Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Businesses, mortgages, hydro, farm management – he was not designed for this sort of life. Even so, he knew that he had to stay here until wrongs had been righted, until life had been made viable for the descendants of the Burton-Massey line. Yet, oh, he was in so much danger. His heartstrings had been tugged by all three girls who lived at Caldwell Farm, but one in particular caused him much discomfort.

  Discomfort was his forte for now, he concluded. With a heavy heart, he entered the pantry to pick up the necessary provisions. From a pocket of his jacket, he took a large key, then made his way to the cellar. The key groaned in its ageing mechanism, the door hinges screamed for oil, his mind screamed silently for peace.

  He descended into darkness, feet made sure by habit, a hand reaching out for the oil lamp. When the wick was lit, he placed the lamp on a table and stared for several seconds into the near distance.

  In here, in this private place, James Mulligan faced his own secrets. In the cellars of Pendleton Grange, the man’s conscience, raw and sore, waited to be nourished and appeased.

  Fourteen

  On Christmas morning, Mona rose early. This was to be her last Christmas at home: next year she might be a visitor, or she might play hostess to Tilly. So, this was to be a special celebration, though Tilly refused to regard it as such. Deeply resentful of Mona’s impending ‘desertion’, the older sister had been less than co-operative with preparations for the feast.

  Mona made little patties of sage and onion, remembering that Tilly did not like the chicken to be stuffed. She pricked pork sausages, which were to be roasted in jackets of crisp streaky bacon, then peeled sprouts and carrots for steaming, potatoes and parsnips for roasting, set the pudding to boil.

  At about ten in the morning, with everything ready for oven and hob, Mona had a nice sit-down with one of her penny dreadfuls. Since her declaration of independence, she had displayed her reading matter fearlessly – in spite of their Tilly’s sniffs and grunts. Mona liked a good story. These were comforting tales, where the hero and heroine inevitably came together in the end. Upon reaching the last page, Mona always heaved a sigh of relief, gladdened to the core because true love had won through yet again.

  She reached a bit about two lovers on a sinking boat, then found herself elsewhere. In the dream, she stood in the scullery at 13 John Street, found the tiny room crammed with naked girls and piles of clothing. Mr Mulligan was running about in the next room trying to find which frock fitted which girl, then Tilly decided to wash everything. Mr Wilkinson arrived with the Light in a glass jar, two more unconscious females and a copy of Illumination, which was the Temple’s magazine.

  Mr Mulligan clouted Mr Wilkinson, who fell out through the door and banged his head on the opposite wall. Seth Dobson, the undertaker from Mulligan’s Yard, brought enough coffins to fill the house. Mona screamed and tried to explain that the girls were not really dead, but no one listened, though Tilly said, ‘They might as well be dead, after what’s happened to them,’ while Ida Hewitt walked unaided into the house and reclaimed it as her own.

  Mona woke shivering from head to foot. What a nasty dream that had been. Was it an omen? Should she not move to John Street? Was Mr Wilkinson bent on some terrible errand that involved stripping young women of clothes and dignity? She blinked herself back to full consciousness, looked at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly twelve. The chicken sat raw and white on the table, while a nasty smell from the scullery advised Mona that the pudding pan had run out of water. She ran to rescue the pudding, returned to the kitchen, stoked the fire, placed the chicken in the range oven.

  ‘Tilly?’ Mona stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘Do you want a cup of tea and a biscuit, put you on till Christmas dinner?’

  No answer floated down the stairwell.

  Mona called again. ‘Tilly? Are you stopping up there while the cows come home?’

  Still no reply.

  A cold finger of fear traced itself the length of Mona’s spine. Tilly liked her bed, but she had never stayed upstairs till noon. Worse than that, Mona was possessed of a feeling that she was completely alone in the house. ‘Tilly?’

  Mona sat on the second stair. Mathilda Joan Walsh had been born in this very house, as had Monica Jean Walsh. They had travelled through life with the same initials, had been welded together in the family business, had buried their parents, had stood firm during trials and tribulations. ‘Dear God,’ prayed Mona, ‘I know she’s a pest, but don’t take her from me. We’re all we’ve got. There’s nobody nowhere who cares about us.’

  It was about ten past twelve now. Mona needed to go upstairs to check on Tilly, was determined to climb the flight. But her head and her feet seemed to have differing opinions. She stood up, tried to move up the stairs, could not manage it. Things would be all right, she insisted. But whatever she did, Mona’s feet would move in one direction only – back to the kitchen.

  Strangely, Mona found herself calculating that the small chicken would take about an hour, so she had better put the par-boiled spuds in soon. And the parsnips. Carrots and turnips twenty minutes on the hob, sprouts fifteen. The sausages could go in the top of the oven for half an hour, and she could fry the patties if pressed for time and space. She smoothed back her hair, straightened her cooking apron. It had been a really bad nightmare, that one. And it had pushed its way into reality to make her imagine now that her sister was dead. The best thing was to get on with the job in hand instead of standing here like a lemon. Lemon – there was a thought. She would make a jelly to have for pudding after chicken sandwiches for supper. If she put the mould in the back yard, it would soon set out there in the cold. A lemon one. Tilly loved lemon jelly.

  Margot didn’t feel at all Christmassy. She had a lump in her belly that had suddenly burgeoned into slight visibility, causing her to let out skirts and dresses, making her hold herself stiff and straight in order to look as normal as possible. Soon, people would begin to point fingers at her. Really, she should visit Rupert, since this lump was his as much as hers, but she couldn’t be bothered.

  On Christmas morning, she sat in her bedroom, relieved that the feast day had merited a small fire in the grate. The Moorheads, faithful old retainers, had lit fires in every room. Having turned down Mr Mulligan’s all-embracing invitation, they would have Caldwell Farm to themselves today. Margot wished with all her heart that she, too, might stay at home, but she did not want to draw attention to herself.

  Somewhere, she had read about a pregnant woman who had gone horse-riding. Bouncing up and down in the saddle had caused the foetus to come away, prompting the same woman to write an article about the dangers of riding. ‘My kingdom for a horse, then,’ Margot whispered. She harboured no grudge against the unborn – in fact, her feelings in general seemed to have gone on strike. But if a simple gallop could rid her of the burden, then a simple gallop would be employed as soon as this terrible tiredness lifted.

  Eliza, in the room that had once been Mother’s, lay stretched out on the eiderdown, her mind far away from this dull, grey place. Lancashire was not a very exciting county, she concluded. The north was not inviting at all – even the cities were centres of smoke and boredom. London, however, was scarcely industrial. She perceived the capital as a huge bank, a bustling metropolis where all the money was stored, some of it spilling out of vaults and into the silk-lined pockets of gentlemen, the sort of males who treated women with respect.

  She stretched out her hands, studied elegant long fingers with nails coloured a soft, ladylike pink, the kind of shade that would look well on the arm of one of those City gentlemen. She would be snapped up, of course. After she had served a few months as the star of some show in the West End, her admirers at the stage door might very well include a baron, even an earl or a duke. He would whisk her away to his stately pile in Hampshire or Herefordshire, and she would be married in a private family chapel with Amy and Margot as bridesmaids. Though it could be in a cathedral, she supposed. Many of the gentry got married in ca
thedrals. She would be beautiful in a gown of white gossamer, with real flowers threaded through a diamond tiara, silk slippers on her feet, a long veil suspended from neatly coiffed hair. Yes, the ethereal look would definitely suit her.

  Rupert was going to be a bit of a bind, but she would find a way to be rid of him. He was hilariously funny, his eyes practically on stalks every time he saw her. His puerile devotion was pathetic, as were his clearly visible expectations of success in the seduction scenes he was planning. Let him try, she mused. Just let him try.

  Amy, in her bedroom, was staring at herself in the mirror. She had decided to make an effort, and was applying makeup cleverly, in accordance with instructions contained in a fashion magazine of Mother’s. The trick, of course, was to have a finished product that looked as natural and unmade-up as possible. After a fourth attempt, she threw in the towel and scrubbed her skin with Pond’s. She looked better without warpaint, so she opted for a mere touch of lipstick, a dab of powder and a thin film of rouge to disguise the pallor of winter.

  She wondered how she would look with shorter, in-vogue hair, wondered why she was considering such measures. It was the fault of James Mulligan, she supposed, as he was bullying her to open up the shop in a few weeks. Perhaps, as the ‘front’ woman, she should be up to date in the couture stakes, but the cutting of hair was probably a step too far.

  Christmas – the first without Mother. Of course, Mother had not been much fun in recent years, but, had she survived, she might have enjoyed the holidays this year. ‘Stop it,’ Amy told her reflection sternly. ‘Onward, not backward.’

  She found her shoes, placed all her gifts in a shopping basket. Then she sat by the fire and gazed into the flames, looking for pictures in the red and yellow tongues. Father had played this game with her when she was a child. Father’s final game had placed his whole family in dire trouble . . . ‘Onward,’ she repeated.

  The future. A Cut Above? Margot had flatly refused to consider working there, while Eliza just looked vague and secretive whenever the subject arose. Eliza made Amy rather uncomfortable these days, as did Margot. The former seemed to be living in a dream world and was reticent about her movements, while the latter, suddenly sickly and troubled by indigestion, kept running off outside in all weathers, almost as if trying to escape from herself.

  Amy knew that she could not be a mother to her siblings. Had there been an aunt near by, she might have sought advice, at least, but there was no-one. ‘I have to do something,’ she said. ‘The money will run out altogether soon.’ Mother had invested a chunk of capital in the business, and the interest on the residue would not keep the residents and staff of Caldwell Farm beyond a matter of weeks.

  She rose and walked to the window, looked out on a Christmas scene, a light sprinkling of snow decorating fences, walls and trees, crisping the grass. James had found someone, apparently. A young designer who had worked for a good house in Manchester was in need of employment. She had children and no husband to support her. Local folklore had it that he had gone off with a barmaid, leaving his wife and two small sons with no real means of support. ‘Which is all well and good,’ muttered Amy, ‘as long as she can design, cut and fit cloth.’ Of course, Eliza, too, would settle down. She would see sense and come to work in what was to become the family business. Margot? The bit of savings Margot had managed to acquire over the years from her paltry allowance would run out soon. Amy hardened her heart against both her sisters – no work, no pocket money.

  The world was so pretty today. Christmas promised to be interesting, too, as James Mulligan had made the unilateral decision to do all the cooking. Kate Kenny, his housekeeper, had been muttering darkly for days about food poisoning, gravy solid enough to slice and a goose so underdone that it would find its own way to the table without much encouragement. She had promised that all who partook would go down with the ague, which word she pronounced as ‘aygew’, making it all the funnier.

  ‘I’m noticing life again,’ Amy said. ‘That has to be a good thing.’ It was not a sin to laugh, enjoyment was no crime. Perhaps Eliza and Margot were still grieving deeply. If that was so, it was time for them to look ahead occasionally. The trite adage about life having to go on was suddenly a piece of wisdom. Amy made up her mind there and then to enjoy the day, to treat the Christmas period as a time for pleasure, a chance to laugh and rest before opening A Cut Above. The shop would be Mother’s living monument, a tribute to her genius.

  Amy closed her eyes and daydreamed not about the past, but about a future that had to succeed.

  Ida Hewitt, stronger by the day, looked out across her little patch of front garden, a squarish area edged by boundary walls of stone. It boasted a pathway made of hammered-down brick, with a full stop at the end in the form of a green wooden gate. The grass, still thick with hoar, stood to attention like a thousand tiny soldiers dressed in white. It was beautiful, almost overwhelming.

  The Hewitts had been here for just a few weeks, but Ida was already worrying about returning to Bolton. Mr Mulligan would go back to Ireland, as would his housekeeper. What would happen to Ida and the children then? she wondered. James Mulligan had given her some pride, too, had got her working at the big house. Oh, why couldn’t she just grab this time and make the best of it? After all those years in bed, she was now experiencing real worry, as if she had merely saved it up until now. God was punishing her for carelessness and idleness, it seemed.

  The children were outside, both wrapped up against the weather, each engrossed in games. Diane was sliding with the older children, while little Joe, his legs already surer, was helping others to build a snowman from a few remaining banks of drifted snow. The Hewitt children had received books, toys and clothes, all bought by Mr Mulligan. He was so kind, such a good man. Only months ago, Ida had dismissed him as another flaming Catholic, all booze, Latin and gambling, but she knew better now. And, as she had taken to admitting begrudgingly, perhaps other Micks weren’t as bad as she had once believed.

  She fingered a scarf at her throat, knew that it was silk, for hadn’t she tested it by crunching it in a closed fist? When her fingers had opened, the cloth had jumped out immediately. So, Ida Hewitt, late of 13 John Street, owned a silk scarf, all pastel shades and fringed at the ends. Mr James Mulligan had bought the scarf for her. He valued her, and she was more than grateful.

  She turned away from the small-paned window and looked at her new life. It was so cosy, just two rooms down and three up, the latter having been made from one long space in the roof. In that area, weavers had toiled at looms, had made cloth from yarn spun in other cottages. They had slept on the ground floor, Ida supposed, spread about on straw mattresses in front of the fire, under the stairs, beneath tables.

  Now, the house was truly comfortable. In the front room, there was a cast-iron fireplace with tiled sides, a proper dining-table, some chairs, a small sofa, a dresser, an occasional table with a plant standing on a lace mat. There were pictures on the walls, little ornaments dotted about, a brass-framed mirror, shelves with plates balanced along their surfaces. The kitchen was a dream, with a proper porcelain sink, cupboards, a big range oven with a large copper, pans hanging from beams . . . oh, when the time came, she would not be able to give this up.

  She walked to the front door and called the children. Soon Mr Mulligan would arrive to ferry them to Pendleton Grange. Today Ida would be a guest, not a worker. Kate had been in a bit of a mither just lately, because Mr Mulligan was going to cook the dinner. Well, let him, thought Ida mischievously – it was time men realized that food didn’t arrive by magic.

  Diane turned. ‘Aw, Gran. Just another five minutes – please?’

  Joe waited. He always left complicated negotiations to his sister.

  ‘All right,’ called Ida. She watched while a big lad picked up Joe and allowed him to put coal ‘eyes’ in the snowman’s face, while Diane skated on glassy ice at a very fast pace. They were safe here, so settled, unthreatened.

  ‘Hello.’ />
  Instinctively, Ida Hewitt drew back. ‘Oh,’ she mumbled, ‘hello.’

  Peter Wilkinson leaned on the green gate. ‘Just taking my morning constitutional,’ he said. ‘My sister Doris and I are spending the festive season with our brother. He has the post office and the bakery.’

  ‘Right.’ Ida’s hand crept of its own accord to her throat. There was something very reassuring about the feel of Mr Mulligan’s silk scarf. She thought about Guardian Wilkinson’s brother, Stephen, who seemed a decent enough fellow. Doris, the sister, Ida had never met, though she had heard of her. Doris played the piano at the temple, and she had the reputation of being a miserable sort.

  ‘Happy Christmas, praise the Lord,’ added Mr Wilkinson.

  ‘Same to you, I’m sure.’ Ida waited for the man to go away, willed him to be off, to stop putting his weight on the hinges of her little green gate.

  ‘I’ve brought the Light to my brother’s house,’ he told her now. ‘Would you like me to fetch it here later on? We could pray together and thank the Light for your recovery.’

  She coughed nervously. ‘Well, that’d be nice, only we won’t be here, me and our Diane and our Joe. We’re going out.’

  ‘I see.’ He paused, waited for further information, received none. ‘Are you going somewhere nice?’ he asked.

  Ida’s grip on her scarf tightened. ‘To Pendleton Grange,’ she replied, after a short but measurable pause.

  ‘Ah.’ The ugly man stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘And will you be joining in the rosary, the Catholic blessing of the food, will you be praying to plaster statues?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  He lowered his head and his tone. ‘You owe everything to the Light, Mrs Hewitt.’

  Ida could feel her dander rising. She released the hold on her scarf and folded her arms. ‘But I don’t owe anybody my granddaughter. Nobody with any sense would send young girls off to a foreign country as payment for a few loaves and the odd scrape of butter. How do you know what’ll happen to them? They could get raped, beaten up or whatever.’