With Love From Ma Maguire (33 page)

His whole frame shuddered as he inhaled deeply.

‘Oh, Dad.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. You all right?’

‘No, I’m not, but who’s bloody bothered over me, eh? Your mam doesn’t care whether I live or die, stuck in here on me own all day, nowt to see, nobody to talk to—’

‘We do care!’ Janet relaxed. This was more like the dad she knew. ‘It’s just that Mam’s got so much to do.’

‘Rubbish, Jan. It’s Ma that set her off with all this housework lark, keeping one jump in front of the neighbours all the while. Daft, it is. Molly’s at it now, just like me mother, time to donkey the step before her next door, don’t be the last one in with the washing – barmpots, the lot on ’em.’ He paused, completely breathless.

‘Dad, you sound like Mam with her bit of asthma.’

‘Bit of asthma? I’ve been blessed all me life with a chest, love. Your Granny used to send me to school wearing that many clothes I wasn’t recognized some days. They thought I was a new fat lad. I went through the first twelve years of my life reeking of camphorated. Every time I went near her, she covered me in camphorated.’

‘You should have learned to duck. Can I get you anything?’

‘Bottle of stout.’

She shook her head. ‘No. You’ve not to drink, the doctor said. Tea, milk, water – you can have them, but no beer, Dad.’

‘Christ. It’s you that sounds like your bloody mother! Fetch us a proper drink, lass. Joey does.’

‘It’s killing you. You know it’s killing you, so why do you do it?’

‘Because I’m stupid.’ He grinned at her boyishly.

‘No, you’re not. It takes a clever man to act as daft as you do.’

‘Aye. And a clever girl to know it. Get me a drink.’

‘No. I think you’d best get up and stop crying wolf.’ Was he crying wolf? After all, he’d looked so ill when she first came in. But it was no use telling him that, he’d just linger in the bed for ever.

He was studying her. ‘I’ve often wondered how I come to get a lass like you. You’re beautiful, our Janet. I reckon as how you could be in the pictures like one of them there film stars—’

‘Don’t talk so daft! You’ll not get round me!’

‘Nay, I’m serious. Now listen while I tell you, ’cos I’m not one for speeches. I haven’t been a good dad. I’m not what you’d call a good person, see. When I was little, I plagued the daylights out of me mam and I’ve not changed over-much. But I don’t tell lies, never did – except to get out of a tight corner. So if I say you’re as pretty as a picture, you can take that as gospel.’

‘All right. I’ll get you a glass of barley wine.’

‘What?’ He sat bolt upright. ‘I’m not laying a finger on that muck. You’ve not seen what goes into your Gran’s wines, have you? I reckon she goes through the ashpit for some of the makings.’

She smiled and reached out to ruffle his already disordered hair. ‘You win. If Mam goes to Confession, then I’ll nip down with the jug to the outdoor – just half a pint, mind.’

‘Couldn’t you . . . stretch it to a pint?’

‘Don’t push your luck, Paddy! Mam would have me flayed.’

‘All right. Have it your own road – same as you women always do.’

She made for the door.

‘Jan?’

‘What?’

‘I love you, lass.’

He’d never said that for ages. Her eyes misted over as she looked at this lazy great lump of a man who was her father. No matter what he was, she adored him, always had and always would. ‘I love you too, Paddy Maguire,’ she whispered.

‘Wish I was worth it!’

‘You are! You’re my dad, so you must be worth it! It’s not every feller can have a film star for a daughter, is it?’ She posed in the doorway.

‘Oh, get gone for me ale.’

‘I’m going, I’m going . . .’

At the foot of the stairs, she paused, tray in hand. He’d eaten almost none of his dinner. Was he really ill this time? She tutted quietly under her breath. He’d been swinging the lead for so long now – it wouldn’t matter whether or not his illness was real. Nobody would ever take him seriously. They were hard women, Gran and Mam. Perhaps they’d had to be? Mam hadn’t drunk her tea. The meal was ready, left to warm in the range. But she hadn’t drunk her tea, which was unusual. She must be at Confession early, must have a special sin to tell. Janet couldn’t imagine her mother having sinned.

She washed her father’s dishes then went out to fetch the young ones in from play, hoping there’d be enough time to nip out for Dad’s beer. After all, a promise was a promise. And Mam was so hard on him at times.

Molly Maguire was feeling anything but hard. With her equilibrium slipping fast, she howled her pain and confusion into Father Mahoney’s ears. She couldn’t see his face, what with the grille being there and her eyes filling up all the while. But even the man’s vague outline was comforting, while his gentle Irish voice was as good as any of Ma’s herbal sedatives.

‘Aw now Molly. Don’t be getting yourself into one of them flat spins. Himself may have no interest in your children – why should he have? I dare say if he met them in the street, he’d pass by and never a thought to it. And if he did put in an appearance, wouldn’t he have meself to contend with? I may not be quick on me feet, Molly Maguire, but I can cut the legs off any man if it comes to a battle of words.’

‘But . . . but if Paddy ever found out . . .’ She blew her nose noisily.

‘Look, child. Has this man sent money ever for support purposes? Has he fed, clothed and warmed those children, paid their doctors’ bills, sent them a gift at Christmas or on their birthday?’

‘No. Never. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since I left the big house.’

‘Well then, be sensible. What proof does the man have at all?’

‘None. His sort doesn’t need proof. With the other kiddies gone and Joey his rightful son – happen he’ll want somebody to carry on in the mills.’

The shape behind the wooden grille tut-tutted loudly. ‘What? Can you see Joey Maguire with his finger on the pulse? Sure, I’m not being critical of your son now, Molly, for he’s a fine boy in his own way. But he hardly fits the bill, does he? Can you see him in a fancy hat? I can’t.’

‘I bet our Joey would like a fancy hat to wear though, Father. He’s got ambitions . . .’

‘Away with your bother! The man’s wife may well bear him another child.’

‘Aye, she might. But they’ll be getting on now, happen she’s past childbirth. And his other two sons were reared – ready for business, they were. They’d be about sixteen and fourteen. That’s right, the older one wasn’t born when he . . . he—’

‘When he raped you?’

‘It wasn’t quite—’

‘Seduced you, then. Sure, you were a young girl without the sense to realize what was afoot. He took advantage of you. Isn’t that a fine carry-on for him to be advertising, now? The fact that he molested you while his wife was expecting his first son?’

She mopped her face with her handkerchief. ‘He can always say I was willing. It wouldn’t really be a lie. And at the end of the day, it’s the word of a servant against that of a master.’

‘Dry your eyes now, Molly. Go out into the church and pray to Our Lady. Didn’t she have a child she’d never have explained in a month of Sundays except for Joseph? You’re not alone, my dear. And you’re a good woman. Mary takes a special interest in converts, keeps them under her wing. And I’ll pray for you like billy-o—’

‘Oh Father – you’re a terrible caution!’

‘I know. Me mother was glad to see the back of me the day I disappeared into that seminary. “Bernard,” she said. “If they can make a priest of you, then there’s hope for sows’ ears.” I think I stuck it out to spite her.’

Molly giggled.

‘That sounds a little more like yourself. Now compose your face and away back to your children. Your children, Molly. Nobody else’s. Tell Paddy I’ll be along.’

‘With the whiskey, I suppose?’

‘That I won’t answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me. Also I cannot lie in me present capacity and wearing blessed vestments too.’

‘I’m glad you’re so . . . so ordinary, Father.’

‘So am I,’ he whispered. ‘Wouldn’t it be desperate if they made the terrible mistake of turning me into a bishop? Or worse still, a cardinal?’

‘What about Pope?’

‘Ah, now you’re being silly, Molly Maguire. Which means you’re back to normal. Say your penance and get home.’

He intoned the blessing while Molly made her Act of Contrition. He always made her feel better no matter what, did Father Mahoney.

Outside the church, she found Joey pretending not to wait for her. He tagged along behind, hands thrust into pockets, brow furrowed into a deep frown. At the corner, he caught up with her.

‘Are you mad with me, Mam?’

‘A bit.’

‘Been crying?’

‘No. Just one of me turns. What’s up with you these days, lad? Is it part of growing up, I wonder?’

‘I don’t know.’ He sparked a clog-iron against the pavement as they walked homeward. ‘I want things, Mam. A different life, a good job—’

‘Money?’

‘Aye. I want money. Janet doesn’t seem to want the same as I do.’

‘Happen that’s with her being a girl. And you have to give her some space, Joey, room to find out what she does want. I know you’ve always looked out for her and I’ve been grateful for that – never had to worry over my daughter while you were with her. But she’s near a woman now, love. I know you want success – she likely just dreams of contentment, a nice husband and a couple of children—’

‘I want me own business.’

They stopped simultaneously outside Tommy’s Tripe, each pretending to stare at the display of manifold, black puddings, cow heels and pigs’ trotters spread out on the white marble slab.

‘What sort of business?’ she asked eventually.

He grinned. ‘Not tripe, I know that much. Maybe a shop or a little engineering works.’

‘Selling what? Making what?’

‘I’ve not thought that far. I just know I want to make me own road.’

‘I see.’ They continued to walk. ‘What about your apprenticeship?’

‘Oh, I’ll take it till something comes up. It’ll not be wasted. Even Gran says education’s never lost. If I can get to grips with a lathe, then happen I might get me own workshop one day, mend cars or something.’

Yes, there was a lot of the other feller in him. Even if Charlie Swainbank hadn’t been born to money, he’d have made it, perhaps breaking the odd back on the way like his forefathers had. And here was his spitten image with the same ideas. She must stop it! All this resentment and ill-feeling – it was bad! Charlie Swainbank had done wrong by her, but that didn’t make him wicked. And she shouldn’t be looking for such ‘evils’ in her son.

Aye, but it might suit Joey to find out he was a Swainbank. He’d jump at the chance of all that brass. Not Janet though. No. Janet had a strong sense of family, a need to identify with a close-knit group. But if the worst did come to the worst, would this one eventually persuade Janet to go with him, manipulate her as he had in the past?

Molly glanced sideways at her son. She didn’t hate him. She loved him all right, in spite of the fact that he riled her to bursting. Sometimes she didn’t like him, but he was her son when all came to all.

Yes. And he was somebody else’s too . . .

Chapter 7

Charles Swainbank stood in the large hallway, elbows resting on the oak mantel shelf, head in his hands, eyes staring down unseeing at the heavy marble slab which formed the hearth. He could not take this in, never would. Both of them gone? With his teeth grinding to hide the pain and defeat threatening tears, he turned and began to pace the area between door and fireplace, every nerve in his body jangling and screaming as he waited for the hearses.

The boys were in the games room, one trestle each end of the billiard table at which they’d spent so many happy hours. He couldn’t go in there, not yet, not until it was time to carry his sons out of their home for the last time. Everything in that room was in pairs, two cricket bats, tennis rackets, two sets of darts, one with red flights and the other with blue, twin school sports’ caps, a pair of polished boxes now, each covered in flowers and wreaths. Both coffins were closed, the contents of one so disfigured as to render his son barely recognizable . . .

No, he couldn’t go in there. And he couldn’t go upstairs either, would not expose himself again to Amelia’s frail fury. She blamed him, that was plain enough. He’d let them loose on the estate in the car, why – he’d positively encouraged John to drive when the poor child was scarcely sixteen! Yes, time after time during these dreadful days, she’d turned on him, berated him for the fool he was.

Oh Peter, Peter! What would he do without him? The younger son, yes, but of the two, Peter had shown the better head for business, that streak of calculated detachment so vital in a mill owner. John had been softer, gentler, concerned for his fellow man, committed to the improvement of working conditions, canteen facilities, first-aid and the like.

Charles beat his fists against a wall. Oh to have John here at this minute to hug and reassure, to be able to tell him how he’d loved him, that John had not been a disappointment! After all, which man wanted his children all the same, peas out of a pod, mirror images of one another?

What price the carefully made will now, eh? A will engineered painstakingly so that the two brothers might run the mills together. Peter would have kept John in line, Peter would have kept things ticking over in the good old Swainbank tradition. What now? Everything was wiped out, nullified, made into a nonsense. What the hell was he going to do?

Yes, at last Charles understood his own father, realized that old Richard had been far-seeing in getting rid of poor Harold. Harold was dead, yes, but the vulture had arrived and Charles saw her now for what she was – a scheming, grabbing scavenger with an eye to the main chance. Harold’s shares and dividends, currently held in trust for his son, would no longer suffice. Not now. Not with the whole uncut cake waiting on the table. She’d brought the brat along with her. Considerably grown, long, lanky and lethargic, that was Cyril, with his steel-rimmed spectacles and the brain of a stuffed tortoise.