With Love From Ma Maguire (7 page)

Beatrice looked up as he entered the stifling room. Her narrow face was grim. Even on this special day, the one time in the year when she tried to make some sort of effort, her bitterness shone through the thin veneer of bonhommie. To think that he would go outside alone on Christmas day! Whatever would the servants make of that?

He looked long and hard at her. To be as fair as he could manage, he had to admit feeling slightly sorry for Beatrice. He wasn’t the best husband, wasn’t often home when needed. She’d come from a country estate in Cheshire, born of a good but impoverished family with some remote connection to nobility. And he’d taken her on because the rest of the females had been good breeders. Aye. He dropped into an armchair. He’d bought carefully, chosen her just as he’d have picked a good brood mare. She’d not been bitter then, had she? His head drooped slightly as he tried to remember. But no, there remained no image, no concept of the girl he had led up the aisle such a comparatively short time ago.

‘I’m a bit rough and ready for you, Beatrice, aren’t I?’

She dropped her needlework, a look of astonishment invading her pallid features. ‘Pardon?’

‘I was just thinking while I walked – we’re not really suited, you and I.’

She swallowed delicately, a hand to her thin throat. He’d never talked like this before, never a word about suitability. Or love. ‘What are you trying to say, Richard?’ Nervous fingers plucked at the threads in her lap.

‘We should never have married. I don’t like seeing anybody so downcast, let alone my own wife. It’s with me being trade and you being gentry, I suppose. They’d no money, your lot, but they had class, you see. As for me – well, I dare say we’ll never make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear . . .’

‘Richard!’ She jumped to her feet, embroidery frame and cottons tumbling on to the carpet. ‘This is Christmas—’

‘I know. I just want the air cleared and I reckon Christmas is as good a time as any. We’re coming to the end of a year, starting another . . . I think it’s time we swept a few cobwebs out. I’m grateful for the two lads, glad you gave this house a future. But we don’t love one another, do we? Be honest, Beatrice.’

‘Honest? What would you know about honesty? How many . . . ?’ She bit back the rest of this sentence before she went too far.

‘How many women?’ His voice was almost a whisper. ‘One or two, that’s about the size of it. But I never expected much passion from a wife, so it’s not your fault. However, I thought I should let you know that there’ll be no further need for you to make excuses, because I’ll not be visiting your bedroom again.’

Her eyes narrowed into thin grey slits. ‘I see. So this is my Christmas gift?’

‘No. I gave you a pearl necklace, did I not?’

‘Indeed. One you had sent up from London. You didn’t take care to choose it, did you?’

‘I haven’t the time! The mills don’t run themselves, my dear. Managers are all very well, but they need watching. If I weren’t on their backs all the time they’d slacken off and let the workforce have a party every day. It’s a delicate business, is cotton, with a fine line between profit and loss. I can’t afford to take my finger off the pulse, or they’d all be spending their days leaning on walls. Can’t trust any of them – they want paying for nothing, that’s the top and bottom of it. There’s no room for charity in my game . . .’

‘And charity begins at home, doesn’t it, Richard? Or does it begin with your mistresses?’ She made for the door, her back rigidly straight. Part way across the carpet, she turned to look at him. ‘I shall not make your life easy, Richard Swainbank, because you have ruined mine. Yes, I know I’m just a woman, a creature of no importance. You can cast me from your bed, but not from your house. No, you’d never live with the disgrace, would you? But let me inform you here and now that I am not terribly interested in you or in your sons. Yes, they are my boys too and if they had a different father, another surname, then I should probably love them. But whatever you do from now on will be no concern of mine.’ She spoke quietly, evenly, not a trace of malice colouring her voice. In fact, she might just as well have been reading from a shopping list – or the Bible, come to that.

‘Beatrice?’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you no spirit, no temper?’

She moved her eyes slowly down to his feet, an expression of disdain covering her face. ‘I think I had spirit once. You killed it. Why should I waste time and energy on temper when I really don’t care what you do or say? At least I tried, Richard. Perhaps my efforts have not been good enough, perhaps my unhappiness has shown through too easily. But for you to do this thing at Christmas, a time that has always meant much to me.’ She shook her head. ‘In future, I shall spend the season with my parents. They are civilized.’

He jumped to his feet and brought a heavy hand on to the mantel shelf. ‘Can’t you fight me, for God’s sake? Have you no pride, no anger at all?’ He stared at the woman he’d married, still thin in the face where she’d wanted flesh, yet wide around the hips where she could well have done without it. And a vivid picture of Philly Maguire flashed across his brain, obliterating all else in the room. Tall and grand of posture, black hair coiled about her head . . . if ever a woman had been born to the wrong class, then that was the one, because any man would be glad of such a fine item to adorn his home and walk by his side.

‘That smile makes you look ridiculous,’ murmured his well-bred wife. ‘Do as you wish, I shall not fight you. There is nothing to fight about.’ She left the room, closing the door firmly in her wake.

Richard paced the floor, the ulcer on his shin stinging even more now that his temper was up. Aye, she’d never slam a door, would she? Whereas Philly Maguire would have had foundations shaking by this time. But he knew Beatrice well enough by now, recognized that she’d make him suffer one way or another. Devious, she was. Like a bad nut covered in sugar, the thin coating cracking here and there to let a bitter kernel show through. Whether or no he’d been the cause of her nastiness – well, he neither knew nor cared. But one thing was sure. He would reap the dubious benefits of today’s brief episode of honesty. No matter how well a man kept his wife down, there was one area where she reigned supreme come what may. From this day, his life at home promised to improve not one jot.

She told herself that she was cleaning up for pride’s sake. After all, he likely lived in a mansion full of statues and rugs from heathen parts, forty rooms of stately living and good taste. She took jars of goose-grease and bottles of olive and camphorated oils from the oven where they always sat warming except when baking was in progress, then flicked a final duster over her gleaming black-leading. No, she wouldn’t take him into the parlour, because the small cast iron grate in there had never seen coal and she wasn’t going to spoil those blue and white side-tiles just for him. All the same, he’d have been surprised, no doubt, to be shown all that grandeur in a mill-girl’s house. In front of the parlour fireplace sat a beautiful tapestry screen with a stag woven into its centre. Then there was the piano with its twin candelabra all polished and bright, her aspidistra plants – firstly, the splendid monster in the centre of the table, then its two younger brothers in copper tubs on the hearth. Yes, it was a pity he’d never see her green velvet door curtain with matching mantel cover and tablecloth, all with hand-applied gold fringes. And the good mahogany chairs tucked up to the table, the shiny horsehair sofa along the wall.

She checked herself, tut-tutting aloud while she straightened the handmade rug in front of a roaring fire. Why on earth should she want to impress him at all? Was it that she needed to impress him, or did she simply seek to avoid his contempt – or his pity? She whipped off the starched linen cloth and smiled down at her kitchen table. Most women had a white scrubbed item to work on, but she was blessed with two good tables – or cursed when she considered where Seamus might have acquired them. This unusual piece was octagonal and inlaid with many woods, the pattern radiating from a rich red central block that formed the top of the pedestal. To work on it at all, she had to cover it with many layers of blanket and sheeting, so precious was its magnificent surface.

Everything was in its place. On the large dresser stood the Sacred Heart and the Virgin, each on a wooden plinth and encased under a polished glass dust-dome. Her few concessions to frivolity, including a boy with cherries and a porcelain crinolined lady, also sat on the burnished dresser, their reflected backs showing in the attached mirror. Before the fire stood two easy chairs, one upholstered in carpet, the other in leather. The flagged floor was covered by oilcloth, well-scrubbed and with the flag joints showing through like a pattern of large squares. A single rug, carefully pegged on winter evenings out of clipped-up clothes, was as clean as it could be, having had the life beaten out of it on the back yard line. Two brass candlesticks and a crucifix stood on the mantelpiece, always on display in a Catholic home in case Extreme Unction or a Mass for the sick should ever be required on the premises. Over these hung a brass-framed mirror, while various holy pictures decorated the rest of the walls. It was a good home, a clean home, one to be proud of. Well, at least he wouldn’t be able to say he’d visited a slum dwelling the day after Christmas. She might have few rooms, but they were as clean as primitive conditions would allow and a sight cleaner than she was used to at home.

She sat by the fire, outwardly composed, forcing herself to think of her family, pushing Christmas wishes across the miles to a little rush-thatched cottage full of brothers and sisters. If only she could read; if only they could write. Yet she was not unhappy, for County Mayo was a closed chapter now. Her life was here and she accepted it gladly for what it was, comfortable, manageable, predictable. And the respect she got from the neighbours, that was indeed a blessing. After the holiday was over, she must set to and make new batches, go out on the rounds again, because she had used some of Seamus’ money to pay doctor and nurse.

He didn’t even knock. One minute she was alone, then the next brought a draught to her ankles and a chill to her shoulders. She stood and turned to face the door. ‘Come in. I’ve himself in the cot by the stairs and he must not get cold.’

He closed the door and stared at her, noticing that she never lowered her eyes, never attempted to acknowledge his superiority. ‘That’s a fine fire, Mrs Maguire . . .’

‘Sit yourself in the leather chair and roll up the trouser leg.’ Her tone was terse and uninviting.

He faltered, his hand still on the door. ‘Do you have to look at it?’ No, he didn’t want her as nurse, couldn’t quite stand the thought of her seeing his vulnerability. And the leg, while greatly improved, was not one of his better features. ‘Can’t you just give me the powder? It seemed to be doing the trick . . .’

She folded her arms and shook her head slowly. ‘It’s entirely up to you, Mr Swainbank. Your bad leg is your concern, but if you want it mended . . .’

‘Oh, very well.’ He removed his heavy greatcoat and placed it with his hat on the table. Not a word was spoken as he sat in the chair, took off his boot and sock, rolled up the trouser leg and placed his foot on a nearby stool.

She squatted on the rug, her face reflecting the glow from radiant coals. ‘That, Mr Swainbank,’ she finally declared, ‘is what my next door neighbour would call a bloody mess and no mistake. Have you banged it ever?’

‘Many a time while riding.’

‘Then don’t ride. These weeping sores are deep and impossible to shift altogether. It’s enough to have one without making it worse by riding and gallivanting like a young lad. What is your age?’ She looked up at him. ‘How old are you?’ she repeated, as if to a child.

‘Forty-four.’

‘And you without the sense you were born with, I shouldn’t wonder. Men! All the same, infants from cradle to grave every last one. Have you seen the blood vessels on this leg? Look for yourself, man. Like the cast-offs from a rope factory, all twisted and tangled past saving. You must walk less. Give yourself an hour every afternoon. Say to yourself, “This is my leg hour.” Don’t ride, don’t drink, don’t smoke and above all, don’t bang this sore. And I’d suggest four or five small meals each day, no banquets. With luck, you could be healed over within six months.’

‘And no operations?’

‘Does your physician want to operate?’

‘He’d like to use me as guinea-pig. Especially as I can pay well.’

‘That’s up to you.’

He stared hard and long at the lovely head of hair that was almost within reach now as she bent to study his leg more closely. ‘If I can’t ride, eat or smoke . . .’

‘Or drink,’ she interspersed quietly.

‘Or drink? Then what the hell do I live for?’

She lifted her head and looked straight into his face. ‘To make money, Mr Swainbank. To make money while your workers starve. Isn’t that your hobby?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Now, I’ll dress this and give you plenty of spare powder. Don’t get it wet at all . . .’

He watched her walking across the small room, a room where she definitely did not belong. A gem like this deserved a better setting among further finery that might embellish it and bring out the true lustre. ‘I have the power to change your life completely, Mrs Maguire.’ His voice was no more than a whisper, almost a caress. ‘I can take you from this place and give you a beautiful home, a fitting place in which to bring up your son. Fields and flowers, fresh air and sunshine . . .’

‘I’ve had all those.’ She took bandage and powders from a drawer, heart in her mouth as she stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror. It wasn’t just him! It was herself as well, for didn’t she want to . . . ? Ah, she didn’t know what she wanted to do with this hateful man. Best to get the nursing seen to and have him on his way.

Bracing herself, she knelt to dress his leg.

‘You have a gentle touch. It feels better already.’

‘Good. It’s glad I am of that.’

‘They call you Philly, is that right?’

With her head bent to her task she replied, ‘I was baptized Philomena.’