Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  He excused himself and went to the music room. Eliza was completely absorbed in her occupation, and James stood in the doorway for a while, allowing the sound to trickle over him. She made no mistakes, or so it seemed to him. Like a perfect doll, an automaton, she sat correctly, played precisely, seemed totally occupied by the activity. Eliza was a creature of tremendous beauty, but she seemed docile, almost without character. This was possibly most men’s idea of a desirable companion, biddable, exquisite, accepting. He cleared his throat.

  Eliza turned, giving her companion the full benefit of a serene face and a neck of palest cream. The complexion was flawless, the eyes were huge, mouth and nose delectable. By no means impervious to a woman’s charms, James stood still for several seconds. ‘Your mother is ready to leave, Miss Burton-Massey.’

  She blinked several times, as if processing and filing this small amount of information. Then a smile erupted, making the face into the countenance of an angel, beyond beauty, beyond words. ‘Mr Mulligan,’ she said softly, ‘would it be a terrible cheek if I asked to come occasionally to play this instrument?’

  He saw her then, saw what she really was. How many had misjudged this girl so far? he wondered. There was damped-down intelligence behind those eyes. Eliza had moulded herself, he guessed, to fit with her mother’s pattern, to be the sort of lady Louisa would want to have as a daughter. ‘Of course you may play here,’ he replied. ‘As long as your mother has no objection.’ God, she was lovely. Not all the dictionaries in Christendom could possibly contain language to describe the young woman.

  They had been born, these young Burton-Masseys, within a space of just over two years. Amy was twenty-one, Eliza twenty, Margot nineteen. Probably despairing of ever producing sons, the parents had stopped breeding after Margot’s birth. But Alex and Louisa had created three stunning daughters, three different pearls from the one shell.

  ‘Thank you.’ She drifted past him, the perfume of a rose garden filling his nostrils as she left the room. She met her mother in the hall, then followed the servant to the front door. James said goodbye, standing to watch the two women as they were helped by their one remaining male servant into a small trap.

  No sooner had they left than he was approached on the steps by yet another Burton-Massey. ‘Hello, Margot,’ he said casually.

  Margot’s stomach felt like the Grand Canyon. After walking half-way home towards sustenance, she had doubled back. Mr Mulligan could not be allowed to fall in love with Eliza and Chopin. He was hers. Although she was a mere nineteen, Margot was absolutely sure that she knew her mind. ‘Thought I might help when the new horses arrive,’ she mumbled.

  With senses alerted by his recent encounter with Eliza, James was suddenly aware that this Burton-Massey, too, might easily be misjudged. Margot was pretty in a healthy but untidy fashion. Margot was in possession of an agenda that was difficult to hide, especially for one so unversed in the ways of the world. Naked adoration for him shone in her eyes. Immediately, he was on his guard, almost frightened of the child.

  ‘I’m very good with horses.’

  ‘Yes, I know you are. But these are unbroken and quite wild.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ she replied straight away.

  ‘Then you should be. Irish and Arab blood can be a startling combination in an animal.’

  She felt the change in him. So, he must have been taken in by Eliza. ‘My sister and my mother – what did they want?’

  ‘You might be better speaking to them,’ he answered.

  A knife twisted itself in Margot’s chest. All her hopes and dreams seemed to be crumbling. She even glanced at the ground, as if expecting to see a sprinkling of dust around her feet. She didn’t understand. She had helped him with lambing, with calving, in fields, in barns. Theirs had been an easy relationship, almost like brother and sister, or uncle and niece. No, perhaps uncle and nephew. Her boyishness had gone against her. ‘I thought we were friends.’ The tone landed just short of petulance.

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Then why are you so . . . so forbidding all of a sudden? I’ve been helping you for ages, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but your mother may have plans.’

  Margot hooted with false laughter. ‘Mother? Mother never makes plans. Amy’s the one for sitting down and working things out.’

  ‘People change,’ he said. ‘Given certain circumstances, most of us make an effort.’

  ‘Not Mother,’ she insisted.

  He didn’t know what to do or say, so he simply stood, feeling foolish, his eyes moving over Pendleton Grange’s gardens as if for the first time. People found him rude and brusque – he realized that well enough – and he really was inept when it came to the small delicacies attached to social dealings among humans. With a cow, he knew where he was. Women, on the other hand, were—

  ‘I’d better go, then,’ said Margot plaintively.

  Women, on the other hand, were forever altering. ‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Will you?’ Margot dashed off in a very bad mood.

  When she reached home she stood in the hallway, breathless from running, listening to her mother and sisters.

  ‘So,’ Louisa was saying, ‘if you really insist on running the business to begin with, Amy, then that will save us a manager’s salary. And, of course, we need someone who can measure correctly. We know that you can.’

  ‘And what will I do?’ asked Eliza.

  Margot could hear the smile in Mother’s voice. ‘Why, you will make these pièces de résistance. You shall be my right-hand man, dear. Margot can do her share, also.’

  Margot dropped on to a monk’s bench. What on earth was going on? Amy had started speaking about a hydro, was saying that she would also help Mother, Eliza and Margot to start the fashion shop. Fashion shop? Nobody had bothered to mention any fashion shop to Margot. Amy was announcing now that she wanted to be involved, eventually, with the hydro at Pendleton Grange. ‘With rich clients there, Mother, you might get some commissions for clothes.’

  The youngest Burton-Massey was beginning to feel more than just a little angry. Hydros and frock shops?

  Mother spoke again. ‘And Margot, you know, is a good little finisher. She does an excellent button-hole.’

  The button-holer in the hallway was heartbroken and starving. Was it possible to be both? she wondered. It was certainly possible to refuse to do button-holes. What about her riding? What about Mr Mulligan’s animals? And why should she have to work for a living? No, no, she didn’t mind working. But she wasn’t going to sit inside, with Mother and Eliza, making clothes for fat women in corsets and directoire knickers.

  ‘Is that you, Margot?’ Louisa called.

  Margot felt too shocked to reply. There they all were, three women discussing the future of a fourth, a fourth who had not even been consulted. Sometimes, families were hateful. Shouldn’t she have a say in what went on in the house? This was the trouble with being the youngest. She was expected simply to follow where others led. What about her own ambitions? She wanted to run a riding school, or a farm, or . . . or even a zoo. Yes, she could go to Manchester and work at Belle Vue . . .

  ‘Come in, dear,’ said Louisa.

  Margot removed her riding jacket and hung it on the stand. She took a deep breath before joining her family in the drawing room. Amy was by the window, her face turned away from the rest. She was always thinking about something or other, always concentrating, calculating, concocting. Well, they could make all the plans they liked – Margot would sort out her own future.

  ‘Margot,’ Louisa began, ‘we have been discussing an idea—’

  ‘I know,’ replied Margot. ‘I’ve been listening. I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mother, and I’m sorry about eavesdropping. But really, I think you should have waited until everyone was here.’ She threw herself into a chair. ‘Mother, I do not wish to be a dressmaker.’

  Amy swung round. ‘Nor do I, Margot. None of us wanted the life we have. Mother
lost a husband, we lost a father—’

  ‘And he lost our house and our fortune,’ snapped Margot.

  In the silence that followed, Margot felt the anger of her companions. She knew that her comment was not appreciated, realized, too, that she should not have made the remark. She had loved her father so much, had been his nearly-son, his out-of-doors companion.

  Amy nodded quickly. ‘Spoilt,’ she said quietly. ‘The little tomboy, the amusing child. You are a woman now.’

  ‘Only when it suits you.’ Margot leaped up, marched across the room and stood in front of her sister, pushing her face forward until each could feel the other’s breath. ‘The rest of the time I’m too young. Well, make up your minds.’

  Louisa lifted a hand. ‘Stop, please.’

  Margot confronted her mother now, striding past the fireplace very quickly. ‘I want to work with animals,’ she said. ‘I have arranged to help Mr Mulligan with the new horses when they arrive.’

  Eliza looked at her mother. No-one ever challenged Louisa. Since the death of her husband, she had been vulnerable, often tired or distressed. Eliza had done her best to be obedient, to agree with Mother, to humour her. It was tedious, and it was her daughterly duty, she supposed. Amy, though older and more confident, had also worked hard not to upset their frail mother. But Margot was making trouble, was causing pain to a woman whose agonies had already been immeasurable.

  Louisa rose from her seat and walked to the door. Turning, she spoke to her daughters. ‘I think we should postpone further discussion until Margot has composed herself.’

  Margot had no intention of composing herself. She had been rejected today by the man of her dreams, had been placed in an impossible position by her mother and her sisters, and was not prepared to negotiate. Button-holes? Never.

  When Louisa had disappeared upstairs, Amy rounded on her terrible sister. ‘I have never known anyone quite as selfish as you are. And when did this happen? When did you change? You used to be a pleasant, generous girl. What on earth has come over you? You are petulant, rude, silly—’

  ‘I am not silly. Just because I don’t want to sit cross-legged on the floor stitching button-holes and finishing hems—’ Her voice was cut off when Amy grabbed the front of her blouse and shook her hard. ‘You will do exactly what is required of you. You are not on Mr Mulligan’s payroll, are you? Are you?’

  ‘No. But I should rather work free for him than earn a pittance making clothes.’ She pushed her older sister away. ‘I’m stronger than you,’ she hissed, ‘and I am quite capable of throwing you off and giving you a black eye into the bargain.’

  Eliza, who had never seen a display such as this, turned on her heel and fled from the room.

  Amy released her hold on Margot’s clothing. ‘Now see what you have done. Eliza will be upset for the whole day, no doubt.’

  Margot tutted. ‘What a shame. Poor, poor Eliza. She has it easiest, you know. Mother’s little beck-and-call, Mother’s sweet, innocent right hand. Eliza is very, very clever – mark my words, Amy.’

  The older girl spoke softly. ‘You have no idea, have you? Eliza is just a bundle of nerves, because she loves our mother so much that she is denying herself all the time. Have you never seen her outside? Have you never followed her into the woods? No, no, since you care only for yourself, you won’t have bothered.’

  Margot allowed a single hoot of hollow laughter to escape from her throat. Then, noticing the ferocity of Amy’s expression, she silenced herself determinedly.

  ‘She sings and dances when she thinks no-one can see or hear. You’re not the only performer in the household. Eliza, when she’s alone, becomes a music-hall artist, strutting about and singing songs she’s learned from the theatre in town or from the phonograph. These are not the songs Mother might choose. Eliza is deliberately good, Margot. She would rather be on the stage of some dingy, smoke-filled theatre than sitting still, all sweet and demure, cutting out clothes. You are not alone.’

  Margot quietened. ‘So none of us wants to do it, then?’

  ‘No, but beggars cannot be choosers.’

  ‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ said Margot. ‘That was one of Father’s sayings, wasn’t it?’

  Amy lowered her chin. ‘It was. And look where the devil drove him.’

  ‘To the end of his rope – in more than one way,’ said Margot. ‘All those sayings are so connected and so strange.’ She put her arms around her sister’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ she wept.

  ‘We all are.’ Amy comforted her naughty sister, wondered at the same time when Eliza would crack wide open. ‘Just try to be good,’ she admonished gently. ‘And know this, Margot. Defining adulthood is easy. Being grown-up implies understanding of the feelings and needs of others. Being human is caring about those feelings and needs. Please remember all that.’

  ‘I will try. Oh, I will.’

  18 March 1921

  Staying with my brother tonight. Stephen is not of the faith, but, like me, he is unmarried, so there are no women underfoot. He runs his little bakery and sells pastries to servants from the Grange, also to people from Caldwell Farm. My brother is a decent man, though unimaginative and not given to prayer.

  I saw her again, the middle daughter of Burton-Massey. She is Eliza. She is unbroken and as fresh as spring blossom, as lonely as night. Naïveté untouched, voice mature and strong, music and arms lifted up to the sky as she praises nature.

  Oh, child of dreams dancing on carpets of mist, I commend the God who made thee. This moment thou art mine, I hail and hallow thee. Woman-child, child-woman, loveliest creature sent for me to praise, I envelop thee in Light Eternal. Thou shalt come to me, as I shall come to thee. Glorify the Lord.

  Six

  Mad Dog Duffy, property of one Daniel Duffy, was a crossbred terrier with a disposition that was not always pleasant. He answered to Mad Dog, Duffy, Maddie, Full Moon, Hey You and various other titles with which he had been blessed during his eight earthbound years. Many said that he had ‘been here before’, because he was possessed of a remarkable insight into human nature.

  Mad Dog always knew when people didn’t like him. He urinated on the steps of folk who never fed him, left more solid deposits on the property of those with the temerity actually to shoo him away. Small, basically white but with black and tan patches, Mad Dog had elected himself monarch of all he chose to survey. Alsatians and retrievers kept their distance, because what the little terrier lacked in stature, he made up for in temper.

  Danny Duffy and Diane Hewitt had been training Mad Dog for some months. They played to his strengths, made plans with an eye to the fact that Maddie was an ankle-nipper. In a crowd, he simply bit his way through, not bothering to discriminate between those who liked canines and those who did not. A throng confused him, made him fret. So, by the September of 1921, Diane and Danny had pushed him through the open market, the market hall, Woolworth’s, Ashburner Street fish market and several smaller shops. The pickings resulting from the dog’s ability to distract people had been fair-to-middling, a mixed bag of food, money and curses.

  Now, it was time for the big one. Danny and Diane were giving Maddie his final briefing in a ginnel behind Deansgate. They squatted in the narrow alley, one each side of the dog, who moved his head in the manner of someone watching tennis, doing his best to award equal attention to his two instructors.

  ‘Go for the two fat ones and all,’ said Diane. ‘It’s their wash-house, you see.’

  ‘Big but slow, they are,’ added Danny.

  ‘Get folk away from the counter, ’cos that’s where all the money is.’ Diane’s tone was deep and serious. It was plain that her belief in the dog’s comprehension of language was strong. ‘Bite everybody you come across,’ she continued. ‘Then go out the back road and run like hell.’

  ‘And bark a lot,’ said Danny.

  Diane looked with contempt upon her human companion. ‘No need to tell him that,’ she said scornfully. ‘He always barks. Barking’
s his proper job.’

  Danny made a half-hearted attempt to square up to her. ‘Whose bloody dog is he?’

  ‘Yours, I suppose,’ she answered. ‘Only we all feed him.’

  ‘Aye, but he lives in our house. If I tell him to bark more, he’ll do it. He takes notice of me.’

  The dog yawned, scratched an ear and stretched out on the flags.

  ‘He’s gathering his strength,’ said Diane now.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Danny. It was safer, on the whole, to concur with Diane Hewitt’s statements. Although she was thin and only a girl, she could deliver a fair wallop when riled.

  Diane went through it all again, using a crumb of chalk to delineate the plan on paving-stones. She drew the counter, the sinks, the dryer, showed Danny where to direct the dog. This was the first Monday of September wakes week and, since most folk went away during the June fortnight rather than during the autumn week, the wash-house would be packed. Monday was ‘uncle’ day, too, so purses were likely to contain pawnshop pickings. ‘Keep your head low, so as they’ll not recognize you,’ she ordered Danny. ‘Chase Maddie up and down, up and down. While everybody’s screaming and mithering, I’ll get behind the counter, grab the takings and the purses, then I’ll nip out the front way. You just look after yourself and him.’ She pointed to the snoring terrier.

  ‘Now for the disguise.’ Danny was not looking forward to this bit. Maddie was not beyond biting nearest and dearest when pushed to his limit. ‘You do it,’ he said, handing the tin to Diane.

  Shaking her head in despair, Diane grabbed the shoe blacking. Danny Duffy, like most blokes, was a flaming Mary Ellen when it came to courage. She took some tissue paper from a pocket and stroked it across the polish, then applied it to the dog. Maddie sniffed, whimpered, closed his eyes. This female usually meant business, so he put up and shut up.

  ‘That’ll do,’ she announced, after thirty seconds.

  ‘He looks daft,’ commented Danny.

  Diane’s eyes travelled the length and breadth of her human accomplice, a journey that took a mere split second. Danny was all angles and scabs, a small scarecrow crowned by a lifeless pudding-bowl haircut. ‘If looking daft were a crime, Dan Duffy, you’d have been in prison for years. Come on.’