Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

Diane studied her grandmother for a few seconds. ‘It weren’t your fault,’ she said. ‘Mr Mulligan’s explained it to me. He said life knocked you down.’

  ‘And he’s picked me up. A flaming Catholic and all.’

  ‘Gran?’

  ‘What?’

  Diane sidled to the chair. ‘I’ll still see my friends, won’t I? You know, with coming to school here, I’ll not be lonely.’

  Ida closed her eyes, but could not close her ears. It was plain that her granddaughter depended more on her playtime fellows than . . . than on her own folk. ‘Aye, you’ll still go to the same school. And make sure you do go and all, eh? No playing truant, no stealing. Our Joe’ll be at the school and all, so I’ll get him to make sure you stay put. If you like it up on the moors, you can change to the village school.’

  Diane swallowed a huge lump of pain that contained Queens Park, Manfredi’s ice-cream parlour, Mad Dog, the boating pond at Barrow Bridge, the Tivoli cinema, the Bolton holiday fairs. No, no, she chided herself. She would still be here most days. But she would be living in the country, sleeping at Bramble Cottage. ‘I bet it’s dark at night.’

  ‘Aye, it will be. I hadn’t thought, but you’re right enough.’

  Diane cast an eye over bug holes in the walls, remembered cockroaches and silverfish, mice, even the occasional rat. Perhaps vermin didn’t thrive up on the moors. And Mr Mulligan was nice in his own way, so that was another bonus. The shock of finding a nice Holy Roman was beginning to fade, especially since Gran had admitted that Mulligan was all right as far as bead-counters went. Gran even prayed for Mr Mulligan, begged God to help him see the Light before it was too late.

  The Light. Diane perched on the edge of a chair and thought about Mr Wilkinson. Her feelings towards him had changed immensely over the past few months. Having started off as reluctantly respectful, Diane had travelled through tolerance, impatience, distrust and dislike before reaching . . . was it hatred? There was something about him, something nasty. She didn’t like standing near him, and it wasn’t just the smelly hair stuff that put her off: it was inside him. What was inside him, though?

  To take her mind off the confusion, she placed the last few paper-wrapped cups in a cardboard box. Mr Wilkinson’s brother had a shop up in Pendleton. She spotted Gran’s other shoe under the dresser, dragged it out and put it with the cups. It was something to do with girls, to do with cleansing. Gran’s shoes were going to need new laces. Joe wanted a new vest. The Guardian of the Light did things to girls. The girls didn’t say much. He spent some weekends up at Pendleton. There was no getting rid of him, it seemed.

  ‘Diane?’

  ‘Yes, Gran?’

  ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we?’

  It wasn’t just children who feared the unknown, then. Gran, too, was afraid of the new life. Having imagined that adults were usually sure about everything, Diane was startled. What chance was there for the young if grown-ups didn’t have solid answers? ‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘we’ll be all right.’

  Ida was genuinely tired, though the daily shifting of herself had made her bones and muscles stronger. She could never give back Diane’s childhood, could never repay that huge debt. From now on, though, she needed to be positive. The Hewitts could not depend for ever on Mulligan’s generosity, so Ida would need to find work. Where? There wouldn’t be much going up yon, even if Mr Mulligan had made a joke about cows.

  The kitchen door opened. Ida turned, expecting to see James Mulligan, Joe, or both, could not manage to wipe the disappointment from her face after identifying the visitor. ‘I thought you’d be at work,’ she said.

  Peter Wilkinson placed the Light on the dresser. ‘I’m collecting round here today,’ he said, ‘so I thought I’d call in to wish you well. Of course, I’ll see you at weekends.’

  Diane could not be bothered to look at him.

  ‘Art thou well?’ he asked.

  Diane sniffed loudly. Why couldn’t he stick to ‘you’ instead of ‘thee’-ing and ‘thou’-ing all over the shop? In fact, why didn’t he just beggar off and leave folk in peace?

  ‘Diane?’ His voice was low. ‘You have been chosen.’

  She moved her head and looked at him. ‘Chosen? Chosen for what? I’m not even a bearer yet.’

  Peter Wilkinson bared teeth that imitated a row of ancient gravestones after an earthquake, all stained and out of alignment. ‘Some of us will be emigrating to Texas,’ he said, his chest puffing out like the upper half of a pouter pigeon. ‘We shall live simple lives where everyone will be the same. Except for guardians,’ he added hastily. ‘The Great Guardian has his own house, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ mimicked the child.

  Ida rose to her feet. ‘When did all this come about?’ she asked. ‘Nobody’s never told me about America.’

  ‘Makersfield, Texas, is our spiritual home,’ he replied gravely. ‘Just a chosen few will go there to serve the Great Guardian.’

  Ida Hewitt folded her arms and stared at the man. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said firmly, ‘but no, thanks. Our Diane is not going to live in Texas.’

  ‘It’s an honour to be picked,’ he spluttered.

  But Ida cut him off. ‘Has America not got enough folk of its own? Why do they want people from England?’

  ‘Because we are international, therefore every country should be represented. Come on, Mrs Hewitt, the Temple has cared for you and yours for years. This is the way to pay back.’

  ‘She’s my granddaughter.’

  ‘She belongs to the Light,’ he insisted.

  Diane looked from one to the other, felt as if she might be watching some game of bat and ball, her turn, his turn, back and forth, to and fro. Had she been sold, then? Had Diane Hewitt been bartered for a few quarters of potted meat and boiled ham?

  Ida’s cheeks sported twin areas of darkening colour. Flustered, she was doing her level best not to let bewilderment show. Even this was her own fault, because she had run to the Temple, had taken gifts of food when she ought to have been out working to feed the kiddies. ‘If you had told me that our Diane was going to be the price, I’d never have touched your Friday food parcels.’

  Wilkinson took a small step back towards the dresser. If he wasn’t careful, this little family would be entering Mulligan’s lair. Mulligan’s Catholicism must not be allowed to influence the Hewitts. ‘I have to find my quota to send over there,’ he muttered. ‘Most people round here would be glad of a future abroad. They want ten. I’ve found eight girls who will never go hungry, who will dwell within sight of the miracle, who—’

  ‘What about lads?’ Ida asked.

  He offered no reply.

  ‘They don’t need boys,’ said a new voice.

  Ida nodded at James Mulligan, whose broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorway. His handsome face, clear eyes and white teeth made Peter Wilkinson uglier than ever. Not for some considerable time had Ida been so pleased to see anyone.

  James entered the room. ‘Go and sit in my car,’ he told Diane quietly.

  Disappointed because she would hear no more, Diane left the house. Children were often forced to disappear just when life got interesting. But Mr Mulligan was not a man to be disobeyed, so she sat in the Austin with her brother while less fortunate children peered through the glass at the lucky Hewitts.

  Inside, James took charge. He placed himself directly in front of Guardian Wilkinson, his own brown eyes welded to the pupils of the shorter man. ‘I await proof,’ said James softly, ‘but I already believe that girls are being collected and stored for breeding purposes. Rather like my racehorses, in fact.’

  Ida fell back into her chair. ‘You what?’ Her voice was thin.

  James’s gaze remained on Wilkinson. ‘Bearers are trained to respond only to guardians. The Great Guardian gets the pick of the crop, naturally.’ He paused to rein in his anger. ‘Impressionable girls from poor families are initiated by creatures like yourself. They are trained to accept as part of the creed that their minds and
bodies belong to you and that through you they will find a better life and ultimate salvation.’

  Wilkinson’s face was puce. Sweat dripped down his face, while the carefully arranged strands of hair suddenly slipped in wetness born of fear. ‘Would you dare to repeat all that in court?’ he asked squeakily.

  ‘Whatever,’ answered James. ‘But if any girls disappear from this part of Bolton, I’ll remove your skin and leave you like a peeled tomato on the floor of your temple.’ He glanced at Ida for a second, then addressed Wilkinson again. ‘You are a member of an evil cult. One day, a cleansed child will speak out against you.’

  Wilkinson picked up his lantern and ran from the house.

  Ida swallowed audibly. ‘Were all that true?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ James replied honestly, ‘though I do have my suspicions.’

  Ida gulped again. ‘Why did he run?’ she whispered, a hand to her throat. ‘If there’s nowt in what you say, what made him scarper like the devil were on his tail?’ She saw them then in her mind’s eye, young girls with scrubbed hands and faces, white frocks, small flames in glass jars held reverently as each made her individual, solitary journey into the Sanctum. Diane had described the service, had related to her grandmother all that had happened at the temple. ‘Does he touch them?’ Ida asked. ‘Does he touch our girls?’

  James said nothing.

  ‘The burning bush,’ she babbled, ‘it just set itself afire one day. Then, about a year later, another one flared up. Everybody said it were like something from Exodus, a Bible story come to life all over again, a wonderful mystery.’ Her voice tailed away, died on a sigh of near-desperation. For a full minute, she sat in silence, unseeing eyes fixed on the middle distance. ‘They take the Light from the bush, then bring it over on a ship to be spread through all the temples.’

  ‘And if it gets blown out halfway across the Atlantic?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Does the guardian have to go back if his flame goes out?’ asked James. ‘Because if he were to relight it with a Swan Vesta, who would know the difference?’

  Ida blinked slowly. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied.

  ‘Texas is a dry place,’ said James. ‘The first so-called miracle might have been caused by a fragment of glass under the noon sun. Subsequent events . . . well, I don’t think Moses would have been impressed. God does not carry paraffin and matches.’

  ‘So it’s all a lie?’

  ‘I think it might be just that.’

  Ida stared through a window that had not been cleaned properly in years. Like her own inner vision, the pane had clouded over, had not allowed the light of day to enter. The light of day, the Eternal Light – which? ‘Am I a stupid old woman?’ she asked.

  ‘Not old.’

  She spun round, saw a tiny glint of mischief in his eyes. ‘I’m nearing sixty,’ she announced. ‘Am I stupid?’

  He raised his shoulders. ‘Misled. Looking for something, grieving for all you’ve lost.’

  Tears stung her eyes. ‘No excuse for neglecting the children,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Sat there in bed like a stuffed animal, no care for nobody except myself.’ She dabbed angrily at her cheeks, then straightened her spine. ‘But that were then, and this is now.’ Her mouth set itself in a grim, determined line.

  ‘There’s the spirit.’ He glanced around the small area that had been Ida Hewitt’s home for so long. Women got ground down in their hundreds – perhaps thousands – but few were noticed. Even married ones ceased to be significant once the gilt wore off the gingerbread. Widows, it seemed, were beneath contempt, non-existent, not worth considering. ‘Never apologize, Ida, for becoming too sad to cope. Tomorrow’s a new beginning.’

  She didn’t like Catholics, wasn’t particular about Irish folk, either. But by heck, this man was a presence, a force, a calming influence. He put his money where his mouth was, didn’t want thanks or fuss. She reached out and took his hand. ‘All right then. Lead us through to tomorrow, son.’

  Without a backward glance, Ida Hewitt, who had lost all heart and all hope, placed her trust in the hands of a papist. He was a good man, was James Mulligan. Her feet were killing her and her coat was too thin, but she stumbled and shivered her way to Mulligan’s car. His arm was strong and sure, the children’s faces were bright with expectations. A new page, a fresh start. And this time, there would be no blots in Ida Hewitt’s copybook.

  Eleven

  The virgins are chosen bearers of the Light, bearers of our future, who will receive the seed and bring forth laudators, workers, more bearers. The Great Guardian hath given forth the word, praise the Lord. We are to be as an apiary in which only the faithful shall survive, though there will be no queen bee, since all our females will be crowned, blessed while pure, then led to guardians, agents of the Light, carriers of life.

  The men, our worker bees, shall toil in shed and field. The strong, the good and the brave shall be allowed to mate; all guardians will be expected to do their duty. I am a guardian and I cannot mate. Women in the Sisterhood Chapter will bear children and no child can be mine.

  I have glorified the Lord and His Light, have begged to be blessed, yet the power has not been granted. Please, please, let me not be a drone condemned to live among venerables in the Chapter of Ancients. My mark must be made, my loins must bring forth fruit so that the Light will continue to shine through me and my issue.

  Now, I shake and shiver in fear and horror, for eyes of a darker fire have seared my flesh until it tries to rise from the bone. On this day, I have met with the devil in Sister Hewitt’s house; the demon is taking away the woman and the children to dwell within sight of his unholy kingdom. He spake to me and cursed our faith, our miracle. Just as he once tempted the Saviour in the desert, he has seduced the simple mind of Sister Hewitt and she, a poor, weak soul, has followed in the path of evil. This time, he comes as a handsome man, but Beelzebub has many guises.

  I pray that I shall look on thee no more, Satan, lest thou enter me and make me thine. The Lord could rise above thee, but I am mere mortal tissue, vulnerable and finite. Lord grant me strength through Thy Light. Let me not be tempted by the pomp and incense of Satan’s creed.

  Praise the Lord.

  The air was crisp, sharpened by frost, while views on all sides were like pictures borrowed from Christmas cards. Every tree and field bore the marks of thin white ice, as if a cook had dressed her baking with a layer of sugar to make it pretty.

  Diane Hewitt remained unimpressed. It was freezing, colder than the bitterest day in Bolton, a town that nestled beneath moors, its atmosphere clogged by cosy dirt and the warm emissions of several thousand chimneys. What the heck was she going to do up here? She thought of a carol whose words contained the term ‘bleak midwinter’. Well, it was bleak, all bare and silent, motionless, boring. No street lamps to swing from, no children playing, no trams.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Ida.

  Diane shrugged. Did it matter whether she was all right or not? Up here was for Joe and Gran, for folk who needed their lungs filling with sharp air. She was a town girl, and town girls did not go in for wide-open spaces, frosty hedges and walls built of crooked bits and pieces of stone.

  ‘Diane?’ There was a plaintive edge to Ida’s voice.

  ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ lied Diane.

  Joe was using a finger to draw patterns on breath-misted glass.

  ‘Give over,’ chided Ida. ‘You’ll make everything sticky.’

  What would happen? Diane wondered. She and Joe were going to be employed in Mulligan’s Yard after school, but what about Gran? She was still a bit wobbly, still not ready for work. Would they continue to get parish money? Would the Temple help when Gran had refused to send Diane to America?

  ‘There’s the Grange.’ James Mulligan waved a hand towards a massive pile fronted by sweeping lawns. ‘And that’s where you’ll be working, Mrs Hewitt. Just peeling vegetables and so forth, guide yourself in gently.’ She would have co
mpany, at least. He had primed Kate Kenny, had begged her to be kind. He grinned ruefully. Was good old Katie capable of kindness? Of course she was; she was the only one who understood him. The cellar? Oh, yes, Katie had all the facts, all the details of her employer’s unhappy secret . . .

  ‘Mr Mulligan?’

  ‘Yes, Diane?’

  ‘What do folk do up here? It’s so empty and bare. It’s like . . . it’s as if everybody’s died. There’s no picture house, no pubs, no—’ Her voice cut itself off as the car slewed round a bend.

  ‘Does this answer your question?’ asked the man at the wheel, once the car was stationary.

  Ida actually laughed. ‘Well, if they’re all dead, then this is heaven. I’ve never seen such a lovely place. Is this where we’ll live? Oh, say it is, please.’

  Joe stopped his finger-painting. ‘They’re playing out,’ he cried, pointing to a group of children. ‘They’ve made a slide in the ice.’

  ‘You’re not sliding, not with your legs,’ said Ida.

  James promised himself that he would speak to Ida. Little Joe should be allowed to let rip, to test himself, to grow physically and mentally. ‘That’s your house.’ He indicated a white cottage with small-paned windows and a green gate. An end-of-terrace, Bramble Cottage was fastened to three more. Several other groups of houses edged the lane, one made into a bakery-cum-post-office, another selling groceries. At the top of the gentle slope sat a church with a school attached. ‘Pendleton village,’ James announced, ‘complete with people, Diane. Past the school, there’s Pendleton Clough, which is really the same village, though residents keep the two places separate for the battles.’

  Several seconds elapsed. ‘Battles?’ asked Ida eventually.

  ‘Every summer,’ replied James. ‘It’s a very serious business, not to be taken lightly.’

  Ida looked at Diane, who looked at Joe.

  ‘Greasy pole over the water,’ continued James. ‘Tug-of-war, fastest knitter, best bramble jam, quickest plough, bull-taming, wrestling, tastiest hotpot, clog-dancing, best-groomed horse, longest daisy chain and so on and so forth. The losing village buys kegs of beer for the winners.’