Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  He folded his arms, leaned back in his seat. So, here came the next needful woman, and he could find no resentment for this added encumbrance. He could sense her emptiness, her isolation. It was as if she scarcely existed at all, except that her body took up space on the earth. Even that was shrinking. Was she planning on disappearing altogether? Was she capable of planning anything?

  ‘I think I killed her, Mr Mulligan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t stab her or shoot her, but she went downhill after I got that house on John Street.’

  ‘Ah, come on, now—’

  ‘I apologized to her, but she was already dead, and she’d bought me a beautiful tablecloth and all. I got her a blouse to go with her grey skirt.’

  ‘Mona, you’ve killed nobody. You’re in shock and . . . when did you last eat?’

  She raised a shoulder. ‘It’s still on the table, waiting for Tilly to come downstairs. She’ll not come down ever again, will she, except for her funeral?’

  ‘No, she won’t.’ It was plain that although Mona remained rational, she was not coping emotionally with the day’s events. ‘Will you sleep here tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  She didn’t care. She had probably spent just a few nights away from home, as most working-class families tended to stay close to the soil in which they’d been planted. Even folk like Tilly and Mona, who earned decent wages, were not inclined to go off on seaside holidays. What to do with her, then? And for how long?

  ‘Mr Mulligan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The funeral should be at the temple. And I don’t want it to be. I don’t want my sister being prayed over by a bad man.’

  He knew exactly how she felt, yet he could not come up with an answer for this dilemma. The important thing was to get some food into Mona, then to encourage her to rest. ‘We’ll think about all that tomorrow. Now, I’ll get Kate to make up a bed for you in one of the many spare rooms. Food, too.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she admitted.

  Well, that was a good sign.

  The door opened. ‘Mr Mulligan?’ Seth Dobson’s miserable yet funny face insinuated itself into the room. ‘I’ll have to be off. There’s . . . you know . . .’ He nodded in Mona’s direction. ‘The body to be moved.’ The last five words were mouthed noiselessly. He addressed Mona now. ‘Don’t distress yourself about your house, love. My Janet’ll shift all the food and stuff, clean round for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mona.

  ‘All part of the service, Mona. I don’t want you worrying about anything. It’s a very distressing time, is this. People get distressed. So don’t distress yourself any more than needs be.’

  James waited for forms of the word ‘distress’ to continue, but the undertaker had clearly said his piece for now. ‘Will you see yourself out, Mr Dobson?’

  ‘Aye, no bother. I hope you’ll be all right, Mona.’ He disappeared.

  Kate brought tea and sandwiches, said that she had prepared a bed with three hot-water bottles and a shelf out of the oven. Mona ate mechanically, as if aware that she needed fuel, though she seemed not to enjoy the procedure. She drained her cup and looked James full in the face. ‘I want some help,’ she stated very positively.

  ‘I know you do, but first—’

  ‘Not the funeral arrangements, nothing like that.’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘I know you’ll think I’m awful, talking like this when my only sister, who I helped to kill, isn’t even cold. But, ooh, I want rid of that place.’

  ‘Your house?’

  She put her head on one side, as if working her way through a puzzle. ‘No, the wash-house. I don’t care if I never see another posser or a boiler as long as I live. There’s an endowment nearly ready, then our Tilly’s insurance is a fair amount. I need somebody to sell the goodwill, or to rip out all the stuff and sell that for me. I shan’t set foot in there again.’ A slight quiver in the voice was the only sign that Mona Walsh was not in a business meeting.

  He was amazed. Obviously, Mona Walsh was distraught, though her mind seemed to have cleared itself to the point where she was already planning for the future. Yet, only minutes earlier, he had doubted her ability to plan for the next hour.

  She gave him a watery smile. ‘I’m getting on, you know. I shan’t see fifty again. From when we were still at school, our Tilly and me were soaked in soapy water, up to our necks in it. I doubt we were long out of our prams when we learned to fold sheets, mix Dolly Blue and starch.’ She stopped for a while, her lips moving as she framed thoughts. ‘Tilly dying means . . . well . . . it means what I were thinking before can happen now. I’ve never been me before. I’ve always been our Tilly’s sister or one of the fat women from the wash-house.’

  ‘I see.’ He didn’t, but everyone reacted differently to death.

  ‘Will you help me, Mr Mulligan?’

  ‘You know I will.’

  Mona rose to her feet. ‘All right, then. I’ll go to bed now.’

  He followed her from the room, found Kate in the hallway. ‘Take her up,’ he said, before returning to his study.

  James Mulligan poured himself a small brandy. Soon, he would have to take Ida and the children home. Still, he had learned something today. Women were intricate people. Where they were concerned, he had better expect the unexpected.

  Sixteen

  Camilla Smythe had not seen Margot for some time; because of that, changes in the girl were immediately apparent to her. Deeply uneasy, Camilla refused the offer of a bed and set off for home at about ten o’clock. The party had begun to break up anyway, as the two children and their grandmother needed to go home, and a bereaved Mona had arrived to put something of a dampener on the proceedings.

  As she drove her new little van towards Blackburn, Camilla could not rid herself of mental pictures of the tortured Margot Burton-Massey. Rupert was a cad. Planning to run away with Eliza, he was leaving her sister heartbroken, a shadow of her former self. Camilla’s fury, which was very much in line with the colour of her hair, simmered all the way home. She could scarcely wait to sink her claws into him. ‘Damn and blast the man,’ she cursed, as she parked her motor in one of the disused stables. ‘One day, some poor woman will swing for him, stupid, uncaring rascal that he is.’

  On entering the house, she offered polite responses to her parents’ trite questions – had she enjoyed herself, how was Mr Mulligan, had the country roads been icy and so forth. As soon as possible, she made her way upstairs. This time, she did not knock, simply burst into Rupert’s room without preamble.

  He was seated by the window, a cigarette in one hand, brandy globe in the other. ‘Ah, Camel,’ he drawled. ‘Good to see you. Have you enjoyed your day?’

  Camilla crossed the room in three strides and hit his face with the flat of her hand. Made strong by dealing with horses and by carrying endless amounts of food from van to table, she almost knocked her brother through the window.

  He righted himself and touched a sore cheek. ‘Steady on,’ he mumbled. ‘No need for that sort of behaviour, old girl.’

  Anger made her breath short, so she inhaled several times before speaking. ‘You are a rat, a thing from the sewers.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ She ran the tingling hand through her hair. ‘Have you any idea of the state Margot is in? Here you sit, idly flicking ash all over the rug, not a care in the world. That Eliza creature is hanging round like a cat with a secret supply of cream, when all the while Margot is suffering.’

  Rupert allowed his tongue to search for loose teeth. This sister of his packed a stroke that might have found a place in the repertoire of a heavyweight boxer. ‘And what, precisely, do you expect me to do about that?’

  She glowered at him. ‘A gentleman would not need to ask such a question. I think I shall have to tell Mother about your intentions regarding London and Eliza. As much as I should like you both to disappear, you cannot be allowed to get away with this.’
/>   ‘With what? For God’s sake, what have I done that is so terrible? Margot was a mistake—’

  ‘Eliza is the mistake in that family. Oh, I know Margot has her faults, but Eliza is secretive, selfish, manipulative. She shapes herself to suit her circumstances.’ Camilla paused. ‘In fact, I am quite convinced that she will bring you down.’

  ‘Then let her,’ he answered. ‘Let her. You stay here, a virgin saint, watch from a safe distance while I crumble. Given your opinion of me and Eliza, perhaps you should just allow us to go to the dogs together.’

  She took a pace back in order to watch him. ‘Is Margot a virgin?’ she asked, taking note of a brief flash of panic as it crossed his face. The ensuing pause stretched to fill two or three seconds. ‘That is all the reply I need, Rupert Smythe—’

  ‘Come on, Camel—’

  ‘And don’t call me that!’

  ‘But don’t you admire those beasts? Haven’t you always praised their staying power?’

  ‘Do not attempt to change the subject. Have you had intimate relations with Margot Burton-Massey? Well? Have you?’

  He took a sip from the glass, stubbed out his cigarette, turned his face towards the window. ‘That is none of your business,’ he replied eventually.

  ‘Then you have. Right. I may sleep on this, brother, but do not be in the least surprised if Mother grills you tomorrow.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘The poor girl. Margot looks terrible. She slept half the time, had trouble keeping up with the rest of us when she was awake.’ Camilla stood perfectly still for a while. Oh, God. ‘Good grief!’ She slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘How stupid I am.’

  ‘Don’t expect me to agree with you,’ Rupert grumbled. ‘I don’t want another slap.’

  ‘I should not be at all surprised if Margot turns out to be pregnant,’ said Camilla.

  His shoulders sagged. ‘Nonsense. Even if she is, it isn’t anything to do with . . . no,’ he finished lamely.

  Camilla dropped into a chair. ‘Margot may be silly, but she is by no means loose in her habits. You have taken her virginity and, unless I am greatly mistaken, you have left her pregnant.’

  Rupert was beginning to feel rather hot under the collar. If Camilla went to Mother with these trumped-up charges, London might become an impossibility. As for Eliza, well, he would have no chance. ‘What do you intend to do?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had time to work it out. But you are not getting away with this, Rupert. Believe me, I’ll have your scalp if that poor girl is expecting your child.’

  ‘Could be anyone’s,’ he blustered.

  ‘No,’ she shouted. ‘If there is a baby, it’s yours. And you will stand by Margot or you will answer to me.’ She banged a fist against her breast. ‘From me, Rupert, there will be nowhere to hide. Ever.’

  He was suddenly terrified. Camilla was not the type to issue empty threats. Furiously, he back-pedalled his way through the conversation, from the slap to her threats. ‘I’ll do a deal with you,’ he offered, his voice made unsteady by fear. ‘If Margot is pregnant – and there’s no proof of that – I shall return from London and . . .’

  ‘And what? Marry her? In which event, will you take her back to London with you? Where will you hide her sister?’

  ‘Let’s work that out if and when it happens.’

  Camilla pondered. How could she go along to Caldwell Farm and accuse Margot of expecting a child? What was she intending to say to Amy? ‘Amy, my brother has impregnated one of your sisters and intends to run away with the other . . .’? After all, there was a chance that Margot might not be . . . Oh, what a mess.

  ‘Are you going to talk to Mater?’ he asked.

  She gazed at him, wondered how it could be possible to hate her own brother so strongly. Her mind clicked into gear. ‘Go to hell your own way and take Eliza with you. But if Margot is having a baby, I shall drag you back from London myself. Do you understand?’

  He inclined his head in reluctant agreement.

  ‘I shall be judge and jury, Rupert.’ Her tone was frighteningly quiet. ‘You’ve known me for long enough. Tread softly, old fruit.’

  She left his room and walked across to her own, her brain a tangle of bewilderment. As ever, her first loyalty was to her friends, those she had chosen over the years. Amy, a good egg, was probably going to suffer no matter what. Eliza, too interested in herself to care about her sisters, would go her own way sooner or later. And God forbid that little Margot should be carrying Rupert’s child.

  ‘I can do nothing,’ she concluded aloud. ‘I can’t say anyone is pregnant, not without proof. As for Eliza and my cretinous brother, it will be farewell and thank God. For a while, at least.’

  Mona struggled through the next few days, sometimes guilt-ridden and tearful, often deep in thought, occasionally walking all the way to Ida’s house, which was over a mile away from Pendleton Grange. Although she did not quite realize it, Mona was in the process of making her first two friends – Kate Kenny and Ida Hewitt.

  Then, in response to an invitation, Mona paid her first visit to Caldwell Farm. Moorhead picked her up in the trap, left her at the front door, giving her a chance to study the place before knocking. Mona liked the look of this house. A lot plainer and smaller than the Grange, it looked used and a bit tired. Sturdy, weathered and surrounded by fields, Caldwell Farm was Mona’s idea of heaven.

  Amy opened the door. ‘Good to see you out and about,’ she said. ‘Here’s Elspeth. Elspeth, this is Miss Mona Walsh – I told you about her.’

  ‘Sorry to hear about your loss, Miss Walsh.’ Elspeth relieved Mona of her outer garments. ‘The coffee’s ready,’ she said, before bustling off towards the kitchen.

  As the two women entered the parlour, its chimney performed one of the belches for which it was fast becoming notorious. ‘Just like ours at home,’ declared Mona. ‘Open the door and you get fumigated.’ This broke the ice, and they sat drinking coffee and chatting about general matters for ten full minutes.

  ‘So, how are you feeling now?’ asked Amy, once the ground felt steady enough.

  Mona considered her reply. ‘Less like a murderer. The doctor told Mr Mulligan that our Tilly was a time-bomb just ticking away – she’d already lived a good bit longer than he expected. Mind, if I hadn’t gone after Ida’s old house . . .’

  ‘A bit of advice,’ offered Amy, ‘as long as you don’t mind taking it from a younger person. Start looking forward. Peering over one’s shoulder all the time can never be a good thing.’

  ‘Aye, well, I suppose I’ll feel different once the funeral’s over.’

  Amy agreed. ‘You will feel a change, but the mourning takes a bit longer.’ She paused. ‘The great news is that you are trying to think about your future.’

  ‘I was doing that afore.’ Mona placed her cup and saucer on the winged table. ‘See, I’m past fifty. Me and our Tilly, we never knew anything apart from the laundry. It was left to us by Mother and Dad, and we worked there all hours – after school, Saturdays, all through summer holidays. There’s got to be more than that in life.’

  Amy watched while a variety of emotions visited the plain, colourless face. ‘I understand that Mr Mulligan has hired two women to run the laundry for the time being.’

  ‘That’s right. Now, see, there’s a good man if ever there was one. Nice-looking too, but his packaging’s wrong because he looks so stern.’ Mona sighed, shook her head. ‘What he really is doesn’t show till you know him better. Now, take me. Inside all this blubber I’m still a young girl, Miss Burton-Massey.’

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘Amy. It’s a nice name, is that. Short, but pretty. Where was I up to?’

  ‘You were still young and Mr Mulligan was wrongly wrapped.’

  Mona amazed herself by laughing. It wasn’t a giggle or a chuckle: a huge belly laugh broke out with no warning. ‘Eeh,’ she breathed, when the laughter calmed, ‘aren’t I awful? I should be crying.’

  ‘Not at all. Laughter is a fo
rm of medicine. Go back to what you were saying before.’ Unless Amy was very much mistaken, this lady’s laughter had been held back for too long, possibly for a lifetime.

  Mona eyed Amy Burton-Massey, wondered whether this young woman would take her seriously when all had been said. It was probably a daft idea, anyway, but why not hang for the full sheep? ‘Are you opening that there Cut Above shop? Made-to-measure fashions, isn’t it? I’ll still do all the pressing if you want me to.’

  Amy nodded. ‘Once again, Mr Mulligan has stepped into the breach. He has found a clever designer who will work on Mother’s patterns, then on her own ideas. My sister, Eliza, will possibly help, too. Why do you ask?’

  Mona ordered herself to take the plunge. ‘Right, you just shut me up any time you like, Amy, only I’ve been thinking. Look at me. Go on, look at me good and proper. Not much to send a letter home about, am I? Just an ordinary plain fat woman in an ordinary plain fat frock.’

  Amy looked, said nothing.

  ‘There’s thousands of me. Not all fat women are poor, you know. So, I’m setting you a bit of a challenge. I love clothes, always have done. Me and our Tilly have usually made our own, because there’s not much off-the-peg in our sizes. The challenge is this – try to make me look good. I don’t mean just a suit and blouse. Get a hairdresser in – there’s room downstairs at the shop. Make my face up, find me a decent corset and some shoes that don’t make my little toes bend in under the rest. Take the ugly and make it . . . well . . . better.’ After this long speech, Mona helped herself to a plain biscuit.

  Amy sat back. ‘You’d never have mentioned this had Tilly been alive. Am I right? Did she hold you back?’

  Mona, with a mouthful of crumbs, simply nodded.

  The younger woman rose to her feet and paced about the room, finally settling near the window. A hairdressing salon? Makeup? What about manicures, facial treatments, a complete package?

  ‘You think I’m daft, don’t you? Our Tilly would have laughed at me. She always did that, ground me down one way or another.’ Mona paused for thought. ‘Not that I want you feeling sorry for me, you understand. What I mean is, I’m not frightening. Most folk down town know me, I’m not unusual. There’s nothing to lose, love. If you can make me look nice, if you can give me a job, I can get ordinary women with a few bob to feel at home in yon shop. You could advertise a specialist service for the lady with a more generous figure. And I suggest you have an economy department, too. There’s girls out there who’d save up their pennies for a frock from A Cut Above. You could have them paying so much a week and all – like a savings club. And remember, they don’t all want silk and jersey wool.’