With Love From Ma Maguire Read Online Free Page A

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