With Love From Ma Maguire (34 page)

He stared through the hall window and down the length of the drive to a pair of wrought-iron gates, opened now against twin gatehouse walls. Open and waiting like Alice’s hands. The Swainbanks had been sparse breeders, so there remained just Cyril now that the unthinkable had happened. The future of the line rested with that acne-spotted beanpole who’d never be capable of running a tap, let alone a thriving business. Peter could have managed it, leading the elder brother from behind, knowing, as Peter had always seemed to know, that business was a flirtatious and wayward mistress, ever vulnerable, demanding constant attention.

God, he wished he’d never bought them that bloody car with its paper-thin roof and fierce little engine! But they’d wanted it, begged for it – and hadn’t they always got round him every time? Yes, they’d known their father’s weakness, had recognized that he too was fascinated by fast cars.

With a huge roar of animal rage, Charles crossed the room and swept a vase of flowers from a table, hurling it against the wall where it smashed into a thousand shards, leaving the oak panelling weeping flower water, tears he himself could not release just yet.

Emmie rushed in with pan and brush. Her face was swollen with constant crying and she cleared the mess hurriedly in case she set off again in front of Mr Swainbank.

‘Emmie?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Sorry about the mess, lass.’

‘’S all right, sir.’

‘You’re a good girl. Take no notice of my rages – they’ll burn themselves out in their own good time. Send Nurse Fishwick in, will you?’

Emmie scuttled off to do his bidding. She didn’t blame him for smashing things, didn’t care about all the extra cleaning just lately. If them two lovely lads had been hers – why, she’d have smashed every pot in the house and every bloody window and all.

The nurse was on the landing, just closing Mrs Swainbank’s door.

‘He wants you, Nurse. Will I sit with the Missus?’

‘No need. Her sister-in-law’s with her. Doctor Blunt has administered a strong sedative to keep the mistress quiet till it’s all over.’

‘She won’t be going, then? To the funeral?’

‘It wouldn’t do her any good, Emmie. She’s fought us all morning, but now she’ll probably sleep till they all get back from the churchyard. I’ll stay with her. Mrs Alice will be going—’

‘Mr Swainbank says we’ve to call her Mrs Fenner with her getting married again. I don’t think he likes her much—’

‘Shush, dearie. Keep your thoughts to yourself, especially now.’

‘He’s like a bear with a sore head,’ warned Emmie in a whisper as they descended the curved stairway. ‘Suppose it’s only to be expected.’

Nurse Fishwick entered the hall. He stood with his back towards her, gazing out across the lawns. ‘How is she?’ he asked without turning.

‘Not good. The doctor’s put her out, given her an extra-strong dose.’

‘That’s best. Sit down, will you?’

He joined her after a few moments, lowering his solid frame into the opposite armchair. ‘How long has she got?’ he asked bluntly.

She hesitated fractionally. But no, there was no point in beating about the bush, not with Mr Swainbank. He wanted the truth and he wanted it yesterday. Not like some relatives who just couldn’t accept what was evident to the least experienced of eyes. ‘That’s a difficult one, sir. It’s probably travelled all through her by now, but she could linger for months – even longer.’

‘I see. Is she . . . is she suffering?’

‘There’s some physical pain, some discomfort. But most of her misery is . . . well, the accident will more than likely make her worse. They kept her going, you see. She looked forward to their visits every day. I’ve seen cancer patients go on for years if they’ve had . . . well . . . an incentive. But we keep her dosed up, make sure she’s as comfortable as possible.’

‘And she still doesn’t know?’

‘Hard to say. I get the feeling she’s not quite aware of what she’s got. Later on, towards the end, she’ll probably catch on. Most do when they realize they’ve been in bed for so long without showing any signs of improvement.’

He ran a hand through thick brown waves. ‘Would she be better away – in a nursing home or a hospital? It’s obvious she can’t stand the sight of me—’

‘No.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Not yet. To send her away just now, after what’s happened – well, she’d be losing everything at once, wouldn’t she? Mr Swainbank, if you’ve no objection, I really think we should talk about this some other time. You’ve a lot to go through this morning. Perhaps we could discuss Mrs Swainbank’s condition in a week or so?’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ He stared hard at her. She was a fine figure of a woman, fifty if a day, but strong as a horse, loyal and good-hearted too. And she knew her place, always wore her stiffly-starched uniform and an encouraging smile, always spoke to him properly, not like some medical folk who treated every person as if he had brain damage and couldn’t understand the simplest thing. ‘I appreciate your concern for me and mine, Nurse. Whatever happens, don’t let her suffer. She’s suffered enough with one thing and another. I couldn’t have let her go with us today.’

‘I understand.’ She knew the real reason why his wife was being confined to quarters. Even if she had been fit to go, he’d have left her behind, terrified in case she screamed at him from the wheelchair, cursed him as she had these last days. ‘I think they’re here, Mr Swainbank.’

His face blanched as he rose slowly to his feet. ‘Get me a brandy, Molly,’ he whispered.

‘Pardon?’

He gazed at her without comprehension.

‘You called me Molly, Mr Swainbank.’

‘Did I? Must be in a world of my own. Why, Molly’s been gone fifteen years or more. She was a servant, a housemaid. And you look nothing like her. No. No.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing like her at all. Get me a brandy, will you? A very large one.’

Yes, Molly had been gone for a long, long time, Molly with the laughing eyes and cheeky grin. Whatever had he been thinking of?

Nurse Fishwick brought the brandy and he swallowed it in one huge gulp, shuddering as it scalded his parched throat.

Perkins opened the front doors and eight burly men in black entered, the undertaker with his shiny black hat behind them. Charles’ eyes skimmed over this solemn group. ‘Shan’t need all of you,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll be carrying my own.’

The servants lined up in the hallway while the two coffins were carried through. Perkins, who had been butler, valet, part-time chauffeur and jack of all trades for some time, bit hard into his lower lip. He’d seen some funerals in his time, but nothing as downright tragic as this. They’d been fine lads, right enough, solid Swainbanks through and through, though Master John had allowed his mam to soften him a bit.

Perkins and Mrs Marshall, who was usually called Mrs M, were attending the funeral as representatives of the house staff and neither looked forward to this dubious honour. Mrs M, the cook-housekeeper, had cried into her bread dough all morning while Perkins himself had taken it out on the Master’s favourite car, polishing the thing to within an inch of its existence. And Mr Swainbank looked terrible, like an old man as he tried to bear the weight of his own children – aye – in more ways than one.

Perkins took the two servants’ wreaths and laid them on the coffins in the hearses, then he and Mrs M waited for the third car, watching as Mrs Fenner and her son got into the first with the Master. The manservant glanced sideways at his friend and companion. ‘God help us if that one takes over,’ he muttered from the corner of his mouth.

‘Shush,’ she answered without moving her head. ‘We can’t do nowt about it, so just frame yourself not to think on such things.’

Perkins grunted his disapproval. She was likely over the moon, that Mrs Alice, or Mrs Fenner as she was called now. Hardly a brass farthing to her name since her spendthrift husband upped and offed. No sign of him, was there? Oh no, he’d not be bothered attending the funeral, but he’d get back sharpish if he knew there might be money about. Aye, she’d be all right now, that one. And her chinless son would want for nowt if things went as Perkins dreaded. There was no one else, was there? Cyril was the end of the line and what a bloody end, eh?

In the second car, Perkins caught sight of the managers and their wives, faces white with shock because no doubt they’d taken in the implications by this time. Not that the Master was old – nay, he’d be around for a while yet. But what about after him? Yes, they all looked grey-faced and weary-worn this morning in spite of the sunshine.

Charles Swainbank saw little. Alice kept patting his hand and muttering words of encouragement while her son sat as still as stone next to her, but Charles wasn’t really aware of any of it. The cortege pulled out of the estate and turned right for the town. Although the church and cemetery were well out of Bolton, tradition must be maintained and all three mills would be visited before the service.

When they pulled up outside the gates of number one mill, Alice had to push him out of the car. It seemed that everyone was here and Charles wondered, very briefly, who was working the machines. Ah yes, it was a family funeral. Family funerals meant a near stop to everything. Not a word was spoken as Charles took the wreath from a young breaker and passed it on to the undertaker. Caps were doffed and heads were bowed while the procession moved on.

Then, as one man, the massive crowd followed round the corner to number two, doubling in number when it arrived. By the time the cortege left number three, it had collected a thousand mourners who stopped the traffic as they pursued the slow-moving vehicles along Bury Road.

It was then, when the cars turned, that Charles saw the speechless throng and his heart suddenly burst when he noticed all the tears being shed for his sons, pouring down the faces of work-toughened men and women who stood ten and twelve abreast in the road with no thought for their own safety. And he heard John screaming at him, ‘They’re people, Dad. They’re not bloody work-horses! They need unions, they’ve got to have protection, otherwise we’d be running them fifty-five hours a week like in the bad old days . . .’

They were people all right. That was real grief, genuine concern for him and his poor dead boys. A girl of about fifteen was sobbing inconsolably in the arms of a woman who might have been her mother. But Charles wasn’t sure, had never been sure. Too many of them for him to take more than a passing interest.

‘You don’t care where they come from, do you? As long as they keep coming, you don’t care, Dad! And when they threaten to strike for a few pennies an hour, you lock them out! Don’t you realize that most of them haven’t a bath in the house or a proper lavatory? Have you been in their houses? Have you . . . ?’ Oh John, I will, I will go . . .

Alice pushed a handkerchief into his hands and he suddenly realized that he was crying, blubbering like an infant.

‘Bear up, Charles. Do try, you must make an effort . . .’

‘What for? Two fine boys I’ve lost, two of the best. A whole future’s gone down the drain . . .’

‘No, no. There’s Cyril, your own dear brother’s son.’ She patted his arm in what was meant to be a comforting way.

‘You bloody fool of a woman!’ Yes, Father had had Alice weighed up well enough. ‘I’m not talking about the future of the Swainbank mills! I’m talking about a pair of fine and intelligent boys mown down before they’ve even ripened!’ He rubbed his eyes fiercely. ‘And even if I were to discuss the Swainbank so-called empire, that damn fool boy of yours isn’t good enough, do you hear? Not good enough! I’d sooner sell out this very day to old Leatherbarrow than have that lad of yours touch one frame, one spool . . .’ Yes, he was taking it out on her and yes, she probably deserved it. But he must stop. This day was for his sons, the very last day for them.

‘You’re upset, Charles. It’s perfectly understandable.’ She closed her mouth firmly. There was no point in pursuing the matter just now – this was hardly the appropriate time. But she knew as well as Charles did that Cyril was next in line. Even if the mills were sold, the money would eventually revert to Harold’s son. Ah well. It was a sad way to achieve some comfort, but she was relieved to think that her old age might be easier than she’d expected. Harold’s shares paled into insignificance by the side of the real inheritance. There’d be no more children from Amelia, that was certain. The only real danger would arrive once poor Amelia passed away. Charles was young and healthy enough to start again with a new wife. But no, she would not think of that. Amelia might last for years yet . . .

As the boys were being placed in the ground after the service, Charles was somehow not surprised to see a large contingent from the mills standing well back from the grave, far enough away to show they knew their place. He beckoned silently and they drew nearer, placing their individual floral tributes at the side of the newly-dug hole. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed and they turned almost in unison to walk back to the gate where stood two charabancs, probably paid for out of union funds. Life seemed to be an interminable and insoluble mystery. They fought him, worked damned hard for him, made unreasonable demands, bought him cigars at Christmas, spat on his name, swore that Swainbank’s goods were the best, reviled and cursed him. And above all, they loved him. They cared. His eyes misted over again. They might lose a morning’s pay for this – perhaps a day’s pay, for many of them would probably go and get drunk now, drown their sorrows in some town centre pub. He smiled sadly. No money would be docked; there’d be full packets this week, he would see to that personally.

When all had left, a lone figure stepped from behind a tree and walked towards the grave. The diggers looked up from their task. ‘Too late, lass? Never mind, you can put your flowers over there with the others. We’ll stick ’em on top when we’ve finished filling in.’

Molly placed the roses on the heap with the rest. She didn’t really know why she was here. To make sure? To confirm or deny her own worst fears, to look at him again, work out what he was made of? Or was she simply paying tribute to these two kiddies who had been half-brothers to her own twins?