Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Having just read through the above paragraphs, I realize the enormity of these tasks. There is no one else to whom I might turn. We have no relatives in the vicinity and most acquaintances turned away after we came to Caldwell Farm. If, however, you cannot help my girls, do not blame yourself.

  Finally, I want to thank you for the assistance you have already given. I was pleasantly surprised by your character, your wisdom and generosity, your unexpected warmth. These intimations of mortality under which I currently labour may be nonsense; nevertheless, knowing that you will read this only if I have left the world, I shall be bold in telling you that you are quite the handsomest man I have met for some time. Even your religion does not prevent me from declaring that you would make an excellent son-in-law. Now, that is bold!

  I wish you good health and happiness for the future.

  Yours sincerely,

  Louisa Anne Burton-Massey

  He folded the letter and sealed it in a new envelope. What next? he wondered. Turning towards the window, he watched the stonemason with hammer and chisel, the undertaker grooming a horse, two women emerging from the wash-house. The clockmaker was struggling to carry a grandfather through a doorway too low for the task. A child dropped small stones into the horse trough.

  It seemed that James Mulligan Esq had inherited more than the yard, the inn and the large house. Now, he was expected to supervise the lives of three young women. ‘I seem to have become a father,’ he muttered under his breath.

  He began to stride about the office, fingers combing through the tangled mass of dark hair, head shaking occasionally as he pondered the future and its difficulties. How on earth could he be expected to orchestrate the lives of others when his own was such a mess? He already accepted that he had to stay in England until the estate was up and running properly. The inn was lost – nothing he could do would save it. There was the mortgage on the big house, the hydro to think about, the yard, the clothing business . . .

  ‘Yes, the hydro is a good idea,’ he insisted aloud. Managed properly, a hydro could finance Pendleton Grange, thereby allowing the girls to move back into a part of the house, or to remain at Caldwell if they so wished. What about the yard? Should he sell it as a job lot? Should he offer each business separately to its tenant? Should he leave things as they were? No matter what had to be done, he remained resolved to return Pendleton Grange to its rightful owners.

  It was time to go home, time to visit his own secret, the cellar about which everyone seemed to have an opinion. If they only knew. The space under Pendleton Grange contained something far smaller, yet far bigger than most could imagine. In those underground rooms, James Mulligan kept the evidence of his sinful soul. But his own confusions were nothing compared to the weight of Louisa Burton-Massey’s requests.

  Sighing resignedly, he picked up his hat and cane. It was a hard life, and it promised to become no easier.

  Ten

  Sometimes, Sally was glad that she had no family to lose. Miss Amy had taken Mrs Burton-Massey’s death badly, as had Miss Margot. The former didn’t seem to want to do anything about anything, while the latter, wild and headstrong, was running around trying to pin down a man called Rupert Smythe. If this was the result of a parent’s death, there was something to be said for being an orphan.

  Sally knew all this because of her secret. The secret’s name was Miss Eliza Burton-Massey, though the young lady insisted on being addressed as Eliza. ‘We all come into the world naked and afraid,’ Eliza had said, continuing with, ‘and we breathe our last as equals in the sight of God. During the in-between years, we spoil all that. Let’s be different. Let’s be the same.’

  In Sally’s opinion, Eliza was unique. She looked and sang like an angel, made wonderful clothes, was kind, generous and forgiving. Of the three Burton-Masseys, Eliza had been the least affected by her mother’s demise. She expressed some concern about Amy and Margot, but her own recovery from shock was unusually swift. She was quiet for two or three weeks, then she set about the business of retrimming the contents of her wardrobe.

  Several times each month, Eliza came to Pendleton Grange to practise on the grand piano. While there, she had started to converse with the sensitive little maid, thereby discovering quite by accident that someone wanted to talk and listen to her. Margot was conspicuous by her absence, while Amy had retreated into a state where monosyllables seemed to be the order of the day. But little Sally Hayes, an orphan tossed about on the cruel tide of life, was in want of a surrogate sister, an adopted relation who would listen, at least.

  Mr Mulligan, by no means a snob, ignored the unusual liaison. Kate Kenny, the housekeeper, famous for her sharp, sarcastic tongue, did not question or rebuke Sally for stepping beyond the bounds of her class. But Mary Whitworth was livid. Coal scuttles rattled, feet stamped, doors closed emphatically. Sally was the recipient of a thousand black looks, though she bore such treatment stoically. She was special by association, because she was learning decent manners. In the privacy of her own room, Sally copied Eliza’s movements, facial expressions, and made a real effort to improve her own speech.

  ‘Trying to talk proper?’ gibed Mary on the stairs, after listening at Sally’s door.

  Too much a lady-by-proxy, Sally no longer heeded this feeble and oft-repeated remark.

  ‘My brothers’ll get you,’ came yet another warning.

  ‘Tablecloths,’ replied Sally sweetly. ‘Tablecloths, good shirts and a few ornaments. You’ve brought some back, but not all.’

  ‘At least I’ve got a mam and dad.’

  ‘Really? I thought you lived with two drunks and a few scarecrows.’

  ‘While you crawl up the bum of the so-called gentry.’

  Such confrontations ended only when Sally stalked away to get on with her job.

  Towards the end of November, Mary Whitworth’s brothers put in their first appearance. Wearing clothes that seemed to have come straight off the rag cart, the burly thirteen-year-old twins came to offer their services as wood-choppers. Kate Kenny, who knew only too well that Mulligan’s farm labourers had not the time to perform this task, employed ‘our Jack and our Harry’ for two days. As the pair of reprobates had travelled all the way from Bolton to beg for work, they were allowed to sleep on mattresses in the scullery for one night.

  While carrying laundry to the wash-lines, Sally had to pass these two scruffy articles as they chopped logs. At first, they laughed when she walked by, but by the second day that special bravery known only to cowards bubbled to the surface.

  Normally, there would have been little washing on a Tuesday, but Mary Whitworth had ‘accidentally’ upturned a full pot of tea on the kitchen table. Sally pegged the cloth, heard them approaching from the rear.

  ‘Hey, you,’ said one.

  With her heart banging like a hammer, she turned. They were a matching pair, two great lumps with matted brown hair, watery brown eyes and broad shoulders. ‘What?’ she asked. Each carried a wicked-looking axe.

  ‘Our Mary,’ said one.

  ‘What about your Mary?’ She was surprised to hear that her voice maintained its steadiness.

  ‘You know,’ spat the second boy.

  Sally cocked her head to one side. ‘Do you mean the stealing? There’s linen gone, then some figurines and a china dish.’ She paused for effect. ‘Hey, your Mary didn’t pinch anything, did she?’

  Stunned due to lack of brain power, they stood open-mouthed for several seconds.

  She lowered her head and shook it slowly, appeared to be deep in sad thoughts. ‘It’s always the one you’d never suspect, isn’t it? Well, thanks for letting me know.’ She tutted softly. ‘Good job Mr Mulligan walks about without noticing much. He still doesn’t know the stuff’s gone for a holiday.’

  Harry looked at Jack; Jack looked at Harry.

  ‘Has any of it been sold?’ asked Sally, her tone continuing light.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Ah, so it’s no longer at your house.’

  �
�The lady in the pink frock’s still at ours, her with the frilly umbrella.’

  The speaker was awarded a hefty kick from his sibling. ‘Shut up, you daft bugger.’

  The daft bugger bent down and rubbed his injured shin.

  Sally grinned, picked up her empty wicker basket and sashayed towards the house. Some families weren’t worth having. An orphan was best placed since she could choose her own company without being lumbered with a crowd of morons. Just before going out of earshot, she tossed a final remark at the Whitworth brothers. ‘It’s not an umbrella, it’s a parasol.’

  ‘Now, isn’t this a sight?’ crowed Kate Kenny, who was developing as soft a spot as she could manage for this young maid. ‘Is this you, Sally?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kenny.’

  ‘Are you certain? Did you check?’

  Sally was becoming immune to Kate Kenny’s brand of humour. ‘No, I’m not really sure,’ she replied. ‘I could be somebody else dressed up as me.’

  The housekeeper laughed. ‘Ah, listen to you, now. And you’ve no Irish blood?’

  ‘I don’t know whose blood I’ve got, Mrs Kenny, but nobody never – I mean ever – said anything to me about Irish relations.’

  ‘Never mind, but. There’s a sparkle in your eye this morning. Surely you haven’t taken a shine to one of madam’s brothers?’ She didn’t need to speak Mary Whitworth’s name.

  ‘No, I haven’t. They’re horrible.’

  ‘And that’d be the truth of it, I don’t doubt. Here.’ She passed a tray to Sally. ‘Away and take that to Miss Eliza. She’s playing the piano for himself, so there’s an extra cup and saucer on the tray.’

  For a few moments, Sally stood and listened to the sweetness of Eliza’s playing, breathing in each note as it slid beneath a closed door. She enjoyed music, wished with all her heart that she could make those wonderful sounds. But Eliza had been to music lessons; it had taken years to acquire this level of expertise.

  When she entered the room, Sally caught sight of an expression on Mr Mulligan’s face. It was there only for a second, but it made Sally’s heart tumble about all over the place. She set the tray on a side table, then turned to leave. She didn’t want to be rattling china while Eliza was making such lovely music.

  The playing stopped. ‘Sally,’ cried Eliza. ‘Thank you for the tea. It’s just what I need.’

  Mr Mulligan muttered something under his breath before leaving the room. Sally kept her eyes fixed on him, but his features had settled back into their usual frame.

  ‘That was Beethoven,’ said Eliza.

  ‘It was beautiful. I stood outside listening.’

  Eliza jumped up and poured tea, handing a cup to the maid.

  Sally backed away. ‘No, I can’t. That cup was for Mr Mulligan. We . . . the servants have to eat and drink in the kitchen.’

  ‘My rules are different,’ insisted the visitor.

  ‘No. Please, Miss Eliza. This is my job, this is where I work. It wouldn’t be right, not here. See, I have to call you Miss Eliza when you visit. I can’t drink tea with you and I can’t chat like we do in the stables or when we go for a walk.’

  Eliza sipped her tea. ‘Isn’t life silly?’ she asked, before returning the cup to its saucer. ‘Sometimes, I just want to get away from here.’

  ‘Where to?’

  Eliza lifted a shoulder. ‘There’s none of this in the theatre, I’m sure, no master and servant. It’s just one big family, everyone the same, everyone judged by the audience for what they can do, not for who their parents are.’ She blew out her cheeks in a fashion that did not suit the delicate features. ‘Let’s run away, Sally.’

  Sally was going nowhere, but she said nothing. At Pendleton Grange she had all the freedom she needed. There was warmth, security and a tolerant employer. If and when he went back to Ireland, good servants would be retained to work in the house or the hydro or whatever. Anyway, surely Miss Eliza was not serious about running away?

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to see London?’ Eliza asked.

  Sally pondered. The Houses of Parliament, that bridge that went up and down, boats on the Thames, Buckingham Palace. ‘I suppose I would. Yes, I’d love to see a few different places like London and York and Chester. Only I’d want to come back.’

  ‘But that’s the beauty of theatre. Variety acts move about all over the place – we’d return to Bolton, work at the Grand or the Theatre Royal.’

  ‘And what would I do?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Well . . . you could be my dresser.’

  A short pulse of time passed before Sally replied. ‘That’s a servant, isn’t it?’

  Eliza looked confused for a split second. ‘But we could practise dance steps. You might become an act in your own right.’

  Sally didn’t want to be an act. She wanted to be a good housemaid, a good housekeeper in the fullness of time. If she met a nice man with a job, she might even get married, have children and give up being a servant. If no-one came along, she’d be quite happy with her lot.

  ‘No ambitions, Sally?’ There was disappointment in the voice.

  The young housemaid had seldom given thought to the long-term future; she was grateful for her good fortune so far, happy to have been treated well at the children’s home, to have been chosen to work here, in a decent house and for a decent man. ‘I don’t think I’d like that sort of life,’ she answered at last. ‘I need to know where I am and where I’ll be tomorrow.’

  And that, thought Eliza, was where the difference lay. It was not so much cultural as elemental, essential. Had Sally been born the daughter of a duke, she would still have been a stay-at-home, a goodly soul programmed to find a man to lead her into a similar existence with no changes except for an address. Eliza Burton-Massey was a different breed altogether. A consummate actress, she had the ability to shape herself to fit any scenario. For Daddy she had been a tease, a plaything who had sung and danced to order. For the widowed Louisa, Eliza had been soft-spoken, dutiful and correct. Never, ever, had she been herself.

  ‘Why do you want to go?’ asked Sally. ‘Aren’t you happy?’

  Eliza turned her head slowly and looked through the window. November light, always meagre, poked dull, short fingers past curtains and into the room. She was not unhappy, and she still retained a sense of duty towards her family. Should Amy decide to open the business, Eliza would stay to help until . . . until the time was right. ‘I just don’t want all my life to be like November,’ she said. ‘Is it wrong to need a little fun?’

  ‘No,’ answered Sally.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about this, please.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Sally turned to leave, stopped suddenly.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Eliza.

  The young maid returned to the tea tray. ‘Shall I take this?’

  ‘No, thank you. Sally? What is it? What’s on your mind?’

  Sally could not say it, could not find the words. The way Mr Mulligan had been staring at Eliza, the light in his eyes . . . Did he love her? And wouldn’t it be wonderful if they married? A kind master, a good mistress, this house ringing with the laughter of children . . . No. Pendleton Grange was to be a hydro, Eliza wanted to go on the stage, and Mr Mulligan needed to find his own way of expressing feelings. He didn’t need a housemaid to be running around and talking about his facial expressions.

  ‘Sally?’ enquired Eliza once more.

  There were areas that must be avoided even by friends – perhaps especially by friends. Sally poured a second cup of tea for Eliza. ‘It was just a thought,’ she said finally. ‘One of those silly thoughts that just stays for a minute and then gets forgotten.’

  ‘A butterfly moment,’ said Eliza.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Just a butterfly, Miss Eliza.’

  The day had come at last. Ida Hewitt, packed and ready for off, sat on the rocking-chair next to the struggling remains of her last fire in 13 John Street. Having decided not to die after all, she had practised walking, had even ventured upstairs seve
ral times to organize the gathering of her family’s sparse belongings. But Ida was uneasy with herself, unsettled in her own company. She had neglected the children for years, had never been ill at all. Misery was not a disease. A woman such as she would be unlikely to see the face of the Lord, would not receive the ultimate blessing of Light Eternal.

  Joe was already sitting on the front doorstep waiting for Mr Mulligan’s car and a dray cart hired to carry bits of furniture up to Bramble Cottage near the village of Pendleton. ‘We’re going to be villagers,’ said Ida. ‘It’s posher, living in a village. I hope our Joe’s sitting on a cushion, Diane. We don’t want him catching piles on top of everything else he’s got. Still, we’ll soon be gone, eh?’

  Diane was in several minds. Even Daft Danny Duffy and his dog had begun to look attractive of late. She had started noticing things, stuff that had never mattered before. The lamp-posts were interesting shapes, the Town Hall clock was beautiful, the market was exciting. And what was she going to find up yonder? Fields, trees, cows, more trees, a couple of sheep. It would be good for Joe, she reminded herself repeatedly. It was already good for Gran, because she’d perked up no end just lately.

  Ida stared into failing tongues of fire in the grate. She wasn’t a decent woman. This realization had come to her gradually, had been born when she had started to frame herself a bit better. The promise of a cottage in the country had goaded her to move; she could have moved earlier, could have helped their Diane. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she mumbled. ‘I really am.’