Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Ida sniffed. ‘You think we’re cranks, don’t you? Well, we’re not. That religion of yours is a joke.’

  ‘I’m glad it amuses you.’ He had won. He knew it, she knew it and the child, too, probably realized that her grandmother was out of her depth. Ida Hewitt could attack every cardinal, bishop and parish priest, could lash with her tongue at the Pope, the saints and all Catholics living and dead – he didn’t mind. The Church had stood in spite of criticism heavier than this, and was likely to continue for all time. As long as the confounded woman would give some thought to the minors in her care, she could do her worst in all other areas. ‘I am glad we understand one another at last,’ he said, rising from his seat.

  ‘Oh, I understand you, all right.’

  He reached the door. ‘I wish you better health, madam.’ In the parlour, he slipped a half-crown into Diane’s hand. ‘When this business is resolved, you will visit me again in my office. If you want work, we shall find you some.’

  She stood with her brother and watched the car leaving John Street. ‘Come on, Joe,’ she said. ‘Meat puddings today.’ They ran off towards the chip shop, mouths wet with anticipation. This day, and for a couple of tomorrows, they would eat well.

  Seven

  Helen Smythe, long-term friend of Louisa Burton-Massey, was in her element. As chair of the Blackburn-based Women of Industry, she was fully armed when it came to the setting up of businesses. Her philosophy was simple: men fought wars, women kept the fires burning. If males intended to carry on dying in their millions, then the female of the species needed to be in charge on the domestic front. Having preached all over Lancashire, she was only too happy to step back into the life of a friend who had, it seemed, resigned from the human race several years earlier.

  It had been a difficult few months for Louisa. Originally she had intended to take a back seat, but she had gradually picked up the reins, and was now at the point where she realized that she had to remain involved. Amy, the most sensible of the three Burton-Massey daughters, had agreed to manage the business, which, after many discussions led by Helen Smythe, was to be named A Cut Above. The innovative label sat rather less than comfortably on Louisa’s shoulders, though she had been drawn in by Helen’s infectious excitement. And, after all, this was Louisa’s money, so she had to keep watch. Sitting at home thinking, sewing and worrying would not have been enough.

  After four months of planning, the scene was finally set. Helen was thrilled to pieces with Louisa’s progress. ‘You look wonderful,’ she declared, after a sip of coffee. ‘This is the answer for so many of us, my dear. Why, think of Camilla – she has never looked back since I set her up. Women have to cash in on their own abilities. If we have no abilities, then we simply invent them. And don’t forget, I am always at hand if you need me.’

  Louisa gazed around her domain. She was finally out of the house, was sitting in an upper room of the shop, the area where cutting, fitting and detailing would take place. She supposed that A Cut Above summed it up, since the real work would take place on the top storey. Because customers would need to come upstairs to choose fabric and for fittings, the floor was carpeted in a rich blue, the walls papered in ivory, sprigs of bluebells repeated in the pattern. There were chairs, tables, fashion magazines and, beautifully racked and colour-graded, yards and yards of the finest materials.

  ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ asked Helen.

  It was more than exciting, thought Louisa. It was absolutely terrifying, because a good fifty per cent of her capital was wrapped up in linen, cotton, silk and wool.

  Just off this main upper room, another of similar size housed sewing-machines, patterns and cutting-tables. Three excellent women had passed rigorous tests, one making an outfit for Louisa, the next sewing for Helen, the third dressing Camilla Smythe. In three days, the shop would be open for business. Already, through the hard work of Helen and Camilla Smythe, no less than five women had booked appointments with A Cut Above. Interviews would take place downstairs, in a drawing-room setting, where women could discuss with Louisa and Amy their clothing needs. The atmosphere was geared towards relaxation. A comfortable woman, Helen declared, spent more freely.

  ‘I’d rather not have the party,’ moaned Louisa.

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ replied Helen Smythe. ‘Camilla needs her chance to show off her catering skills.’ She laughed rather loudly for the wife of a decorated major. ‘God, she couldn’t even boil an egg until I pointed out the gap in the market. Now people would kill for her recipe for salmon mousse. By the way, did you see Worth’s new pleating on that spring collection? So flattering, especially for the larger lady. And there was a hemline with a slight dip, elongates the spine wonderfully – where is that confounded page?’ She rattled about in a folder. ‘Jennifer Turner wants a wedding outfit for April – blue, I think. Did the shoes come?’

  Louisa put a hand to her aching head. An overdose of Helen was just what she needed. Oh, for a moment alone . . .

  ‘Fabulous bags Chanel has just now. Scarves are in, of course, so flattering and mobile – excellent for hiding a bit of looseness on the neck and throat. And I found some wonderful costume jewellery in a dinky little factory in Manchester, all hand-set, some semi-precious stones, a bit of jade and so forth. Lapis is so nice, cheap and cheerful, a bit of coral, perhaps—’

  ‘Helen, do be quiet.’

  Helen glanced at her friend. ‘Sorry. I do go on, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid you do.’

  The two women stared at one another. ‘Good grief,’ exclaimed Louisa after a few seconds. ‘What have I done?’

  Helen pondered. ‘I suppose it must be a bit daunting, old girl, but let me answer your question. You’ve caused employment. There’s the little jewellery place I just mentioned, then the shoe factory in Liverpool – yours won’t be the only outlet for designer shoes.’

  ‘Copies,’ Louisa reminded her companion.

  ‘Who gives a hoot or a boot? If a woman can kit herself out for thirty pounds, why should she spend hundreds? Who’s going to ask to see the labels? This is the future, Louisa. You are an event, a happening.’

  ‘I am a migraine.’

  Helen reached out and slapped Louisa’s hand. ‘Go home, have a rest, then come back tonight and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I shan’t know anyone.’

  Helen tutted in mock despair. ‘There always has to be a first time for something to happen. Otherwise there would be no second, third or hundredth. Break out, old girl.’ Lack of oxygen caused a brief pause in the diatribe. ‘There are one or two widowers on the scene at present. In fact, I think I know of four at least, two of whom are eminently suitable, financially and physically.’

  ‘Helen—’

  ‘I know, shut up. But you should put yourself back on the market.’

  ‘As a real label or as a copy? As second-hand, remodelled, slightly used?’

  Helen clicked her tongue. ‘We are sharp enough for the cutlery drawer, aren’t we?’

  Louisa smiled faintly. Mixing with Helen Smythe over the past few months had honed her own tongue somewhat. ‘I thought the idea was for women to stand alone, Helen. Isn’t that what your organization is all about?’

  Helen tapped the side of her nose. ‘It’s still nice to have wallet and cheque book somewhere in the background. Husbands are occasionally useful. If you manage to catch a handsome one, he can be a rather nice accessory.’

  Louisa actually laughed. ‘Get that magazine out, Helen. Look at what Lanvin has to say. If husbands are in, I’ll order one in emerald green and another in navy. They’re next spring’s colours, aren’t they?’

  Shaking her head and a fist, Helen left A Cut Above and went home to gird her loins for the evening fracas.

  Louisa closed her eyes, wished that the headache would follow Helen and leave her in peace. A strange mixture of excitement and fear had lodged in her stomach like a huge, indigestible ball. She was going to stand alone. Well, alone except for A
my, Eliza and Margot. And Helen. Which was hardly alone, she supposed. But, at the end of the day, the quarter, the financial year, Louisa’s was the name on the books. ‘I am a business,’ she whispered, into the elegant room. The unmistakable smell of new carpet drifted up her nostrils. ‘I’m very new and very inexperienced.’

  Margot entered. Margot was a worry. She wore a pretty little wool-crêpe suit in rust, a cream blouse, pearls at her throat and two spots of natural colour on her cheekbones. Still rather untidy, Louisa’s youngest was making an effort on the fashion front, was looking less like an ostler and slightly more like a woman of almost twenty. ‘Margot,’ breathed Louisa, ‘what on earth are you doing up here? Weren’t you supposed to be helping Camilla?’

  The girl snorted. ‘Camilla’s all done. She’s going home to Blackburn with Mama in the new car. After Mama has done a bit of last-minute shopping, that is. I’m sure Mrs Smythe has a first-class honours in spending.’ She sidled closer to her mother. ‘Must I come to this . . . event?’

  ‘Yes.’ Of late, Louisa had decided that explanations were not always strictly necessary.

  ‘But I want to . . . well . . . I thought I might—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mother, you don’t even know what I was going to say.’

  Louisa knew. She had watched this silly madam coming home all hot and bothered after fruitless pursuit of James Mulligan, who was too old, of the wrong faith, miserable, foreign . . . and extraordinarily handsome. Now, Margot had set her sights on one of the more worthless young men of her own generation. Rupert Smythe, son of Helen and brother to Camilla, was a rake and a wastrel. A tall, lean and hungry-looking specimen, he was possessed of a charm that was given to very few youths. Outwardly compliant, forever in agreement with his elders and betters, Rupert had the ability to court the approval of all females between the ages of nine and ninety. With the exception of one, mused Louisa, one whose youngest had recently fallen under the Rupert Smythe spell.

  ‘Mother—’

  ‘No. You are not haring around in Rupert Smythe’s motor car this evening. You will be here to support the rest of your family.’ Unconsciously, Louisa straightened her spine, pushing herself against the back of the chair. ‘Going into trade is not easy for any of us. Like musketeers, we must stand together. I had not intended to be so involved on a personal level, but the Burton-Masseys are in need of money, so the Burton-Masseys must, as a clan, go out and earn it.’

  Margot stamped a foot. She had been so good, was intending to be good in the future, but all she wanted—

  ‘I will not have this, Margot. Rupert will ruin your reputation. Helen has indulged him absolutely, and he passes on the ruination. His parents have, I understand, dug him out of many a hole. Do not become his next victim, I beg you.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Must I speak to Helen about this? Because if I do, I shall lose a valued friend.’

  The trouble with Mother was that she seldom allowed a person to explain herself. Rupert had not yet popped the question, but Margot felt quite sure that it was just a matter of time. He loved her. She, the youngest of three, was on the verge of becoming engaged. Rupert would take her away from all this. She would not be cutting out and stitching, as would Eliza and Louisa. She would not be fronting a shop on Deansgate, would not be an Amy, all dressed up and nowhere to go. No, Margot would make a very good marriage.

  ‘It’s a dream,’ whispered Louisa. ‘Only a dream.’

  Margot, who felt close to explosive, marched out before saying anything untoward. Rupert could drive her home, at least. Mother, waiting for Moorhead to return with the trap, would travel to Caldwell Farm by a slightly less comfortable means.

  Louisa, wearied by the persistent headache, leaned back and rested her head against the wall. Downstairs, over two hundred pounds’ worth of shoes were racked and waiting to be sold. She had made a similar investment in gloves, bags and scarves. It had to work. Earlier in the day, she had looked out on Deansgate, had seen women bustling past in old coats and headscarves. Whence would purchasers of her goods arrive?

  From Chorley New Road, from Heaton and Smithills, she reassured herself now. From houses on the moors, even from the town, surely? Yes, the wife of a doctor or a lawyer could afford a good, decent and inexpensive copy of a fashion item. So far, she was resisting ready-to-wear, though it was an option, she supposed. Wages to pay, too. The headache was worsening.

  Amy had been an absolute darling, taking as much weight as she could from her mother’s shoulders, urging Louisa along towards confidence, towards faith in herself. Eliza, God bless the child, was like an over-excited two-year-old, exclaiming over colour and cut, choosing the best scissors, sewing-machines, threads. Eliza seemed to be coming to life at last.

  Margot? Gloves might hide the bitten nails, but the youngest of the three was still wild at heart. God alone knew where she got to these days. She had paid lip-service for a couple of months, had even escorted her mother on shopping expeditions for furniture for the salon, but that state of affairs had been temporary. Rupert Smythe did not fool Louisa, Amy, or even Eliza.

  Trying to be wise, Louisa had not laboured the point. She had forced herself to sit back and hope that Margot would not get in too deep with Helen’s son. But waiting for Margot to come to her senses was a thankless task. Louisa would have to talk to Helen. Dreading such a confrontation, Louisa picked up her bag and gloves, taking one last look around the peaceful area. By this evening, the business would have been christened.

  Downstairs, Camilla was putting the finishing touches to her buffet. ‘Hello,’ she called cheerily. ‘Going home to put on the warpaint?’

  Louisa smiled. She had a soft spot for poor Camilla, whose vibrant red hair and equine features did not attract many suitors. ‘Yes, time to go,’ she answered.

  Camilla blew a rusty tress from her homely face. ‘See you later, then, Mrs Burton-Massey. Nil desperandum.’

  Louisa walked out and allowed Moorhead to help her into the trap. It had been a tiring day. And it wasn’t over yet.

  If noise measured success, then the opening of A Cut Above was an event to remember. Helen Smythe’s bush telegraph must have done its job, because the place was packed. Elegant ladies sipped sherry from crystal glasses, while their husbands, most of them looking as dazed as freshly landed trout, lined the walls, brandy globes twisting, watches making regular appearances, half-told jokes cut off before vulgar punchlines could offend a female ear.

  Margot, smiling graciously in defeat, hung from the arm of Rupert Smythe as if she were a fixture. Mother had refused permission for Margot to be elsewhere with Rupert, so she would be here with him, on show, in public and for all to see.

  Louisa, whose headache showed no sign of abating, tried not to look at her disobedient daughter. Instead, she circulated and spoke to almost everyone, was polite, slightly distant, and she avoided Helen’s widowers as if running from plague. One in particular seemed quite taken with Louisa, who steered him in the direction of an avid spinster from Westhoughton, leaving the poor man to the tender mercies of a woman whose desperation was clearly visible.

  In a corner near the door, James Mulligan oversaw the situation. As usual, he wore dark and rather unremarkable clothing, which seemed slightly dated, as if he had stepped out of a recently deceased age. Unfortunately, Helen Smythe, drawn by a magnetism she didn’t even recognize, decided to interrogate him. He listened for a quarter of an hour to a lecture on fashion, was quizzed about his marital status – was he engaged, had he ever been engaged, didn’t he think it was time he settled down, there were plenty of Catholic women in Bolton, what did he think of the shop – until he excused himself and stepped outside for a few moments.

  Amy followed him. ‘Well done,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You threw her off. Helen Smythe is something of a limpet, I fear. She’d have you married and buried within the hour.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Amy drew breath. Th
is taciturn man should really have stayed at home, since he was obviously ill-prepared for social occasions. She gazed upward, counted twenty stars between clouds, noticed an unlit gas lamp outside Woolworth’s, looked sideways at him. What was this man? A teacher, a Catholic, a hard worker, a person of scrupulous morals? Those were qualifications, qualities and choices, easy to express and illustrate, yet his essence remained elusive. What did he think about? ‘James?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  He looked at her as if noticing her existence for the first time. ‘Your sister,’ he replied.

  It was like tapping a stone and expecting blood. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Margot.’

  ‘Ah.’ Amy waited. A coal cart ambled by, then a tram clattered along its rails. A pair of policemen strolled past, trying doors and peering into darkened windows. Life continued, though there was little sign of it in the man at her side. What had made him so quiet? she wondered. Had he grown up in a cave, a one-man tent, on a deserted island just off the coast of Ireland?

  After at least two minutes, he spoke. ‘That’s not a very pleasant young man.’

  Amy decided to take an obtuse angle. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Smythe boy.’

  ‘Rupert.’

  ‘And the sister’s so jolly,’ he volunteered unexpectedly. ‘Many plain young women are sweet, as though they are apologizing for their appearance. When she smiles, she’s almost pretty.’

  The boys in blue stopped, lit cigarettes in a doorway, watched the couple across the street. They also surveyed the carry-on in A Cut Above, probably wishing that they could pop in for a quick drink.

  Amy continued to wait, wondering when she would take root. It was plain that James Mulligan had gone into one of his reveries. ‘If you marry and change your mind, we shan’t be upset,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to return the house or the yard to us. Mother would have a fit if she was aware of your intention.’

  He turned to study her. ‘What was that?’