Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Slowly, Mona Walsh climbed the stairs and entered the front bedroom. She sat in the wicker chair next to her sister’s bed, laid the new blouse on a bedside table. ‘I’ll find your best grey skirt, the one with the pleats. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t put Mother’s cameo on your new blouse, Tilly, only I think it should stay up top, not six feet under.’ A thought struck. ‘Oh, you won’t be getting buried, will you? It’ll be that brand new crematorium for you with a bit of your Light fed into the furnace. It’s not my religion any more, Till. I’ve been watching Mr Wilkinson for Mr Mulligan.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Looks like Wilkinson’s a bad lot. Looks like the Light’s a load of cow pats and all.’

  She stroked Tilly’s hair, pushed a few strands off the cold face. ‘If I’ve killed you, I didn’t mean to. I only wanted a bit of a change, love.’ She still wanted a change. The prospect of working in the laundry until she retired was not an attractive one. ‘I think I might still move,’ she told the body. ‘Don’t believe that I didn’t love you, because I did.’ They’d got on each other’s nerves, that was all. It was what happened when folk lived and worked together all the while – only to be expected.

  Mona stayed next to Tilly’s bed until Seth returned with the doctor. The undertaker followed her downstairs, sat her in a rocker, made her a fresh pot of tea. ‘Now, look,’ he began, ‘you don’t want to be stuck here on your own, do you? I’ll be moving your Tilly as soon as the doctor gives me a certificate.’

  Mona had nowhere to go.

  ‘I’ve taken a liberty,’ he continued. ‘While I was at the doctor’s, I telephoned the post office up at Pendleton. The sub-postmaster took a message, promised to pass it on.’

  ‘Oh.’ She remained mystified.

  ‘He’ll look after you.’

  ‘I don’t know anybody as works for the post office.’

  Seth frowned, making his eyes look all the more out of alignment. Then the light dawned. ‘Nay, I don’t mean him. Though he will be telling his brother, because the funeral’ll be at the temple. The sub-postmaster’s Peter Wilkinson’s brother. No, I mean Mr Mulligan. The message was for him.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was well past caring. Her sister was dead, she was starving hungry and she would go where she was put.

  ‘I know he has a soft spot for you, Mona. Now, nobody’s forcing you to go, but it might take your mind off things if you do.’ Just keep away from the cellar, his mind’s voice said.

  ‘I want her to wear her new blouse. She’s a nice grey skirt, too.’

  ‘All right, love. Well, just sit here and wait for me to fetch the carriage. I shall take you up to Mr Mulligan.’

  Mona sat and waited. She was numb, alone in the world and hungry. This had been the worst Christmas in her whole life.

  Fifteen

  ‘Look, will you listen to what I’m saying? I never knew a man who wasn’t pig-headed, but you, James Mulligan, are the whole hog.’ Kate Kenny cast an eye over the assembly. ‘There is no dinner,’ she advised them. ‘I told him twenty-five minutes per pound for the goose, plus a further twenty minutes for good measure and crisping up of the skin.’

  The disappointed diners tried not to laugh.

  ‘It’s raw, man,’ cried Kate.

  The dour, miserable, accidental master of Pendleton Grange adjusted his hat. The starch was wearing off, so the chef’s headgear was beginning to droop sideways at the top. He opened his mouth to speak in his own defence, found no words to frame reasons or excuses, closed his mouth again.

  ‘Saints preserve me this day and for many more to come,’ muttered Kate. ‘Go and sit down, will you?’ She pushed James towards the kitchen table where he sat, head in hands, pretending to weep. ‘Do they ever listen?’ Kate asked Amy, though she clearly sought no response, as she took a breath and continued, ‘I might just as well try talking politics to the fireback.’ She waved a dish-towel in the direction of the range. Unabated and unforgiving, she carried on. ‘He would insist on entertaining in the kitchen, of course. We could have used the dining room and saved some of his blushes but, oh, no. The kitchen was nicer, more homely, he said.’

  James raised his head and removed the silly hat, casting a mournful glance in the direction of Eliza. ‘Do you know the funeral march?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, wait until I fetch my shroud and a couple of candles, for I shall not survive the day.’

  Kate Kenny bustled around the room, produced coffee, cheese and biscuits. ‘You’ll not mark the cloth,’ she warned the gathering. ‘It is the very best Irish linen embroidered by the hand of my own sainted mother.’ She blessed herself quickly. ‘Your Christmas dinner is now postponed until this evening. You’ve himself to thank for that, but. He’ll make the dinner? Huh.’

  James stood up. ‘Come along now,’ he said, to everyone except his housekeeper. ‘We shall leave the martyr to her own devices while Eliza plays and we sing.’

  Sally Hayes made a move towards Kate, who whooshed her away. ‘Isn’t this your holiday, too? Don’t mind me, because I intend to take tomorrow off. I might take tomorrow off for three weeks, so. Carry the cheese with you, child. And some milk for the little ones.’ She muttered on about English ways, about heathens who took their dinners late in the day, about stupid men who thought they could rule the world, about geese having far too much fat in them altogether. ‘And no crumbs on the rugs,’ was her parting shot just as the kitchen door closed.

  In the music room, Eliza draped herself on the piano stool, legs correctly to one side, ankles together, skirt flowing gracefully, hands folded in her lap. Margot, who hoped that the goose would never be ready, made herself small in the corner, while Amy searched through sheet music.

  Ida had never seen such a grand room except in magazines. ‘Ceiling’s very high,’ she announced. ‘Must take some keeping warm, a place like this.’

  Diane and little Joe, who had been warned by their grandmother to be ‘a mile better than good’, pretended to read their books. In truth, they were so overawed by the grandeur of the place and the number of adults it contained, they would have behaved well without Ida’s intervention.

  James Mulligan stood with his back to the fire and surveyed the scene. Margot Burton-Massey looked about as cheerful as seven wet Sundays. Eliza, breathtakingly beautiful as ever, was clearly detached from the situation, while their older sister was making a valiant effort. Yes, Amy was a grand soul altogether. There she was now, kneeling next to little Joe and teaching him the words in his Brer Rabbit book.

  Sally sat with Diane; despite the disparity in their ages, at a stage when eleven and fourteen were miles apart, they seemed to be forming a friendship. Eliza the Cool had no further use for Sally Hayes, it seemed.

  ‘Bread and cheese all round, then.’ James made and distributed sandwiches, noticed that Margot refused. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She wasn’t; he knew full well that she wasn’t. Surely she couldn’t be . . . ?

  ‘I shall eat later,’ said Margot, wishing that he would not stare so. He was changing, she decided. He was opening up, noticing, deducing. And in spite of everything, the man still made her heart lurch a bit. ‘I don’t want to spoil my dinner,’ she offered by way of explanation.

  James turned away. Margot had dark smudges under her lovely eyes. She was sitting with her arms crossed over her abdomen; she had refused food. God, he was gossiping with himself, as if he had a couple of fishwives trapped in his head. But, oh, she was so pale and . . . and damaged. Rupert Smythe?

  Eliza watched the man’s movements, found herself assessing him. If only she could run away to London with someone like James Mulligan; but the Mulligans of this world did not run away with young women. Idly, she played with the concept of conquering him just as a mountaineer might tackle Everest, but there would not be time. In a matter of days, Eliza would be two hundred miles away.

  Amy settled the children, then helped James to pour coff
ee and milk for distribution. ‘So, you’d be no good as a ship’s cook, then?’

  ‘Ah, don’t you start on me now. Sure, I wasn’t to know the weight of the bird.’ He spooned four sugars into his own cup.

  ‘That’ll be like treacle,’ she told him.

  ‘After two rounds with Kate, I need the glucose.’ He took a sip, grimaced. ‘We’ve another guest to come shortly. It seems that the Smythes have gone visiting, but Camilla wanted none of that. I think she’s had a bit of a contretemps with her brother. I expect her shortly.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Amy. ‘She’s a good sort, worth a dozen of Rupert. I wonder what they quarrelled about?’

  James allowed his eyes to travel to Margot’s corner. She was fast asleep, her arms still protecting her abdomen.

  ‘That’s all over,’ Amy told James. ‘She hasn’t seen Rupert for weeks.’

  But was it over? he wondered. Here was Margot Burton-Massey on Christmas Day, in her old house, in relatively new company, sleeping like a . . . like a baby. Exhaustion and tension were etched deeply into features far too young to be so drawn. ‘Amy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has Margot been ill?’

  Amy looked at her sister and frowned. ‘She’s been quiet, I suppose. And she spends a lot of time walking. The main problem is food – we can’t seem to find anything that interests her.’

  It was the festive season, he reminded himself. If he wanted to start airing any sobering thoughts, he would do best by saving them for another few days. ‘Well, it’s been a hard year for all three of you. Perhaps Margot still hasn’t recovered from the shock. However, I’m glad to see that you are getting a little better.’

  She remembered the scene in his office, felt embarrassment staining her cheeks. ‘I sometimes wonder what normal is.’ She noticed that he was staring now at Eliza. Most men fell for Eliza, she thought, with a slight trace of envy.

  ‘Eliza, too, is withdrawn,’ he commented.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you any idea why?’

  ‘Ah, who knows anything where Eliza is concerned? I often feel that she isn’t truly with us. She lives in a dream world, James.’ Amy raised her voice. ‘Coffee is poured. Come along, everyone.’

  James carried his cup to the window while everyone bustled about behind him. Everyone except Margot, that was. In spite of noise and movement, she remained asleep, her head sliding down on to the wing of her chair. There was something very wrong with that young woman.

  So, here he was, master of nothing he surveyed, playing once again the part of comforter to distressed and displaced females. First his own mother, then Kate after those two awful deaths. Louisa Burton-Massey had opened her heart, Ida Hewitt had needed help. He’d housed Sally, the young orphan, Diane and her little brother. And, as well as all the above, he was concerned about the Burton-Massey girls. Concerned? And, to top all that, Stephen Wilkinson had brought a message about Mona needing help, about Tilly dying. Perhaps Mona would arrive, another soul seeking comfort. James had told no-one the bad news – let them have their Christmas.

  He turned so quickly that a pain shot through his neck. The woman he loved was in this room. Remember your father, the voice of conscience said. Remember your own temper; above all, remember the cellar.

  Diane knew that this was the happiest day of her whole life. She had a brand new friend called Sally Hayes. Sally was an orphan, and she had promised to visit Bramble Cottage on her days off. There was another young maid called Mary, but she had gone home for Christmas, and Sally had said that was a good riddance, too, so there would be some interesting stories there, no doubt.

  Mr Mulligan had crawled about on all fours with Joe on his back. Diane remembered the first time she had met the big man, that day when she had planned the wash-house job. Oh, he’d been so grand with his cane and his good clothes. Fleas, they’d talked about. Funny way of getting to know somebody, talking about nits and bugs. So correct, he had seemed, advising her to go home and get clean. Yet he had really let his hair down today.

  Diane didn’t like Eliza. She was proud and spoilt and she played the piano as if she didn’t really mean it, a bit halfhearted. Margot seemed all right as a person, only she wasn’t very well, didn’t fancy food, but she was probably good fun on her better days. Amy was great. She’d organized Musical Chairs, Pin a Tail on the Donkey, Pass the Parcel, then a cut-throat game of cards called Newmarket. They had played for matches, because the Burton-Massey family didn’t approve of gambling for money.

  An interesting woman called Camilla had arrived. She had the reddest hair and the friendliest smile Diane had ever seen. Camilla was what Amy called a ‘hoot’. Camilla was the one who had introduced Diane to Charades. Camilla was absolutely wonderful.

  The best thing about today, though, had been hearing Gran laugh, watching her joining in and having a fine time. She’d even done a solo, a song about the boy she loved up in a gallery, or something. The voice had been a bit thin and weedy, but Gran could hold a tune. Oh, everything was lovely, and here Diane sat now, surrounded by good people, her stomach full of excellent food, Joe next to her all bright-eyed and joyful. ‘I’m full,’ she announced, during a lull in conversation. ‘I’m full of food and I’m full of being happy.’ Strangely, her eyes pricked, as if she was getting ready to burst out crying.

  James gazed around the table and wondered how he would ever be able to go home again. He liked these people, loved them, even. One in particular . . . And the child had said it all. She was full of being happy. ‘Is this a good Christmas, then, Diane?’

  All eyes were on her as she searched for the word and tried to pronounce it well. ‘Hexceptional, Mr Mulligan,’ she pronounced.

  No-one laughed.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, after blinking away a bit of moisture. ‘This is, indeed, hexceptional.’

  I was put on this earth for a reason, and I thank my Maker for every breath I take. My God-given task is to lead people into the Light, to guide them in wholesomeness towards the thin membrane between life and death. Therefore, I must procreate, pass on these gifts to my children. My penance has arrived in this difficult form because I am to be made Supreme Guardian. I charge myself now, therefore, with the burden of fulfilling my function as a man, as a husband, as a father.

  The girl was not suitable. Because of my future role, I must choose my partner from more elevated pastures. Nothing must stop me. Once impregnated with a Son or Daughter of the Light, the partner of my life, receiver of the holy fruit of my body, will have the knowledge inside her, will bow to the will of the Light.

  Doris has cooked the dinner for this feast day. In my brother’s house, I have broken bread and taken meat. Stephen is not blessed in the Light but, as a brother of mine, he will be forgiven. Doris praises in the temple, so she is already placed at the right hand of God. Today, I take my rest. Soon, soon I shall find the bride of my future, she who will sit at my right hand. Mulligan, the evil one, will be overcome.

  Praise the Lord.

  Seth Dobson’s horses came to a halt outside Pendleton Grange. The undertaker squeezed Mona’s hand before stepping down to ring the front-door bell. She had spoken scarcely a word for the last five miles, simply sitting next to him and staring straight ahead. Would Mulligan thank Seth for bringing this problem to him? But who else was there? Mona minus Tilly? The answer was zero.

  The door opened. ‘Can I help you?’ asked Kate Kenny.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Mulligan.’ He hesitated when he noticed the stern look on the woman’s face. ‘I know it’s Christmas, and I’m so sorry – but would you do me a big favour, missus? By the way, I’m Seth Dobson. I work down in the yard.’

  Kate nodded. ‘And the favour?’

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Her name’s Mona Walsh. Her sister died today, and she’s got nobody in the world. If I could just go in and talk to Mr Mulligan, could you keep an eye on her? Only she’s been a bit funny today. First she’s with us, then not wi
th us, if you get my meaning.’

  Kate got his meaning. ‘Wait there, now.’ She darted off to fetch a shawl, then to get her nephew.

  When Kate had left the house to go to Mona, Seth entered and saw Mr Mulligan approaching him. By, this was a grand place, black-and-white tiled floor, big fireplace, furniture everywhere – and he’d only got as far as the hallway. ‘Mr Mulligan,’ he began, ‘I didn’t know where else to take her.’

  ‘I see. Do go on, Mr Dobson.’

  Without waiting for an invitation, Seth sat down. He was hungry and cold to the bone. ‘Tilly Walsh died,’ he began, ‘and Mona went into shock, I’d say. Even though she knew her sister had gone, like, she wouldn’t go up to check, and she made a full Christmas dinner, all the trimmings. Anyroad, long story short, Mona came to my house. I took her home and made sure Tilly was deceased, then I fetched the doctor. I couldn’t leave Mona there, Mr Mulligan. And my own house is full with the grandchildren, our daughter and her husband.’

  ‘So you brought her here. Yes, Stephen Wilkinson told me some of the story.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Ah, no, I’m not taking offence. I think you’ve done the right thing altogether. Kate – that’s my housekeeper – will see she arrives at no harm. That’s a desperate thing to happen at Christmas, is it not? Look, go through to the kitchen,’ he pointed to a door, ‘and get yourself a cup of tea and a bite. I’ll fetch Mona in.’

  Mona allowed herself to be led into the study. James placed her in a leather armchair, poured her a small brandy. ‘Come on, now, Mona,’ he coaxed. ‘That’s good stuff, emergencies only.’

  Coming from a strict Methodist background, Mona remained unacquainted with hard liquor so the Cognac hit her hard. When she stopped coughing, she wiped her eyes and looked at him. ‘I’ve left the dinner on the table.’

  ‘Have you? Well, given the circumstances, I’m sure that’s understandable. Will you take another drink?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think I will, thank you all the same.’