With Love From Ma Maguire (64 page)

Ma pushed a few grey wisps off her face, leaving behind a large smudge of flour on her forehead. ‘They’re stubborn, the both of them. ’Tis the sameness, not the difference that comes between them. Molly thinks Janet’s a saint, but young Miss falls well short of the mark for canonization. Sure, there’s good and bad in the pair of them, but Molly won’t have it that her darling girl has faults like the rest of us. As for Joey – well, I hope he’s had his slate wiped good and proper. But she’s the deep one, Paddy. Mark my words – she’s the one who’ll leave a stamp on life.’

‘She’s a fair talent, Ma—’

‘I know. And thema ruthlessness that goes along with it. Anyway, reach me down a pinch, son, then away for your drop of stout – the jug’s here on the dresser ready. We’ve a stone of praties still to peel and the chickens wait plucking . . .’

After Paddy had left, Ma remained a while at the table and took an extra portion of snuff, sneezing prolifically to ‘clear her head’. Ah well, there was enough now, ample funds for a deposit on their own place, a nice newish semi off Bury Road with a long back garden to grow their own herbs and veg, a little greenhouse for tomatoes, that good big wooden shed for Joey’s bits and pieces.

She glanced up at the clock. Janet was out, of course, had gone against her elders’ advice as usual. Hanging curtains in Plodder Lane, carrying heavy bundles on and off buses, burdening her young back to maintain that self-imposed breakneck speed, doubtless out to prove something without even realizing the fact. Molly was down in the wash-house with a barrel full of water and a paring knife, likely working and worrying herself to a standstill. The only two safely in place were the little ones, in bed for an hour or more now.

Howandever, this would never get the baby’s head washed, would it? All this daydreaming and with the earth waiting to be moved! She replaced the snuff box and took a batch of hotpots from the oven, checking rising dough in the hearth at the same time, then pausing to taste from a pan of broth that sat on the open range. Tomorrow morning, all this would have to be loaded on to the handcart to be pushed down for reheating in Ma’s Irish Kitchen. Then Paddy would return home and bring down the makings for more batches of bread and pies. It was a hard life for all of them, yet Ma knew in her bones that not one of the family, with the possible exception of Molly, could bear to ever lay it down and go back to how things were before. Though Daisy seemed . . . well . . . a bit distant. Yes, she’d have to make time for a talk with Daisy one of these days.

She piled bread dough into tins for baking. Swainbank probably had a point, she thought as she pushed the loaves to one side of the table. At the bottom, everybody was after first-class travel through life, most would work past themselves to achieve it. So what was the difference? The fact that he had arrived while the Maguires were still in the queue at the ticket office?

Molly entered through the scullery door, her face flushed after an hour or more of concentrated labour. ‘I’ve done the spuds. Sliced for Lancashire pots are in the two big pans. Scrubbed for baking are in the buckets and I’ve cubed the rest for pies and stew. All right? Where’s Paddy?’

‘Gone for his pint of black, God love him – doubtless having a chat with the feller in the outdoor, gossiping on what it’s like to be in business these days. You’d think he was a tycoon, so you would! Sure, I never did see such an improvement in a man.’ She looked at her daughter-in-law’s haggard face, the black smudges beneath the eyes, those worry-lines around the mouth, lines that seemed to be setting deeper with each passing day.

‘Aye, he’s better.’ The voice arrived devoid of any expression.

‘Molly, cheer up, why don’t you? Look, we’re out of here by Christmas – isn’t that great? I’m going to put down on that corner one in Withins Lane. Ah, we could stop here and use the money to hire staff, but they’d never cook like we do, for we’re the best. And it would be wiser to carry on with the hard work a while more, get a nice place as long as the twins agree on it. We’re to have a van too – imagine that! We’ll be the only small business in the town with motor transport.’

Molly lowered aching bones into a fireside chair and fixed unseeing eyes on the row of blue-rimmed enamel dishes that contained tomorrow’s rising bread. It was all the same to her. The source of the original money meant that she could take little pleasure in whatever was achieved unless they somehow managed to pay it all back. But he wouldn’t take it, might even be riled enough to come out with the tale if she tried to stuff the money down his throat where it rightly belonged. ‘Do what you want, Ma. It makes no difference to me.’

‘But you liked the house! Didn’t you say yourself what a pretty place it was with the bay windows and that French door to the back garden? Wouldn’t most people be delighted to get the chance?’

Molly shrugged her drooping shoulders. ‘It won’t be ours. It’ll belong to the twins – or to their father, more like. When all this comes out, there’ll be that many tongues wagging – why – they’ll feel the draught in Manchester.’

‘Let it be, Molly!’

‘I can’t.’ Her tone remained quiet. ‘I’d sooner tell them myself what happened, that it weren’t really my fault. Only there’s Paddy – he’d never forgive me—’

‘Molly Maguire! Are we walking that same old ground again? Haven’t we been down this road so often that our clog-irons are rusted through with it?’

‘Then we must choose another road. I’m for selling up and moving away – London maybe—’

‘What? Do you think he wouldn’t notice the shops on the market? Wouldn’t he find out in two shakes from Joey where you were for? And you cannot run from him, girl! He’d find you wherever you went! You must just wait and see—’

‘I am waiting! I am seeing!’ At last she reacted, jumping up from the chair, arms waving wildly in the air to emphasize her words. ‘My twins are at one another’s throats because of him! I want to be free, I’d rather be clean even if it means losing my husband! Look at me! Look!’ She held out shaking fingers, thrusting them to within an inch of Ma’s head. ‘I’m a bag of nerves and there’s grey hairs all over me head and I’m only thirty-three! Long enough I lived with what happened to me, thinking only meself knew! It hurt, but I never worried ’cos I thought nobody would ever find out. Oh, I cleared it with God, went through Father Mahoney, told my sins. But that was then and this is now! Paddy loves them kids – they’re his! If he’s got to lose them, I’d rather he got the truth from me, not from bloody Swainbank! I tell you now, this is killing me! And you can’t make me feel any better, no matter what you say. I watch that shop front like a hawk, feared to death every time I notice a big car. At the finish, they’ll find out anyway, so why not get it over or clear off out of the road? Why do I have to carry on like a sitting duck?’

Ma rushed round the-table and pulled Molly into her arms. ‘Things do change all the time, mavourneen. In me heart, I nurse this very fierce hope that Janet and Joey will never know, that something will happen to stop the wagon rolling down the hill. But please pull yourself together! He could re-marry. He might leave all to his nephew or simply cut the twins out as unsuitable. Remember the burglary? Hang on to the knowledge that Janet near went for him with a sledge-hammer the day of that fire. Would you leave thousands to someone who half-killed an old woman? Or to a girl who hates you fit to burst? Would you now?’

Molly rested her throbbing head against Ma’s thin shoulder. ‘No, I wouldn’t. But I’m not a Swainbank, so I don’t set store by the bloodline.’ She sighed, her breath trembling as if broken by a swallowed sob. ‘Oh, I’ll try to hold together. Only some days I feel like running, taking Daisy and Michael out of here before it’s too late. I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute—’

Aye, a minute and then another. An hour or a day at a time got through in pain and anguish – how much more would the poor girl take? Ma felt as if a knife were being twisted in her own breast as she held on to the stiff, tense body of this woman she loved so much. What to say, though? Molly was right, there was no making it better, easier. They clung to one another for several seconds, then, without further conversation, each set about her nightly tasks.

Paddy returned with his milk stout, cleared the table and began to deal with rolling pin and pastry. He was proud of his pie crust, pleased with the way he’d taken to cooking as easily as a duck to water. Weren’t some of the best cooks in the world men, after all?

Janet arrived at about nine o’clock and immersed herself immediately in calculations, samples and price lists. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of new-baked bread and cooling pies by the time everyone settled down for cocoa. Too tired for small talk, the four of them sat in silence as the clock ticked its steady way towards bedtime.

It happened with Yorick first. One minute he was lying across the rug, apparently trying to take up as much space as possible, then he was suddenly up and howling, the large yellow head raised as if baying at some unseen moon.

‘Whatever—?’ began Ma. The dog looked at her sadly – but Yorick was always sad – then fled beneath the table. He shivered violently. It was one of them, he knew it. One of them in trouble. Not here. Somewhere away from the house.

‘Daft hound,’ said Paddy. ‘He’s about as much use as a chocolate fireguard – I reckon if we had burglars, he’d run a flaming mile. Now he sets off hooting like a late train with too much steam—’

‘Leave him!’ snapped Ma. ‘There’s more to a dog than meets the eye. And he was no doubt having a bad dream, poor lad.’

The stairway door flew open and Daisy swayed dangerously on the second step. ‘Joey?’ she cried, her voice strangled.

Paddy leapt forward to catch her before she fell. ‘Another one with bad dreams,’ he said as he lifted his small daughter. ‘What’s matter, lass?’

‘Joey. Where’s Joey? All still now, Mam. Our Joey’s all still . . .’

‘It was a dream,’ Molly cried as she ran to Paddy’s side. ‘Just a nightmare, love.’

‘No.’ The lower lip trembled just as it always did before the tears came. ‘It was real.’

Ma struggled to her feet and placed the cocoa mug on the mantelpiece as a car screeched to a halt outside. She stared hard into Daisy’s eyes, her own grandmother Gallagher’s eyes, before going to the door. The ultimate proof of Daisy’s sightedness was probably outside the house right this minute. Ma Maguire laid a hand on the gleaming brass latch just before the knock arrived. She should have listened to Daisy. They should all have listened to Daisy . . .

He worked hard on the trike for an hour or more, replacing distorted mudguards, oiling and tightening the rusted chain, fiddling with a small brush to paint all the tiny nooks and crannies. Aye, the job was a good ’un. He stretched stiffened limbs and smiled at his handiwork as he thought of the delighted child who would receive this gift tomorrow. Joey would have given an arm and a leg for a toy like that when he was a kid. His grin broadened. With no arm and no leg – he’d not have been able to ride it, would he?

Now for the stock. He walked through the back door and into the shop where he set about checking small equipment before improving his displays. People looking for a bike, whether new or secondhand, liked to handle the merchandise, have a good prod at a saddle, get their fingers round the handlebars for an idea of the feel of a machine. So he began to reorganize things, spread everything out, mount a few bikes on metal stands so that folk could get a better look at what they were buying.

When the back door burst open, Joey stood dumbfounded, almost rooted to the spot by what he saw, three large hooded men wielding knives and bike chains – the latter likely picked up in his own back yard. ‘What do you want?’ He edged stiffly towards the front of the shop. ‘We’re shut and the takings are long gone – there’s nowt in the tills . . .’ He looked over his shoulder and through the window out on to the main road, hoping against all hope that someone would glance in and notice the bother.

One of the three sprang forward and flicked off the lights, then they all surrounded him, legs apart and arms outstretched to discourage any attempt at escape.

‘Joey Maguire?’ asked one.

‘Eh?’

‘Is your name Joey Maguire?’

‘What if it is?’ He knew his voice was shaking while his legs threatened to give way at any minute.

‘We’ll ask the questions!’ The accent was Southern, possibly London. ‘We got orders, see? Some bleeder wants you done in, Joey. Booked a place in the great bike shop in the sky for you, they have. Shame, ain’t it? Only we got to do as we’re told. Nothing personal, old son. But orders is orders . . .’

Joey heard himself blubbering, ‘Why? What for? I’ve done nowt, far as I know. Who—?’

‘Don’t need to have done a thing, mate. Just the fact that you’re here is enough, just the fact that you was ever born. See, Joey . . .’ He leaned against a wall, his tone conversational. ‘Fact is, you stand between Mr Fenner and a lot of dough.’ The man shrugged carelessly. ‘No contest. And where’s the other one? Usually here making curtains, ain’t she?’

‘I don’t know what you mean—’

‘We was expecting two of you – one in this room and the other through there. But yours was the only light.’ He jerked his head towards the door that connected Joey’s shop to Janet’s. ‘Your twin sister. Where is she? Only we’re on a double according to Fenner—’

‘But . . . hey . . . hang on a minute! I don’t know anybody called Fenner. Who the hell’s he when he’s at home? Never even heard the name. And I’ve got no twin sister.’ A bus rattled by and Joey glanced over his shoulder again, praying that some eagle-eyed passenger would notice what was amiss in the shop. But he held no real hope. The room was in semi-darkness now, illuminated only by the meagre glimmer borrowed from street lamps and a narrow beam from behind the shop where the door remained slightly ajar. ‘There’s been a mistake made,’ he went on, heart in his mouth. ‘You’ve come after the wrong Maguire.’

‘Naw.’ The spokesman shook his hooded head and pounded a black-gloved fist into the flat of his other hand. ‘Fenner don’t make mistakes – except when he backs a lame nag about every other meeting. It’s a fair cop, Joey. We gotcher and we ain’t gonna let go. More than our lives is worth, see? But it’s not personal, like I said before. It’s a contract. A question of my word what I gave in good faith. And me being a gentleman – well – I never break my word.’ He raised a huge arm.