With Love From Ma Maguire Read Online Free Page B

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!’
    ‘You know where I live. Take care of yourselves now!’ She watched the weary boys as they made their way towards school where, no doubt, they would be severely beaten at some stage for sleeping at their desks after six long hours in the mill.
    All afternoon, she wandered aimlessly about the town. In less than twenty-four hours, her life had changed completely. Seamus was gone for good, of that she felt sure. Now she’d thrown away her job, slapped it on the table with that poor little mite’s finger – dear God, whatever next? Yes, she knew what next. It had to be done and she was the one to do it. Might as well get it all over in the one day.
    After checking