With Love From Ma Maguire (3 page)

The morning was long, tiring and tedious. By the time eight o’clock arrived with its half-hour breakfast break, Philomena was too exhausted to eat her meal of bread and butter. Everyone else sat round the edges of the room, some on skips, others on the floor, eating their food on the oil-covered boards, using as tools fingers thick with heavy yellow grease. Her stomach heaved and she made a mad dash for the toilet. There was only one on each floor, so she was forced to stand and gag while others took their turn. When at last she closed the door and relieved herself, she noticed, not for the first time, the degree of infestation in the tiny room. A particularly vile type of cockroach – a strange and unusually huge beast – patrolled this area in vast numbers and she reached for the worn-out brush that had been placed here to keep these foragers at bay. It wasn’t right, any of it. Fifty-five and a half hours a week she worked in this place for a few paltry shillings, out of which sum she was forced to pay her little- and side-piecers, children who would break their backs for a chance of an extra penny. For what hellish reason? For them all to finish up sick or dead, killed off by accident or by disease carried on the backs of rodents and other vermin?

During the rest of that morning, Philly looked at the spinning room with newly opened eyes. Twelve-year-old half-timers slid about in thick oil, bare-feet skating to keep up with the work. From time to time a shrivelled little-piecer with the body of an infant and the face of an old man ducked under a mule with brush and wiper to clean, bent over double so as not to break the precious ends of cotton. Although she was paid by the draw, which meant she depended for her living on how many times her mule opened and closed, she deliberately slowed herself down to look around. It was a waking nightmare of dirt, noise, heat and damp.

Then, just before the dinner hooter was due, a minder across the room trapped his piecer when the mule returned to its creel. No screams were heard above the deafening noise of machinery, yet some instinct told everyone that something was amiss. Work stopped as the limp child was carried out in the minder’s arms, then resumed as soon as the drama was over. With a living to earn and piecers to pay, no spinner could pause for more than a minute. Within half an hour, the child had been replaced and life continued as if the incident had never occurred.

When the dinner break sounded, Philly stopped her mule and walked over to the accident site. ‘How is he?’ she asked.

The man shrugged thick shoulders. ‘Alreet. Lost a finger, though. I’ve had a look round, can’t seem to lay me hand on it at all.’ He grinned crudely. ‘I’d have a job to find it round here, wouldn’t I? Never mind, the mice’ll happen get a good supper . . .’

She delivered a resounding slap to the side of his surprised face. ‘I see it,’ she said. ‘And it will be eaten by no mouse.’

Philly stalked out of the room, her heart pounding loudly. Well, today was as good a time as any other to leave this infernal place, she reckoned. Boldly, she hammered on the manager’s door.

‘Come,’ boomed a loud voice.

She entered the small office only to find no less a person than Mr Richard Swainbank himself, mill owner, landlord, gentleman farmer and respected citizen of these parts. He sat at the large desk, thumbs in waistcoat pockets, heavy gold chain across his chest, a diamond pin securing his silk tie. She took in all the trappings, the shiny black hat on the table, a silver-headed cane leaning against bookshelves, a pair of handsome grey kid gloves tossed carelessly on to a chair.

She hesitated fractionally, her hand resting on the door knob. Swainbank was a quantity relatively unknown, a being that passed occasionally through the spinning room with a time-piece in its hand. A spectator. A creature that escaped frequently to fresher and cooler air. This was a hard man, one whose supposedly regal posture commanded immediate respect and unquestioning obedience.

‘Well?’ he asked, a straight eyebrow raised towards thick brown hair. ‘What can I do for you?’

With a bravado fed by anger, she fixed her eyes on him, although her knees seemed to have gone to jelly. The cotton barons of Bolton were a breed apart, a breed that defied both description and explanation. Here sat a gentleman who was not a gentleman, a monied person who owned lands and cattle without ever touching plough or feedbag. Yet his vowels were often as flat as those of any winder, while his manner fell far short of the genteel. What was he, then? A self-made man? No. His money was old, passed down along the line from earlier generations of mill tyrants. But this man of means had been known to roll up his sleeves a time or two during epidemics, could kick a mechanical mule to life when every engineer in the town had signed its death certificate. Aye. She nodded slightly. Himself would work the mills until the day he died . . . A self-made gentleman? Was such a creature a possibility, even a fact? He was, she concluded with an almost imperceptible shrug, an improbability . . .

‘What is it you want?’ He folded his arms and leaned back in the chair.

It was the edge to his words that thrust her forward, propelled her through the space between door and desk. The tone, the very cadence of his voice, that mixture of superiority, condescension and . . . and amusement! With grim determination, she stared into eyes as black as hell itself, irises of a brown so dark as to leave the pupils unremarkable. Richard Swainbank was a man of great beauty, the sort of beauty that went beyond the merely handsome. In spite of more than forty summers, his face remained unmarked by time, while the odd combination of colourings with which he was endowed set him even further apart from the general run. Hair and whiskers were fair to mid-brown, while lashes and eyebrows echoed the darkness they so clearly framed. But Philly was not impressed by such arresting packaging.

‘Well?’ he asked impatiently.

Her hackles were fully risen by this time. He was known far and wide for his tantrums, was Mr Swainbank, had never been averse to on-the-spot sackings or wage dockings. But she didn’t care, didn’t choose to care! Straightening her shoulders, Philly slapped the grisly parcel on to his desk where, lying between inkstand and blotter, it slowly unwound to reveal the sad contents.

‘I expected the manager, but I suppose you’ll have to do. That, Mr Swainbank, is a severed finger. The child to whom it was recently attached is twelve years old with ricketty legs and not a pick of flesh to his bones . . .’

‘Bloody hell!’ He returned the woman’s furious stare. She talked as if she were educated, as if she imagined herself to be his equal! ‘And what, pray, would you have me do with this item? Shall I use it as a paperweight? If the damn fool lad can’t run fast enough to save his hands, then he’s no use to me!’

She leaned forward, tightly clenched fists pressing against the edge of the desk. ‘You can shove it, Mr Swainbank!’

‘Pardon?’ The second eyebrow joined its twin.

‘You heard me sure enough! Shove that and the job up your waistcoat front!’

He fought a chuckle that rumbled ominously in the region of his chest. What a fighter, eh?

‘The poor boy is no use to anyone from this day! And that is your fault!’ After a moment or two, she added a derogatory ‘Sir’ to this shouted accusation.

His whole countenance was suddenly darkened by a rush of colour as he jumped to his feet. ‘Get out of here, Mrs . . . Mrs . . .’

‘Maguire,’ she spat. ‘I was going anyway for my health’s sake. This place is teeming with disease – do you hear? Tics, fleas, rats, mice, cockroaches as big as horses . . .’

‘Silence!’ He held up a large hand and she studied a heavy gold cufflink that peeped out beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

‘All right then,’ she whispered. ‘Silence me, why don’t you? I’m used to it, so I am, for me husband tried often enough – too often for his own good . . .’ Her voice was rising now, quickening in tempo, keeping pace with the temper that had long plagued her, a temper that would, according to her family at least, be her downfall one day.

‘And so he should try!’ shouted Swainbank. ‘With you in the house, he’d need the patience of a saint!’

‘He’s not in my house any more. I have ways of ridding myself of vermin!’

They stared at one another for several moments of crackling tension.

‘So have I!’ he yelled now. ‘Full name?’

‘Philomena Theresa Maguire,’ she replied at the top of her not inconsiderable vocal powers.

‘Address?’

‘34 Delia Street.’

‘Good!’ He glanced across at the workers’ register which lay on top of the bookcase. ‘You will be struck off the list as from this noon.’

‘Ah no!’ She wagged a finger dangerously near to the end of his nose. ‘You will not strike me off, Mister, for I came in here just now to withdraw without notice!’

‘Excellent. I don’t need your kind here, Mrs Maguire. Barging around as if you own the place . . .’

‘Own it? Own it? God help me, I live in it except when I’m asleep – which is more than you do!’

His pulses were racing erratically as he slumped back into the chair. It wasn’t just her appearance, though that alone would have made her special in spite of her advanced pregnancy. No. It was something else, something beyond those intelligent blue eyes, that pale smooth skin, the fine high cheekbones, the glossy raven’s wing sweep of her hair. This was a woman, a real woman with the ability to warm a room simply by being in it. She was magnificent. Insubordinate, out of order, uncontrollable and bloody magnificent!

‘And keep off the port!’ she snapped wickedly. ‘It’s killing you, all that good living. Here we die of starvation. Up on the moors, you’re seeing yourselves off by over-indulging. From the colour of your face just now, I’d say you’ve ten years at best left, Mr Swainbank. And a good riddance too!’

‘You . . . little . . . bitch!’

She laughed heartily at this and he marvelled at such a courageous display of nonchalance. ‘I’m not little, Mister. And I’m no female dog to be running at your heel! Well now, did I upset you by answering back, by sticking out for me own rights? Isn’t that a desperate shame?’

‘You’ll never work in this town again!’

‘Away with your bother! I can take care of meself, Mister!’ She marched to the door then turned, hands on hips, eyes flashing blue fire. ‘A curse on you and yours, Mr Swainbank! And I bid you the worst of days.’ She nodded slowly. ‘I hope you live to rue setting eyes on me. But I suspect that you will not survive long enough!’

She slammed the heavy door behind her.

Richard Swainbank reached for his cane and threw it across the room. Bloody woman! How dare she? How dare she walk in here like the Queen of Egypt with all the colours of the Nile reflected in her eyes and . . . Oh, damn her! He rose stiffly and stared into a small mirror between the two high windows. How would she look with the hair uncoiled? With a mighty roar, he turned and swept everything off the desk, his eyes fixed to a small bloody bundle as it tumbled across the floor. Fifty pounds. He would find the damned lad and give him fifty, that would be enough . . .

Philly stood on the landing, a hand pressed against the wall as she fought for air. He was wicked, the devil incarnate, so he was . . . Not one jot did he care for anyone, not for the poor lad with his finger gone, not for the sickly folk who forced themselves daily into this place of endless drudgery. Behind her he crashed about the room and she allowed herself a tight smile of triumph. He was off the horse for a minute or two and she must take credit for having unseated him.

The door flew open. ‘Mrs Maguire?’

‘Yes?’ She quickly raised herself into an upright and steady position.

‘Er . . .’ His eyes wandered down the stairwell while he pulled at his waistcoat, then he passed a hesitant hand through the mop of dishevelled hair. ‘What . . . er . . . what’ll you do?’

Philly put her head on one side while she studied his obvious discomfort. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well . . . er . . . husband gone and . . . and . . .’

‘Baby coming?’ Her tone, in direct contrast to his deepening blush, was light. ‘I shall take care of meself, Mr Swainbank.’

He thrust a large hand at her. ‘Here,’ he barked. ‘Take it. It’s what’s due in wages and a bit on top – get yourself a perambulator or some such article . . .’

Her jaw must have been hanging open, for she heard it shut with a snap as she inhaled deeply. Was he going soft? Wages when she was walking out? Wages after she’d told him what he could do with his blessed job?

‘Take it!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t dole out spare cash every day of the week.’

Slowly she reached out and accepted the proffered notes and coins, her eyes widening as she realized that there must be all of six or seven pounds here. ‘It’s . . . it’s charity,’ she heard herself saying.

‘If it’s charity, then it’s bloody history in the making too,’ he replied with sarcasm in his tone. ‘I’m not noted for good deeds. I shall see to the lad, him that lost the finger.’ He stared at her for a moment or two, then, after walking back into the office, slammed the door firmly home.

Philly counted the money, placed what was due to her in a pocket, then posted the remainder through the brass letterbox in the office door. His curses were audible above the sound of dropping coins, yet he made no move towards the stairs. Again she smiled grimly. She would take what was owed, no more than that. If the man was feeling generous, he could give this small amount to some deserving cause. She turned away, a sudden sadness invading her heart, a new weakness making her catch her breath as anger evaporated. What was this picture in her mind? His eyes . . . so . . . so full of grief and . . . and was that loneliness? Still, he deserved to be lonely. No! She must not pity him, must not feel grateful or indebted! These wages she had sweated for, this money she would keep!

After composing herself, Philly descended the stairs until she was out in the open air. Across the mill yard, she caught sight of her own piecers on their way to half-time school. They ran to her side. ‘What’s up, Mrs Maguire?’

‘I’m off for good. Tell the afternoon lads, will you? I shan’t be back.’

‘Aw, Missus. You were a good minder, sixpence extra we always got!’