes round with shock. ‘What the hell’s up? Is it fire or war or what?’

‘Worse than that,’ declared Sarah firmly. ‘It’s me.’

‘Oh heck.’ Paddy pulled the sheets up to his chest and looked accusingly at Molly. ‘What are you thinking of, bringing a lady up to me room like this?’

‘I didn’t bring her. She just came.’

‘That’s right, Paddy. All by myself. This family’s going to pot and your wife’s becoming worn out. So we’ll have you out of the bed and doing something useful in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ She paused. ‘Won’t we?’

He fell against his pillows. ‘I’m not meself.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Sarah sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Who are you then?’ The tone was friendly and conversational.

He rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘I’m a victim, Sarah.’ Aye, she’d like that. She went in a lot for victims, did Sarah, was always on their side. ‘A victim of life is what I am. Tossed about like a bit of wood broke off a boat. It’s going up me arm and into me brain.’

‘What is?’

‘TB.’ His tone was appropriately mournful.

‘Oh. I thought for a moment you had splinters.’

‘Eh?’

‘Wood. Tossed about on the tide of life, cracking at the seams and getting spiles.’

‘Spiles?’

‘Big splinters, lad.’ Molly hid a grin. He was looking better already. Confused, but better. ‘Miss Leason thought you’d been chopping firewood.’

‘How can I chop firewood in bloody bed? Am I going soft in the head like I thought, or is it you two?’

Sarah jumped up and heaved back the bedcovers. ‘He’s right, Mrs Maguire. He can’t chop wood in bed. Whatever were you thinking of to suggest that he might? Come on now, Paddy. Let’s get you dressed and downstairs.’

He leapt from the bed. ‘I’m not being dressed by no bloody women! I can still dress meself, still tie the bloody clog-laces on me own.’

‘Good. We’ll wait for you on the landing. Don’t be too long now, because we’re going to get Ma out of her bed too.’

Several minutes later found the three of them in the best room with Ma. Sarah surveyed the situation critically before deciding on a plan of campaign. ‘Right,’ she said finally. ‘Swing her legs out over the edge, then sit one at each side of her. Paddy – you take the bad side.’

They complied with these barked orders, sweating with the exertion of lifting the half-dead weight of Ma’s body.

‘Stand her!’

‘What?’ Paddy stared incredulously at the fierce little woman. ‘She’s nobbut one-footed! If we stand her up, she’ll keel over like one of our Daisy’s peg dollies!’

‘Paddy! Were you born without a brain, or have you worked on getting rid of it? Hold her up! That’s it, she won’t break. Don’t look so worried, Ma Maguire. We’ll have you chasing children from your doorstep in no time at all.’

Paddy looked across at his wife whose head seemed to be tucked somewhere beneath Ma’s arm. ‘Are you all right, lass?’

‘She’s got me hair, hanging on like beggary, she is.’

Sarah Leason suddenly dropped to the floor and began to crawl under the bed.

‘What the bloody hell—?’ began Paddy. He clung on to his mother’s waist, trying to look for the disappearing visitor. ‘Is she searching for the jummy, or what?’

‘Paddy!’ Molly’s voice arrived strangled.

‘What?’

‘Shut up, for God’s sake!’

‘Ma?’ This word floated up from the oilcloth.

Paddy swore under his breath before answering, ‘She can’t talk, Sarah.’

‘She can hear, can’t she? You can hear, Ma Maguire! I’m not going to treat you as if you’re not here just because you’re slightly incapacitated.’

‘Slightly? She’s about as steady as a bowl of porridge without the flaming bowl. Can’t we put her down? Me hand’s badly—’

Both women ordered him to shut up, their voices mingling with Paddy’s exaggeratedly laboured breathing.

Sarah continued undaunted. ‘I am your right leg.’

‘Well,’ said Paddy. ‘I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.’

‘What a good idea!’ The voice from beneath the bed was depressingly cheerful and optimistic. ‘We’ll take her through to the kitchen, sit her by the fire.’

Ma, realizing what was required of her, hung on to her uncertain companions and pushed her left foot forward. Sarah, still crawling, moved the right leg accordingly. Thus they travelled across the room, through the door and into the kitchen. When they reached the table, Sarah jumped up and cursed loudly. ‘You’ll not bite me again,’ she spat at the poor little mongrel. ‘This is the hand that feeds.’