Tom Maguire grave (29th December 1865 to 8th March 1895)

 

In the UK the social security system was established in 1942 but before that there wasn’t a safety net to catch the poor. Before the Act was passed many social reformers tried to hoist up living standards and here I am at the grave of one. For a decade (before an early death) he built up a formidable reputation as an orator, socialist and poet.

 

Tom was born to an Irish immigrant family in a threadbare area of Leeds (his grave lies in a threadbare area.) As a lad he was more interested in music, poetry and literature than socialism. Leaving school he got a job as a photographer's assistant. Aged 18 he read a copy of The Christian Socialist, was steeply converted and created the local branch of the Social Democratic Federation (which turned into the breakaway Socialist League.) Here he met other strong Socialist figures in the area.

 

Over the next few years he helped organise strikes to increase wages and improve working conditions. This was in the 1890s when profound social reformers were needed to prevent people dying of malnutrition, disease, hypothermia and exhaustion (we don’t know how lucky we are now.) He became one of the building blocks for the present Labour Party and attended the 1893 conference in Bradford that brought about its creation. He was known all over England for social causes and was also a published poet.

 

A year later it was all over. Aged 29 he collapsed with pneumonia and suffered for a month before finally dying. A thousand people lined the streets to see his hearse pass by before his burial here (the headstone is titling forward.) Friends had found him alone at home without food to eat or coal in the grate. He was buried in Beckett Street Cemetery which now seems to comprise only old graves and be a quiet oasis for wildlife and people sleeping off drugs.

 

I struggled to find the grave and thought a colourful bouquet may draw my eye. There was a well-trampled path with a wooden sign: “Maguire Walk”. This must be it - though no grave to be found. I walked along it three times without luck. I broke my own rule and asked a man sat on a bench if they knew the cemetery well and did they know here the famous grave was? He seemed to be slowed by narcotics but said he visited the cemetery daily and the grave lay at the far end of the cemetery (the two men “asleep” on the next bench didn’t even turn their heads to help out.) I found no grave and had to restart the search. Twenty minutes wasted. I found it twenty feet from the bench on which the man's comatose friends were lying. The bleary-eyed lads had woken up by the time I returned and they watched while I took these photos. Not one managed to stagger a few feet to enquire who was buried there. It was ironic - what would Tom think of people like these - probably propped up by live-long free benefits and Methadone. Alive now what would he think of the over-generous security system funded by fleecing workers via taxation? Or that nearly all pension funds are invested in capitalist companies that represent what he fought against?

 

Some red-dyed Labour politicians have had their photos taken by this grave but Tom was active 140 years ago making it difficult to know if he was a true socialist who thought government should control all aspects of the economy. Perhaps he was democratic socialist who favoured the free-market and provided basic state help. Though not an unforgotten grave it's unkempt with weeds.

 

I’d parked the motorhome in a corner of the cemetery and saw a dishevelled man eyeing it up. I got chatting with him and though friendly I sensed fakery. We had a chat about motorhomes, mileage and his travelling family (had a strong Irish accent.) When he thought he’d buttered me up sufficiently he asked for ten pounds “to get the bus back to my family at the other end of the Yorkshire.” When I pretended I was low on diesel and could he give me ten pounds his mouth dropped and so did his request - he only needed five pounds now. I gave him a handshake and he would have to do his best with that. I had one last look at Tom’s grave before leaving and did a salute as I left through the old wrought iron gates.