With Love From Ma Maguire (35 page)

She shouldn’t have come. He looked terrible, did Charlie. Not that she’d seen him since . . . well, since all that bother. But his photos in the paper, right up to lately, had been of a younger man. Poor Charlie. He’d done wrong in the past, but so had most people if you just reckoned it up. And he was paying, by Christ he was! Happen he’d leave her alone. Happen he wouldn’t want Joey after all, because Joey hadn’t been fetched up right, hadn’t been trained for power and ownership and suchlike, didn’t even talk proper. And there was always Harold’s lad. Even if old Richard hadn’t thought much of his younger son, perhaps the next generation had turned out a bit nearer to what was wanted. But she felt sorry for Charlie, she really did. There could be nowt worse than losing your child. Losing them all must be beyond all bearing.

Back at Briars Hall, Charles poured himself a third liberal measure of brandy. There was no gathering after the funeral. Had Amelia been well, things might have been different, but he hadn’t wanted a crowd of well-meaning hangers-on and curious acquaintances enquiring after her health and offering empty words of condolence. Because no words could describe how Charles Swainbank felt at this moment – the dictionary that contained them had not yet been invented.

Strangely enough, the most immediate emotion was anger. He was angry with himself for buying the car, angry with the old oak for simply being there when the vehicle swerved, almost angry with the boys for dying like that, going off without a word of warning. But if he could have directed his wrath, it would have been aimed straight at Mrs Alice Fenner, his dead brother’s wife. She was walking around the house with an air that bordered on the proprietorial, fingering ornaments, running her hands over drapes to feel their quality, ordering the staff about. She probably wasn’t even aware of what she was doing, but what she was doing made Charles Swainbank’s pores open so that the hairs on his arms stood to attention as if ready for a fight.

He watched her now across the table. Her spotty-faced son sat between the two adults, where Peter used to sit.

‘. . . of course, it would have been easier if she’d had another to turn to now. But then she might improve in time.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I was just saying that it’s a pity you had no more children.’

Charles stared at her. She looked like something that had fallen from the top of a Christmas tree. Well, a negative photograph of such an item, at least. Black frills and ribbons, black shiny beads, even a black handkerchief threaded through her watch strap. What a bloody mess. Father had been right. Again. This one was dangerous. Not because she had brains – oh no, no sign of higher intelligence here. But she possessed that female cunning, an instinct never fully acquired or understood by the male of the species. It was like an extra sense with some of them, Father had said. The same fatal trait that caused a spider to eat her mate once she’d finished with him. Charles shivered.

‘Are you cold, dear?’

‘No.’

She sighed loudly. ‘Yes, it’s a shame that you didn’t have a third.’

‘Even if we had had more, nothing could replace John and Peter.’

‘No.’ She dabbed at her face with the napkin. ‘But they’re such a comfort, aren’t they? My Cyril’s always been a comfort to me.’

Charles turned to stare at the youth in question. ‘You’ll be going on to college, then?’

‘Er . . . no.’ The thin face reddened. ‘I thought I’d rather get some business experience.’

‘Really?’ Charles fiddled with the stem of his glass. ‘In which sphere?’

The boy looked anxiously at his mother who cleared her throat delicately before saying, ‘Well, we thought – especially now – that he could start in one of the mills?’

‘I see. Especially now, of course. And what do you have to offer, Cyril?’

‘I beg . . . I beg your pardon?’

‘If I’m to employ you, what will you do for me?’

‘I . . . er . . . well . . .’

‘He could learn,’ said Alice with forced brightness.

‘Right.’ Charles pushed his chair back and stretched long legs. ‘If this were an interview, Cyril, you’d never get on the shortlist. Do you think I owe you a living because you’re my brother’s son?’

‘No! I . . . that is . . . my mother . . .’

‘Ah yes. Your mother.’ He looked directly at her. ‘After my money, are you?’

‘Well! What a terrible thing to say! Cyril has the right to a position – he would have had the right without this terrible accident.’

‘Ah yes. But this makes Cyril’s road a lot clearer, doesn’t it? You’ve amazed me over the years, Alice. Coming here to see Amelia when the money ran out, when your husband ran out – coming to see what you could get. For years we kept you because you were Harold’s wife, but when you married that Fenner, our obligation ceased.’

‘There’s still Cyril,’ she snapped, teeth bared now. ‘He is the only Swainbank left.’

‘I’m not dead yet, Alice.’ His tone was very quiet. ‘When did you last come to see “poor Amelia” who has been such a wonderful sister – I’m using your words now. When did you last visit? She’s been bedridden for months and what consideration have you shown for the woman who pleaded for you, gave you money, paid your bills? None!’ He clicked his fingers sharply. ‘None at all, because you knew you didn’t stand to gain. I stopped her giving you money. You’ve a husband – let him keep you! But now, the world’s your oyster, isn’t it? You’ve only to see Amelia in her grave quickly followed by me, of course, then it’s all yours, lock, stock and mill chimneys. Clever. Just one word of warning, though. I’ll not be shuffling off just yet and although Amelia can have no more children, the mills and any monies from them will be otherwise bequeathed!’

‘What?’ Her mouth fell open.

‘That took the wind out of your sails, Alice Fenner. Look. I don’t like you, I don’t like your husband and this son of yours is about as much use as a pint of pee on a volcanic eruption!’

She rose from the table, a hand to her breast. ‘There is no need for vulgarity!’

‘What’s the matter, lass? Hasn’t little Cyril heard any language yet? Did he get to seventeen and never a cross word?’

She steadied herself against the table. ‘He is the next in line! Whatever you put in your will is of no importance. We shall contest it. Cyril’s claim will not be denied. And I repeat, there is no necessity for common and vulgar behaviour . . .’

‘Really?’ he roared, jumping to his feet, taking the cloth and everything that occupied the table with him. He flung the lot across the room, tureens, plates, glasses, cutlery. ‘There’s a definite necessity for me to tell you to get out! Get out and stay out!’

‘Wait till I tell Amelia of your crass behaviour—’

‘You’ll tell her nothing! She’s looked after you for long enough. Go near my sick wife and I’ll have you sued for . . . for harassment!’

Cyril, covered in vegetables of various denominations and colours, stood foolishly against the wall, dabbing at his stained clothing with a napkin. Charles experienced a sudden fierce desire to laugh, but he checked it, knowing only too well that he was on the verge of hysteria. But the pathetic lad looked so ridiculous wearing asparagus and peas . . . Charles turned abruptly and faced the window. ‘Go and pack your bags, Alice Fenner. We have no need of you here.’

‘But I only . . .’

‘You only wanted to get Cyril’s feet under my table. My table, Alice. Never forget that. Now go, there’s been enough upset for one day.’ Yes, he’d buried his sons as well as smashing a vase and half the Crown Derby, hadn’t he? But he wanted this pair out of the house as quickly as possible, even if he had to throw them out. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Emmie hovering in the doorway. ‘It’s all right, Emmie. Just another accident.’

Alice and Cyril continued to linger. ‘You still here?’ shouted Charles.

Alice bristled. ‘
Pas devant la domestique!
’ she muttered.

‘I’ll say what I like in front of whoever I choose in my own house! She’s my bloody maid, isn’t she? Emmie, who pays your wages? Go on, tell her.’

‘You do, Mr Swainbank.’

‘See?’ he bellowed. ‘My house, my servants, my bloody mills! Emmie?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Go and stand outside my wife’s door. This woman is not to see Mrs Swainbank. Understand?’

‘Right, sir.’ Emmie fled gratefully from the room.

‘You are uncouth, Charles Swainbank. I’ve always thought so. Your father was rough and ready too, no education, few manners . . .’ It was obvious that Alice’s carefully constructed facade was slipping.

‘I know all about that!’ roared the furious Charles. ‘Consider my beginnings, eh? My great-grandfather used to spread his lengths on the moors for sun-bleaching. Poor stock, you see. No breeding, not like your lot. Only who’s got the whip-hand now? I have. So put that in your pipe, Missus. And don’t come back here unless you get a written invitation. I reckon you’re more likely to get asked to take tea with King George. Now bugger off, the pair of you!’

Cyril led his mother to the door. She turned, her features rearranged to demonstrate a semblance of grief and deep hurt. ‘I hope you never need me, Charles. And Amelia is sure to discover that you intend to cut poor Cyril off without a penny.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘Still, I’m sure the legal system will attend to the justice of this matter.’

‘Oh take him home and get him cleaned up! If you boil that jacket, you’ll get soup enough for a week!’

He stormed out through the French windows and began to pace about the small courtyard. Good God, he’d sell up, he would indeed! Sell up and take Amelia on a long cruise or to Switzerland where she might last a bit longer. He’d spend every penny, he would that! Or perhaps he could give it away now, hand it over to widows and orphans because it was too late for Amelia. Aye, no amount of money would help her now. But he must get rid of it, make sure that grasping bitch and her whelp didn’t get their sticky paws on it!

How was he managing to think like this and his boys barely cold? He stopped in his tracks. Because he was a businessman, that was how and why. He’d been raised for it, weaned on it, trained for it. And business meant responsibility come what may.

He had debts. Debts to those who had travelled towards work all those years ago, many of them covering miles unshod and dressed in rags and tatters, the forefathers of today’s workforce. Debts to his own ancestors who had lifted the trade out of the cottage and into the spinning and weaving sheds. Morally, emotionally and actually, Charles was caught in a cotton web whose fibres must hold, must remain intact because so many people hung from those delicate threads.

No, he couldn’t throw all that away. And he couldn’t leave a portion, let alone all of it, to the Fenners. Apart from anything else, if Cyril’s stepfather got wind of the possibilities, he’d be back quick as a flash from whichever racecourse or gambling den he was currently haunting. No, he’d sooner leave it to the workers, give the ones who toiled a chance of a share or two in a back pocket, a vested interest in what they sweated for. Or was that John talking, softening his dad’s brain from beyond the grave?

He sighed, hands folded across his chest as he surveyed his property, vast lawns bordered by long and perfectly sculpted hedges, a small lake, a glen full of trees and shrubs left deliberately wild when the boys were children, somewhere for them to play. There had to be a meaning to all this! It couldn’t just end, fizzle out like a candle with all the wax used up! Amelia would die soon. Could he start again after her, take a new wife, rear more sons? The thought sickened him; the idea that he might entertain such a concept sickened him even further. No. He might be a young man by most standards, but at forty, he knew he had not the stomach to begin again, turn to a clean page and rewrite the whole thing. Better to give the lot to charity than to make more children and worry about their survival.

He marched round to the back of the house where Perkins continued to assault the car.

‘You’ll have all the paint off her, man. Come on now, leave it alone.’

‘Aye.’ Perkins straightened from his labours. ‘It were just summat to clear me mind, sir.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve done a bit of mind-clearing myself this morning.’

‘And a bit of table-clearing and all, sir. From what I’ve heard, like.’

Charles managed a tight smile. Perkins was one of the few he could really trust, a man he’d depend on for his life if necessary. ‘Have they gone?’ he asked.

‘They’re on their way. Only she’s demanding a lift back to Preston. Will I take them?’

‘I suppose so. After all, she brought enough luggage for a long stay, didn’t she? Use the Singer – I’ll drive myself today.’

‘Nay.’ Perkins took a step forward. ‘You’re never going to business, sir? Not today. I reckon they’ll manage without you this once.’

For answer, Charles opened the door of the car. ‘I’ll have to see that those who attended the funeral don’t get penalized—’

‘Use the phone!’

‘No. It must be done personally. It touched me deeply, that they would come out to the cemetery and risk losing pay. Devotion must always be rewarded, Perkins.’

The man swallowed audibly. ‘They were grand lads, sir, and everybody knew it. A credit to you and the Missus. Whatever will we do without them, Mr Swainbank?’

‘I don’t know. And that’s the truth, I really don’t. I keep expecting to see them running about the tennis court or playing cricket on the lawn. It’s so damned quiet, isn’t it? No, I’m not sure what we’ll do. But I’ll sort something out – for the mills, I mean. For us, for the way we feel, I can do nothing.’

He drove quickly down country lanes, not fully sure where he was going. Yet somewhere inside himself, he knew his destination. Thoughts only half-formed were taking root in his mind, seedlings too young to flourish just yet. Number three mill. He left his car in the cobbled yard and made his way to the manager’s office on the first floor. Tom Bishop looked up in surprise as he entered.

‘All right, Tom?’

‘Er . . . fine, Mr Swainbank. Sit down here.’ He cleared some samples from a chair. ‘Didn’t expect to see you, not today.’ When no answer was forthcoming, he decided to switch to business matters. Happen the boss needed his mind shifting off things. ‘Good batch in last week, best raw we’ve had in months, it’s carding up a treat.’