Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Mona polished the windows. She could see him across the way, seated at his desk, bending over, probably writing. He had such a lot of hair, unruly, it was. She experienced a sudden urge to run across with scissors and a comb, but she knew she daren’t. There was something about him, as if he’d been hurt and had decided to clad himself in armour, all tough shell covering a broken heart. The hand clutching the wash-leather slowed. Why, if she’d been married, and if she’d had a son, he could have been about the same age as James Mulligan.

  ‘Mona?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Watch yourself. You’ll be coming off that ladder in a minute. We don’t want you getting a leg broke, do we?’

  That night, as they sat by their range in the kitchen, each with her skirt raised to welcome the heat, Tilly carried on where she’d left off before Mulligan’s visit. ‘I still wonder who he thinks he is,’ she said, the words echoing into an almost empty cocoa cup.

  Mona was looking at pictures in the flames, was dreaming dreams of what might have been had she been thinner, younger, prettier.

  ‘Mona? Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Well, what did I say?’

  Mona drained her cup. ‘Something about who does he think he is.’ She continued to stare into the fire. ‘I don’t think he knows who he is, or what he is.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Mona blinked slowly. ‘He’s got a lot on his mind.’

  ‘Oh? And which crystal ball did you see that in, Mona Walsh?’

  ‘His eyes,’ replied the younger woman. ‘I saw it in his eyes.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Tilly clattered off to the scullery.

  Mona dozed in her chair. She saw a little lost boy running round in circles. He had black hair and brown eyes and his clothes were torn. His father was drunk and his mother was dead. She saw a fine man with a frown and a load of responsibilities. These two were the same person.

  ‘Mona?’

  She woke with a start. ‘What?’

  ‘Another drink?’

  ‘No thanks.’ It was time for bed. Mona stood up and stretched. Who was he? And what was in that cellar?

  Four

  For the first time in her short life, Sally Hayes had a bedroom all to herself. It was high up in the roof, its dormer window overlooking the rear gardens and yards of Pendleton Grange, property of Mr James Mulligan, a silent, broody man of whom most people were terrified. He never shouted, never threatened anybody’s job, but he seemed to have so much power, so much quiet strength, that everybody kept out of his way whenever possible.

  But Sally Hayes wasn’t frightened of him, not any more. He was one of the kindest, gentlest people she had ever encountered in her fourteen years. Brought up in an orphanage after the early deaths of her parents, she felt at home here. The room wasn’t huge, but it was hers. There was a rule in the house about privacy, so every servant had a PRIVATE sign on his or her door, with PLEASE KNOCK printed underneath. Mr Mulligan set a lot of store by a person’s privacy. On the cellar door, there was no sign inviting a knock: on the cellar door the notice read, do not enter.

  She snuggled down under the patchwork quilt, enjoying the luxury of being in bed during daylight hours. Her room had yellow check curtains, a wardrobe, a little table with drawers underneath and a mirror over it, a pine chest with a padded lid, a straight chair, an upholstered armchair, pictures on the walls, even on the wall above her bed. It was the pictures that made it homely, she decided.

  Sally dozed, remembering the day when he had chosen her. Just another ordinary morning it had been, make your bed, dress the little children, do your chores. There had been no cruelty, no abuse, no whip to keep the orphans working. On that Monday morning, they had gone off to school, where Sally had been employed to help with lessons, teaching infants their letters, mixing ink for the juniors, giving out milk, making cups of tea for the six kind teachers.

  And he simply materialized, like a ghost that drifted through walls. One minute she was on her own in the cloakroom, picking up shoes, hanging coats and wiping sinks, then there he was, tall, so big that he almost had to stoop to enter the inner room where the ten washbasins stood. He asked her about her future. She told him she liked to keep busy, that she enjoyed reading and drawing, that she could sew, knit and do plain meals.

  He nodded a few times, asked her would she like a job in a big house, left her alone to think about it.

  Sally hadn’t needed to think. Miss Purcell, the headmistress, had shed a few tears, then everyone had clubbed together to buy Sally a beautiful handbag and some gloves, both gifts made out of the softest kid. They lay now in white tissue, wrapped safely and kept in Sally’s top drawer with her underwear.

  Someone knocked at her door. ‘Come in,’ she called, expecting to see a member of staff.

  James Mulligan entered the room. He carried a little vase containing a few freesias. ‘They smell nice,’ he explained.

  Sally wished she had brushed her hair properly. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He placed the vase on the windowsill. ‘Two more calves,’ he told her, before sitting in the armchair. ‘Both well, both feeding.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she replied.

  ‘And I’ll take the washing to the laundry at the yard until your ankle is well again. The others have enough to do without tackling laundry as well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she repeated.

  He sat for several minutes, seemed to be deep in thought.

  It was his silences that frightened people, Sally decided. He was just one of those types whose brains were busy, the same as a painter or a writer, a bit absent-minded. He had picked her because she looked weedy, as if she needed feeding up and keeping warm. He had never said that, but Sally knew that there were better and hardier specimens in the Chiverton Children’s Home.

  ‘Are you happy here?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m very happy, Mr Mulligan.’

  ‘Is the work too much?’

  ‘No, sir. If you mean my ankle, like, it could have happened to anybody. I just kecked over on a cobble.’

  ‘Kecked over?’

  She smiled. A lot of the Lancashire expressions were still mysteries to him. ‘I think the right word might be “keeled”, sir. Keeled over.’

  ‘Ah.’ Once again, he stared into space for at least two minutes. ‘You’re well-read,’ he pronounced eventually. ‘Don’t hesitate to use the library.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He sighed. ‘No need to thank me, Sally. The written word is for everyone, not just for those who can afford the paper on which it’s printed. Like music and paintings – for all of us, you understand. When you read Shakespeare, or look at a Constable, when you listen to Mozart on the crystal or the gramophone, you are hearing a piece of a departed soul, a slice of his being. Those sights, sounds and ideas were bequeathed to the whole of mankind, because they were gifts from God, gifts to be shared.’

  Sally was stunned, not because of what he had said but by his having strung together so many words all at once. She felt honoured, singled out by this very clever man.

  ‘Sally?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Do they . . . talk about the cellar?’

  She bit her lip. This was a difficult one to answer. Her loyalty to her employer was almost boundless, but she owed much to her colleagues, too. At the orphanage, nobody ever told tales. It wasn’t for fear of dreadful punishment, but it was a law, like a commandment. She decided to compromise. ‘I think most of us wonder about it a bit.’

  ‘Mary Whitworth, I believe, has been putting stories about, in the town and so forth.’

  ‘Oh.’ She gulped audibly. ‘She’s young, sir.’

  A smile threatened. ‘Older than you, my dear. But, then, you’ve always been old, haven’t you? Orphans are often wise.’

  She attempted no answer, no comment.

  ‘Am I a bad man?’

  The girl shook her head quickly, emphaticall
y.

  ‘Do I look like your average mad scientist? Is my hair wild?’

  She couldn’t resist. ‘Yes, it’s wild.’

  Now, he really did laugh. ‘You should see a painting of Beethoven, then. Looked like something from Greek or Roman myth, a head covered in snakes.’

  ‘And if you looked at the snakes, you went blind, or died,’ she said. ‘You had to cover your eyes, then cut their heads off, but you couldn’t see where they were, ’cos you were blindfolded.’ She hung her own tousled head. ‘I read about it somewhere.’

  ‘Ah, did you, now? Well, I must be off and about my business. Keep the weight off that foot, whatever.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ It was because of her that he had bought the car. He’d told her at the time that he had no intention of taking any poor soul to the hospital in a cart ever again, because the journey had been unnecessarily painful for the patient. This was definitely not a bad man. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t care what you’ve got in the cellars.’

  ‘Thank you, Sally.’ He stood up and approached the bed. ‘We all have a cellar, you know. Mine’s made of bricks and mortar, but the cellars of the human mind are deep and invisible. Each man has his secrets and his fears.’

  She didn’t know anything about all that, so she stayed quiet.

  ‘Life’s a battle,’ he told her now. ‘Gird yourself, be strong, read all you can and know all you can.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He turned and left the room. As he passed Mary Whitworth’s door, he noticed that it was closing very slowly. ‘Mary?’ he called.

  With her face beetroot red, the copper-haired girl crept out on to the landing. ‘Sir?’

  She had been listening at Sally’s door, of that he felt certain.

  ‘The yard in town is full of talk. Now, I don’t want to gag anyone, but do you really need to discuss my arrangements with your family and friends? Don’t be speculating about the cellar and its contents. Whatever goes on down there is my business, mine alone. Let me reassure you that I am breaking no law, Mary. Do you understand?’

  She nodded quickly.

  ‘And there’ll be no more gossip? Did you know that gossip can hurt people? Is this an end to it, so?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She waited until he had gone downstairs, then pushed open Sally’s door. ‘God, I thought he was going to kill me. If I got the sack, it’d be my mother killing me and all.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk,’ said Sally. ‘It’s not fair, going behind his back. If you’ve anything to say, say it to him.’

  Mary laughed mirthlessly. ‘Oh, but I’m not his favourite, am I? I didn’t get picked by him, so I’m not special. He doesn’t come into my bedroom for cosy little chats. You want to watch yourself, girl. Some of them like scrawny bits of gristle on their plate.’

  Taking into account a bad sprain and an overstretched ligament, Sally moved very quickly, jumping out of bed, feeling very little pain except for the fury in her chest. ‘There’s a sign on my door that says “Private”. Get out, shut the door, and next time, knock.’

  ‘Ooh,’ exclaimed Mary, the syllable stretching through a couple of seconds and varying in pitch. ‘Touchy, aren’t we? Did I come a bit too near the truth?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know the truth, Mary Whitworth, if it hit you across the chops like a pound of cod. Well, just you listen to me for once. I might be quiet, but I take it all in. I used to wash four tablecloths a week, but there’s only three now. Who’s in charge of the table? You are. Well, I’m in charge of washing and it’s time I counted his sheets.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ The blushing cheeks clashed very badly with Mary’s deep red hair.

  ‘Nowt I wouldn’t say to him, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  Years of living in a crowd had taught Sally how to fight her own corner. Too slender for physical battle, she used words and used them very well. ‘Just so as we’ll know how we’re fixed,’ she whispered, her face almost touching her companion’s, ‘I’ll answer yes to that question. We none of us understand him, ’cos he’s cleverer than most. He pays well and he doesn’t moan. Now, you take one more thing from this house and I’ll tell him. Better still, I’ll tell Mrs Kenny, and she’ll have you out of Pendleton before you can say knife or steal a knife. So it’s up to you, Mary.’

  At the mention of the housekeeper’s name, Mary took a step backwards. Mrs Kenny was the fierce guardian of the master’s interests. She had followed him over from Ireland, had taken the place of a woman who refused to work for any more Irishmen after the somewhat inglorious and untidy death of Mulligan Senior. ‘Watch your step,’ she muttered, burnished curls bouncing free of her maid’s cap.

  ‘I’ll not need to,’ Sally replied.

  ‘Oh, yes? I’d not be too cocky if I were you, Little Orphan Sally. I’m not afeared of you.’

  ‘Then,’ said Sally, her tone low and controlled, ‘you’re even dafter than I thought.’

  Mary opened her mouth, but no words emerged. Sally was a bit like him, Mary decided. Silent but deadly, and with an inner strength that poked its head out just occasionally, as if to check on the weather outside. Two of a kind, then. It might be best just to get away before real storm clouds gathered in the small bedroom. Nevertheless, Mary had to have the last words. ‘I’ve two big brothers,’ she warned. ‘Watch your step.’

  Alone at last and feeling more than one kind of pain, Sally got back into her bed. It seemed that Mary had not heeded her own advice, was not watching her own step, because Sally heard her tumbling down several stairs. Still, never mind. If Mary needed hospital, the master would take her in his car.

  Mary rubbed a grazed shin, then made her way to the ground floor. In a kitchen bigger than most houses, Kate Kenny was throwing together a batch of soda bread. She looked up, stopped punishing the dough and glared at the maid. ‘And where’ve you been these last weeks?’ Sarcasm was Kate Kenny’s forte. ‘I was wondering did you go to Blackpool?’

  Mary had the answer ready. ‘I had to go upstairs, Mrs Kenny. It’s one of my rag-and-pin days.’

  Kate Kenny put her head on one side. The street-wise madam was not exactly the housekeeper’s idea of a decent parlourmaid. Why, the young orphan with the bad foot had more decency than this supposedly more settled article of humanity. ‘If you have your monthly ailment on you, just say that this is your time of the month. No need to go into details about the implements involved. Vulgarity has no place in this house, certainly not in my kitchen.’

  ‘Right, Mrs Kenny. Sorry, Mrs Kenny.’

  Kate heard the boldness, the audacity. ‘Get that parlour polished. God help you should Mr Mulligan ever open up the rest of this house, because I’ve seen more shape in a potato cake than in yourself. Would it hurt to get a bit of a move on? I’ve known snails go faster. Go on, get on with the work you’re paid for.’

  Mary took her time gathering up the tools of her trade. She found beeswax and cloths, wandered about looking for a bowl, filling it with soapy water, letting the tap run slowly.

  Kate shaped her bread. One of these days, she would shape that young woman’s backside, really she would.

  Mary ambled off, her footsteps echoing in the large, under-used house. She reached a vast, museum-like hallway, heard the doorbell. Sighing, she placed her small burdens on a table, then answered the door.

  It was Amy Burton-Massey, the eldest of three girls whose father had allowed Pendleton Grange to slip into Mulligan hands. It must have felt funny, Mary thought, to ring the bell for admission to a house that was rightfully the Burton-Masseys’ property. ‘Come in, miss,’ she said sweetly. ‘Did you want to see Mr Mulligan?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Amy stepped into her childhood home. Unlike her mother, Amy carried very little baggage from the past. She accepted all that had happened, felt only the merest twinge of sadness whenever she strayed on to the old homestead. Life went on. It went up, down, sideways, backwards, and hu
manity had been designed to cope with all its twists and turns. Except for Louisa Burton-Massey, that was.

  Summoned by the maid, James Mulligan came out of his study to greet Amy. He held her arm and led her beyond the reach of the chatterbox maid’s ears, taking her into the study and closing the door firmly. ‘Miss Burton-Massey,’ he said, once she was settled in a chair. ‘So nice to see you.’

  ‘Amy,’ she replied, before getting on with business. ‘I’m afraid Mother doesn’t want to play. I tried to explain about the hydro, but she wouldn’t listen. I think it’s pride. Also, she would consider her territory thoroughly invaded if you opened up the house as a business. I’m so sorry.’

  He placed elbows on the desk, steepled long, brown fingers and rested his chin on the apex. ‘I do not intend to remain here, Miss Burton-Massey – I beg your pardon – Amy. My home is elsewhere.’

  She awaited further explanation, received none.

  He stared at a point above her head, went into one of his quiet stretches of time. ‘I have given myself two years to get this place up and running,’ he said, after a sizeable pause. ‘There is potential here, but there is also much to be done. I should need a manager, of course, someone who could be trusted.’

  It was almost impossible to discuss anything thoroughly with this man, Amy decided. His mind worked in its own mysterious way, taking a path that did not necessarily run parallel with anyone else’s road through life. She wondered what he did with his time. Apart from his horses, cows and a few hours each day in town, he seemed to have no hobby, no interests. There was a handful of books on the shelves, some papers stacked neatly on his desk, a letter tray, a letter opener, pens, inks, blotters. The room was all but intellectually sterile.

  ‘If I were to offer you the position, or if you were to become a working partner, your mother would not be pleased. You see, I wanted her to take the partnership so that we might all benefit from Pendleton Grange. Clearly, your mother is not thinking positively about the future.’

  Immediately, Amy was on the defensive. Whatever her own opinion of Louisa, she would not allow anyone else to criticize her. ‘My mother is a hurt woman, Mr Mulligan.’ She could not quite manage to call him James, not just yet. One would certainly not address him as Jim, or Jimmy. ‘Our father committed suicide.’