Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  He blanched, stepped away from Ida Hewitt’s anger. Temper in a woman had always terrified him. It wasn’t meant to be like this, because men were supposed to be the dominant ones. He wasn’t even a man; at times such as this, he realized all over again that he was inadequate, incapable of fulfilling his function as a creator of life. Even so, Ida Hewitt should be grateful, compliant. They should all be servile . . .

  ‘Did you hear about that poor young girl in my house down John Street?’

  He felt his Adam’s apple bobbing about like a cork in a bath, tried to swallow, was appalled when a groaning sound escaped his lips. She was staring so hard, so coldly.

  ‘Some damned fool drugged her, took all her clothes off and left her freezing in the scullery. Mr Mulligan says it’s likely one of them impotent men, them who can never be real husbands.’ She left a pause. ‘Whoever it is is having a look and trying to work himself into a lather so’s he can perform, like. Disgusting behaviour that. Don’t you think so, Mr Wilkinson?’

  He stepped further away from her. ‘He blamed me. Did you know that? Did you know that he brought the police and gave them my name?’ God, why didn’t the woman say something? She was staring and staring, not blinking, just fixing him with her eyes, poleaxing him to the spot. ‘Mrs Hewitt, I—’

  ‘Go away,’ she said plainly. Mr Mulligan was right: this was the one. ‘I’m done with you.’ Her grandchildren were not as safe as she had imagined, then. While creatures such as this roamed the earth, no one was truly out of danger. ‘Stay away from me and mine,’ she advised.

  He pulled himself together. ‘Are you implying that you believe that man’s accusations? He has poisoned you against me – I can see that. How could you listen to him?’

  ‘With my ears,’ she answered. ‘The same way as I’m hearing you now. And my eyes are seeing things in your face – guilt and fear, Mr Wilkinson.’

  He took yet another step backwards, lost his footing, hit the ground hard. Children ran to help him up, but Ida spoke to them. ‘Leave him,’ she said. ‘His precious Light’ll look after him.’

  ‘I damn you and yours for all eternity,’ he growled.

  She leaned over the little green gate. ‘Only God Almighty can do that. He’s the judge in the end.’ She shooed the children away. ‘You’d best lift yourself up off the floor,’ she said, ‘but never try to lift yourself above God. And remember, He sees everything you do. Oh, and your hair’s come undone.’ The side-pieces, grown to cover his bald pate, were dangling towards his shoulders.

  He got up, made a feeble attempt to cover the barren area of scalp.

  ‘Am I forgiven?’ Ida asked sweetly. ‘One of the main things Jesus preached was forgiveness. All Christians are told to love their neighbour. Do you love me, Guardian Wilkinson? Or am I not young enough? Am I too old for you to practise on?’

  He felt the blood in his face, heard it buzzing in his ears. Words collected, but they refused to slide from a tongue as dry as dust. The ground, thick with frost, threatened to drag him down again. While attempting to regulate his breath, he allowed his eyes to slide across the lane to where Diane Hewitt played with half a dozen others.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Ida.

  He hadn’t been thinking about anything.

  ‘You’re crackers.’ Her tone was even, conversational almost. ‘The craziness pushes you on, I know that. But if I had a mad dog, I’d have him put to sleep for the sake of safety. So next time there’s a full moon, you’d best keep your eyes peeled, because I might just be at the back of you with a loaded shotgun.’

  He bent to retrieve his hat, turned to walk back towards his brother’s shop. Then he felt the foot as it pushed its way into his lower back. For a brief moment, he looked over his shoulder, saw Ida Hewitt standing outside her green gate, triumph burning in her face, then he slid several yards down Blackberry Lane’s mercifully gentle slope.

  The children, imagining that this queer-looking man was making a slide, dashed across and helped him on his way, every last one of them whooping and yelling, pleased that an adult had joined in their Christmas games.

  Ida did not stay to watch. Diane and Joe, too, walked into the house, mouths and eyes round with disbelief. ‘Gran,’ ventured Diane.

  ‘What, love? Hey, Joe – fill that kettle, I’m clemmed.’

  ‘You kicked him, Gran.’ Diane’s voice was small and high.

  ‘Ooh, I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did, Gran. And his hat was off and his hair was long enough for plaits.’ The child’s mouth twitched.

  Ida felt a pain in her chest, was forced to open her mouth wide in search of breath. A howl of laughter escaped her lips, and she doubled up in agony. ‘I’d . . . I’d never noticed how ugly . . . no oil painting, like, but . . . ooh, it hurts.’

  Diane threw herself on to the sofa, lay on her back, limbs paddling in the air like the legs of an over-excited puppy. At first, she was laughing because Guardian Wilkinson had met his match in Gran, then she was laughing at Gran laughing.

  Joe came in and looked at the pair of them. ‘I’ve put the kettle on,’ he said. For a reason he could not fathom, this simple statement resulted in near-hysteria. Diane sounded as if she might be ready to vomit, while Gran, tears coursing down her face, folded herself up in a rocker near the fire.

  Joe smiled tentatively, transfixed by the scene. His family was happy at last. Gran was doing a little job, he and Diane were helping at the yard after school, bits of sweeping and polishing. They had a lovely house, nice neighbours and a real Christmas dinner to look forward to. He felt a smile breaking out. If Gran and their Diane wanted to carry on like a couple of daft things, let them. It was Christmas.

  He went upstairs to one of the three cubby-hole bedrooms, put on new shirt, jacket and trousers, spat on a hand, smoothed down his hair. In a pitted mirror, he gazed at his reflection. The upper half seemed normal. If it hadn’t been for his legs, he’d have looked quite a toff. Never mind. In a few years, he’d be in long trousers; in a few years, he would be a real toff.

  Laughter floated up the stairwell, children played outside. He saw a snowflake floating earthward. In Joe Hewitt’s book, all was well with the world.

  Mona could not bring herself to venture up the stairs.

  The chicken sat in the centre of the table, all golden and moist. She knew it was cooked properly, because she’d shoved a number twelve knitting needle in just above a leg, and the released juices had been clear. Sausages wrapped in bacon overcoats lay around the bird, punctuated by clusters of sprouts and carrots. Mona believed in presentation. A colourful dinner always looked more appetizing.

  Tilly’s sage and onion patties had been placed next to the gravy boat at Tilly’s side of the table – she was a beggar for gravy and stuffing, was their Tilly. The pudding was all right, just about. There was brandy sauce to go with it, then some nice mints bought from the market hall last Friday.

  Mona took a sip of sweet sherry, gazed into the cheerful fire. The Walsh family had always had a good do at Christmas, especially during Mother’s lifetime. She’d been a bit grim and grizzled, and very chapel, but she’d always laid on a decent spread. Turkish Delight. Eeh, what had made Mona think of that? Dad had made quite a ritual of bringing out the circular box of thin, splintery wood, taking care not to rupture the frail timber while removing the lid.

  Everybody except Dad had hated Turkish Delight. It was rubbery pink stuff, perfumed, covered with icing sugar. But no-one would have dreamed of telling him that they didn’t relish the horrible, glutinous stuff. Even Tilly hadn’t liked it, and she enjoyed nearly everything that was edible.

  She still couldn’t go up the stairs.

  They’d had a melodeon in those days, a squeezebox that had been left to Mother in the will of some long-dead aunt of hers. Carols after supper had been the nearest the Walsh family had got to entertainment. With parents who were dyed-in-the-wool Methodists, Tilly and Mona had enjoyed a regulated childhood.

>   She had to be dead. No way would their Tilly have stayed upstairs till half past two on Christmas Day. ‘Whatever shall I do?’ For a suddenly independent woman, Mona was seriously devoid of ideas. She went through a list of acquaintances, crossing off each one as unsuitable. What a blinkered life she had led.

  Really, she should fetch the doctor. But what if Tilly was just in a deep sleep? What if she was seriously ill? No. Tilly was a noisy sleeper, and the house was silent. The doctor, then. No. It was Christmas. Mona didn’t want to cause a song and dance for nothing. She could feel the hysteria rising in her throat, knew she was getting into what Tilly called a state and a half.

  Then a thought struck. She rummaged in the sewing-basket and came up with a small card, white with black print. ‘Seth Dobson, Undertaker, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.’ Seth would know the difference between dead, ill, or just asleep. As well as the yard address, Mr Dobson’s home was listed with a telephone number. Mona had never used a telephone, wouldn’t know where to start. So she lit the mantles, just to make the house a bit more welcoming for the undertaker, pulled on her outer garments and made for the door.

  As she stood in the street, she noticed the sounds of Christmas floating out of other houses. She and Tilly had never bothered much with neighbours, and Mona regretted that for the first time in her life. An understanding friend would have been a bonus today.

  She dragged her way up Deane Road, was grateful that she had shed some weight. Half an hour later, she stood just inside the gates of Seth Dobson’s detached but modest home. All the lights were on. She could see the family sitting in the parlour, noticed that Seth Dobson managed to look sad even when he laughed.

  She pulled the bell and waited.

  Seth opened the door. ‘Mona?’

  She gulped down a draught of oxygen. ‘I made the dinner.’

  Immediately, Seth Dobson realized that there was something very wrong with the younger Miss Walsh. Used to people in grief and shock, he played along with her. ‘Did you, love? Well, that’s nice. Just step inside and tell me all about it.’ He guided her into the hallway, placed her in a chair, closed the door. ‘Now, then,’ he began. ‘Start at the beginning.’

  ‘Has it gone three, Mr Dobson?’

  ‘It has,’ he replied. ‘It’s going on quarter past, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘See, she’s still in bed. I even made her sage and onion patties, ’cos she doesn’t like scraping stuffing out of a bird. And gravy, I made that. But she never came down, Mr Dobson.’

  ‘Seth. You can call me Seth, Mona. We’ve worked next door to one another for a fair few years, eh?’

  Mona removed her gloves and placed them on a table. ‘I think she must be dead.’

  ‘Your Tilly?’

  She nodded mutely.

  ‘Have you . . . felt for a pulse, tried a mirror near her mouth?’

  This time, Mona shook her head. ‘I’ve not been upstairs. I tried, but I got stuck after about three steps, couldn’t go no further. Like I was frozen. Like me feet weren’t listening to me head any more.’

  ‘You should get the doctor,’ he suggested. ‘You’re not the only one feared of going in a room with the deceased. I come across this all the while. The doctor’s your man, love. I don’t come into it until the certificate’s signed.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she moaned. ‘She might not be dead. I think she is, though. I couldn’t work out what to do for the best. I know it’s Christmas and I shouldn’t be disturbing a doctor or you—’

  ‘You can forget that before the kick-off, Mona Walsh. I’ve been called out twice today already. Death doesn’t stop for Christmas, and Christmas mustn’t stop for death. We do what we can, all of us.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘Will you look at her for me? See, you’ll know whether . . .’

  ‘Course I will, you know I will.’ He called over his shoulder. ‘Janet? Fetch a sherry for this lady, will you? I’m getting me coat and hat on.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a trouble to you.’

  He placed a hand on her arm. ‘Mona, you’re no bother at all. My job is to look after folk when they’re at their lowest ebb – some of them dead, many grieving. Let me go now and get my boots – it’s cold out yon.’

  Janet Dobson brought Mona a sherry. ‘Here you are. Put yourself outside of that, it’ll take the chill off.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ repeated Mona.

  Mrs Dobson tutted. ‘Look, in a business like ours, we have to be prepared at all times. This isn’t a job, it’s more what you might call a vocation. We none of us mind, I promise you. My Seth’ll look after everything. Would you like me to come and all? I don’t mind, you know, I’ve done it in the past.’

  Mona felt a huge sob bubbling in her throat. She wasn’t used to kindness. There was a bit of banter at work sometimes, the odd joke, some gossip. But in the normal run of her domestic life, all Mona got was caustic comments and criticism from their Tilly. To hide her hysteria, she gulped at the sherry, accidentally allowing some into her air passage. The resulting coughing and choking filled the time until Seth came back with his cart.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t want me?’ asked Janet Dobson.

  ‘We’ll manage.’ Seth kissed his wife on the forehead. ‘You play with the grandkids,’ he advised. ‘I’ll be back in two shakes.’

  The sherry made Mona dizzy as they walked down Deane Road, so she concentrated on listening to her companion’s attempts at conversation.

  ‘. . . and we’re going motorized,’ Seth Dobson was saying. ‘I’ll keep the horses, because some folk prefer them, and I can’t afford more than one motor hearse. I never thought I’d see the day, but I’ve thrown my cap in with the rest. Price of progress, eh?’ He was talking to himself, but this was all a part of the balm he applied to wounds of the recently bereaved. Even so, he could not help worrying about Mona Walsh. Tilly was the driving force. Although Mona had made a great noise about leaving home, Seth had entertained reservations on the subject. In fact, he had been running a book, taking bets on whether or not Mona would move out when the big day finally arrived.

  At last, they reached the house. ‘Do you want to stop out here?’ he asked. ‘Fetch one of the neighbours to be with you?’

  ‘No. I’ll wait in the kitchen,’ she answered. She allowed him to help her into the house. When the front door was closed, Mona heard, felt and almost tasted the silence. Even a full brass band could not have swallowed up this deafening noiselessness.

  She heard Seth ascending the stairs, tried not to listen. The dinner was cold; a thick skin had formed on the gravy, and all the vegetables looked sad and neglected. A little Christmas tree drooped on the dresser, its arms weighted down by small, silver-wrapped chocolates. All movement above had ceased. He was looking at Tilly now.

  Mona’s eyes settled on two parcels, one from Mona to Tilly, the other from Tilly to Mona. Tilly should have been opening hers now; she always got her present before supper, then Mona would open her gift from Tilly after supper had been cleared. It was tradition. ‘I got you a beautiful blouse,’ said Mona. ‘Lovely blue, it is, with pearl buttons and a high neck.’ He was coming down the stairs.

  Somewhere, there was a nice little cameo of Mother’s. Dad had bought it as a birthday present years and years ago. It would look lovely at the throat of Tilly’s Christmas blouse.

  ‘Mona?’ He placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Open my present for me, Seth.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘My present from Tilly – it’s there, wrapped in green tissue.’

  The bemused undertaker did her bidding. It was a heavy linen tablecloth. He read from the enclosed card. ‘“To my sister, Mona, for the new home.”’

  ‘She didn’t want me to go,’ said Mona quietly. ‘Right against it, she was. But she bought me that cloth to show there was no ill-feeling. Oh, Seth, I killed her. I killed my sister as if I’d stuck a knife in her heart.’ Mona grabbed the man’s hands and sobbed. ‘God forg
ive me, oh, God forgive me.’

  Seth Dobson, who, since the arrival of adulthood, had handled more funerals than he’d eaten hot dinners, felt a pricking behind his eyelids. There was something really pathetic about this woman, as if she’d missed out on life altogether. Tilly, the brains, the pilot, lay as dead as a dodo upstairs.

  ‘I shouldn’t have got that house,’ cried Mona. ‘She thought I needed her, but it was the other road round. She needed me, Seth. She was frightened of being on her own.’ The sobbing settled, turned into shuddering breaths. ‘See, I’m the nervy one, she’s the rock. But Tilly keeps it all inside.’ Mona blinked away a few more tears. ‘She is . . . dead, isn’t she?’

  He inclined his head. ‘Aye, she’s gone, love.’

  ‘Did she suffer?’

  ‘I’m no doctor, but I’d say she went in her sleep, never felt a thing. She looks really peaceful.’

  ‘Right.’ Another deep breath shook its way out of her lungs.

  Seth tightened his grip on her fingers. ‘Now, it’s up to you, but I’ve had a lot of experience, as you know. I always advise folk to say goodbye properly – face to face. You don’t have to do it now. You could visit her in my little chapel if you’d prefer, but it’s important to do it if you can.’ He pulled away and picked up his hat. ‘I’ll fetch the doctor now. Shall I get a neighbour?’ he asked again.

  ‘No. And thank you. I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Seth.’ She listened as his footfalls died in the lobby.

  After making herself a cup of tea, Mona sat by the fire and drank deeply, enjoying the taste of sugar after many weeks of self-denial. She realized with a sudden jolt that she was hungry, almost starving. There was plenty of chicken and bread – she could make herself a sandwich later on.

  Placing cup and saucer on the mantel, she smoothed her hair, checked in the mirror. For such a momentous occasion, she wanted to look her best.