Read Online With Love From Ma Maguire by Ruth Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B

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