extra time, he’s still following us.’
‘He’s not!’
‘He is. Go on – look. I dare you!’
‘I’m not looking!’ She quickened her stride. ‘I don’t want to look.’
‘Why? Frightened of encouraging him?’
They reached Edie’s door and placed their parcels on the paving stones. Philly gave her friend a stern look. ‘Edie. I am a married woman—’
‘Aye. And he’s a married man.’
‘I’m a good Catholic . . . Edie! It’s not like that! I hated him the day I gave my job up, I still hate him to this day . . .’
‘And you a good Catholic? Doesn’t it say summat about loving thy blinking neighbour?’
‘He is not my neighbour! He’s a mill owner and I don’t even like him!’
Edie lifted the door latch. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, her green eyes twinkling with mischief. She leaned over so that her face was nearer to Philly’s shoulder and in conspiratorial tone she added, ‘He’s got piles of money, lass.’
‘Edith!’ But it was too late. The door was open, the kettle was on and Arthur was sitting with the two babies. Philly turned to pick up the shopping and there he was on the corner, hat in hand, stick tucked under his arm. He made a deep bow. ‘A happy Christmas, Ma Maguire,’ he called before disappearing alongside Skenning Freddie’s shop.
Philly paused, a hand to her throat. Edie was right. There was a lot more to this than flaming leg sores.
Richard Swainbank could never work out why Beatrice made such a damned great fuss at Christmas. The rest of the year she was as miserable as sin, a face on her like an old clock in urgent need of an overhaul. Her enforced gaiety during the festive season was a great source of bemusement to all concerned. Even the servants had the odd laugh behind their hands – he’d caught them at it. What the hell he’d ever seen in her . . . Too late for all that now, he supposed. And he had to admit, however begrudgingly, that he’d had a fair run for his money, avoiding marriage altogether till he was thirty-five. But he’d expected things to be a bit different from this, a sight more cheerful. After all, she was fifteen years his junior, ought to be full of life and raring to go. But at twenty-nine, Beatrice was about as attractive as a worn-out carthorse. Maternity had done nothing to improve her appearance or her disposition. Not that he minded disposition in a woman – oh no, he liked a bit of temper. But he could do without the cold silences and the disapproving looks, that was for sure.
He winced as his leg started to play up again, then smiled to himself at the thought of seeing that cheeky young madam tomorrow. Now, there was a woman he wouldn’t mind waking up with, somebody who’d keep the home fires burning on a winter’s night. Aye, there was little enough to come back to here, wasn’t there? Well, Beatrice could stick to her headaches and her vapours, because he’d done his duty by the line, two sons reared safely and no need for any more. Thank God. He pulled a solid gold watch from his waistcoat and studied the time. At least the infernal church business was over with, all that shuffling about in the family pew while Nanny tried to control boys of six and four, each with a marked distaste for confinement and a definite desire to remain with his Christmas toys.
Lunchtime. And that was another good laugh, because the lads would never sit through half a dozen courses even when there was company present. Inevitably, there would be just himself and Beatrice enjoying the seasonal fare, one at each end of the long table, nothing to say to one another beyond the odd comment about how well the table looked and what a nice meal. Servants would flit about trying to look busy, then they’d make off with the food and have a good party in the kitchen. Of course, tomorrow promised to be even more hilarious, because on the evening after Christmas, the staff sat down in the dining room while Beatrice served them and
‘He’s not!’
‘He is. Go on – look. I dare you!’
‘I’m not looking!’ She quickened her stride. ‘I don’t want to look.’
‘Why? Frightened of encouraging him?’
They reached Edie’s door and placed their parcels on the paving stones. Philly gave her friend a stern look. ‘Edie. I am a married woman—’
‘Aye. And he’s a married man.’
‘I’m a good Catholic . . . Edie! It’s not like that! I hated him the day I gave my job up, I still hate him to this day . . .’
‘And you a good Catholic? Doesn’t it say summat about loving thy blinking neighbour?’
‘He is not my neighbour! He’s a mill owner and I don’t even like him!’
Edie lifted the door latch. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, her green eyes twinkling with mischief. She leaned over so that her face was nearer to Philly’s shoulder and in conspiratorial tone she added, ‘He’s got piles of money, lass.’
‘Edith!’ But it was too late. The door was open, the kettle was on and Arthur was sitting with the two babies. Philly turned to pick up the shopping and there he was on the corner, hat in hand, stick tucked under his arm. He made a deep bow. ‘A happy Christmas, Ma Maguire,’ he called before disappearing alongside Skenning Freddie’s shop.
Philly paused, a hand to her throat. Edie was right. There was a lot more to this than flaming leg sores.
Richard Swainbank could never work out why Beatrice made such a damned great fuss at Christmas. The rest of the year she was as miserable as sin, a face on her like an old clock in urgent need of an overhaul. Her enforced gaiety during the festive season was a great source of bemusement to all concerned. Even the servants had the odd laugh behind their hands – he’d caught them at it. What the hell he’d ever seen in her . . . Too late for all that now, he supposed. And he had to admit, however begrudgingly, that he’d had a fair run for his money, avoiding marriage altogether till he was thirty-five. But he’d expected things to be a bit different from this, a sight more cheerful. After all, she was fifteen years his junior, ought to be full of life and raring to go. But at twenty-nine, Beatrice was about as attractive as a worn-out carthorse. Maternity had done nothing to improve her appearance or her disposition. Not that he minded disposition in a woman – oh no, he liked a bit of temper. But he could do without the cold silences and the disapproving looks, that was for sure.
He winced as his leg started to play up again, then smiled to himself at the thought of seeing that cheeky young madam tomorrow. Now, there was a woman he wouldn’t mind waking up with, somebody who’d keep the home fires burning on a winter’s night. Aye, there was little enough to come back to here, wasn’t there? Well, Beatrice could stick to her headaches and her vapours, because he’d done his duty by the line, two sons reared safely and no need for any more. Thank God. He pulled a solid gold watch from his waistcoat and studied the time. At least the infernal church business was over with, all that shuffling about in the family pew while Nanny tried to control boys of six and four, each with a marked distaste for confinement and a definite desire to remain with his Christmas toys.
Lunchtime. And that was another good laugh, because the lads would never sit through half a dozen courses even when there was company present. Inevitably, there would be just himself and Beatrice enjoying the seasonal fare, one at each end of the long table, nothing to say to one another beyond the odd comment about how well the table looked and what a nice meal. Servants would flit about trying to look busy, then they’d make off with the food and have a good party in the kitchen. Of course, tomorrow promised to be even more hilarious, because on the evening after Christmas, the staff sat down in the dining room while Beatrice served them and
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