Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Amy returned to her seat. She stared at Mona for several seconds, weighed up pros and cons, took in the grey, unremarkable hair, ran her eyes over skin that had been incarcerated for decades in the damp air of a laundry. Mona was, indeed, a challenge. ‘Your hair will have to be done elsewhere,’ she said. ‘Jumping into hairdressing before we’ve even sold a single outfit would be rather reckless. But . . .’ But Mona had a gentleness of manner, an attitude that might draw out the damped-down egos of plump women.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But we might just give your brainwave a go, Mona. Yes, you can press clothes, but you can also sell them. Hmm, larger ladies – yes, yes.’ This woman had mental energy and imagination; she was also possessed of the experience of running a successful business. Could she be a saleswoman? Probably. ‘We’ll talk again after the funeral,’ Amy promised, ‘and—’

  The door opened and Camilla strode in. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I sneaked in the back way, got past Elspeth – am I interrupting?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Amy. ‘This is Mona – Miss Mona Walsh.’

  ‘Hello.’ Camilla shook Mona’s hand until it almost threatened to drop off. ‘Caught a glimpse of you at Christmas – sorry to hear about your sister.’

  ‘Camilla will be catering for A Cut Above – snacks and so forth for our clients,’ Amy told Mona. ‘Not every day, of course, but when we have our open days.’ She explained to Mona. ‘About once a month, we shall entertain our clientele in the parlour – the idea is to discuss trends and designs, allow the customer to have her say.’

  ‘Good show,’ cried Camilla. ‘So you’ll be opening up after all?’

  ‘Of course.’ She sent Camilla off to beg more coffee from Elspeth. ‘Stay for lunch,’ she asked Mona. ‘We can talk a little more about your ideas. I’m sure Camilla won’t stay all afternoon.’

  The three women shared one of Elspeth Moorhead’s famous Lancashire hotpots followed by the same county’s crumbly cheese with crackers. They chatted about the shop, though Mona’s idea remained for the present a secret between Amy and Mona, then Camilla had them all laughing about her family. ‘Equality in the workplace?’ she squawked, in a fair imitation of Helen Smythe’s rather wearing voice. ‘She pays our female staff less than half the wages of the men.’

  They discussed this topic for half an hour, then Camilla rose to leave. As she climbed into the high seat of her van, she remembered her reason for coming here. A firm believer in fate, she decided that Mona had been present for a reason. ‘Let it take its own course,’ she said to herself. ‘I arrived in several minds, anyway.’ And what might she have said? How could she accuse Margot of being pregnant when she might just be off-colour? ‘Stay out of it, Smythe,’ she ordered herself. ‘Margot and Eliza are not your concern.’

  While Amy was entertaining, Margot saddled Chloe, reined her tightly and set off through the fields, first building up to a canter, then driving the mare into a gallop. Life had changed so drastically in recent months, first with Mother’s death, then with the arrival of this terrible, awesome problem. Normally, Margot would be more than ready for lunch, should now be eating in the kitchen while Amy ate with her friends, but food was no longer a factor in Margot’s equation.

  Willing her unwanted tenant to vacate the womb, she rode carelessly, brushing against branches at the edge of a field, urging the mare to take jumps that were high and difficult. As she turned into one of the upper pastures, Margot became aware that she was being watched, then pursued.

  Within seconds, the man was upon her. He came alongside, took the head of her mount, dragged Chloe to a halt. ‘What on earth are you trying to do?’ he asked breathlessly.

  Margot attempted no reply.

  ‘Apart from anything else, you might have damaged my mare.’

  ‘And that would never do, would it, Mr Mulligan?’

  He dismounted, then dragged her out of the saddle. ‘I realize that you are an adventurous horsewoman, but I never believed you to be reckless. You know your own limitations, and you know Chloe’s.’ He ran a hand over the mare’s quivering neck. ‘I have sold items from your old house, Margot. Valuable paintings have gone under a hammer so that I might use my expertise with horseflesh to enhance the fortunes of Pendleton Grange. The horses are the future of your family. Now, please look at me.’

  She could not meet his eyes, could not have cared less about the survival of the Grange.

  ‘What is going on, Margot?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He placed a hand under her chin, turned her head until she faced him. ‘This is not nothing. This is a piece of sheer lunacy. Chloe does not jump well – you know that better than anyone.’

  ‘Perhaps I forgot.’

  She never forgot, not where horses were concerned. Had she not been female, this one might have made a champion jockey. ‘Amy is worried about you,’ he said.

  ‘Is she? I haven’t been aware of that. She’s too busy lunching with her friends to bother her head about me.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he snapped, removing his hand from her chin.

  As soon as he released his grip, she missed him. Rupert, that callow, selfish youth, was never going to be a man. Mulligan was a real man, the sort who would make a good husband. What chance had she of securing anyone decent while this pregnancy continued?

  ‘Margot, your sisters are under the same roof as you, they are with you constantly, so they don’t see what the rest of us see. You look unwell.’ He left a pause, whch remained unfilled. ‘What is the matter with you these days?’ He felt like a father chiding his daughter.

  Had she felt able to talk at all, she might have confided in James Mulligan. He was the type of man who kept secrets well; even so, Margot did not know where to begin. Panic bubbled in her throat. Soon, very soon, her problem would show of its own accord.

  ‘If you wish to talk to me, please be reassured that the information will go no further.’

  Margot perked up momentarily. ‘You would protect me? Just as you protect your cellar? Now, there’s a thing. You take yourself off several times a day, or so rumour has it. Into a cellar? When you have nothing to hide, Mr Mulligan, then you will be in a position to question and lecture others.’

  ‘Touché,’ he replied. ‘But I believe that your difficulty may be more pressing than mine.’

  He had guessed, then. How many others had reached the same conclusion? she wondered. Eliza and Amy probably judge her to be out of sorts, still grieving, perhaps. But those who saw her just occasionally might be achieving clearer and more accurate pictures. Something had to be done, and quickly. ‘I shall ride Chloe back now,’ she announced defiantly.

  ‘If you must.’ He helped her into the saddle, noticing that her agility was not as it had been. ‘I daresay the damage is already done,’ he said clearly, ‘and I shall follow you.’

  Margot gazed down on him. ‘Damage?’

  ‘To the horse,’ he replied. ‘Or . . . well, we shall see.’

  She pulled tight on the rein, causing Chloe to veer away quickly. With her eyes misting over, Margot allowed the mare to choose the pace for both of them. It wasn’t fair, any of it. The feelings she harboured for James Mulligan remained powerful – perhaps he was the man she loved after all. How was one supposed to separate infatuation from true love? Many women of Margot’s age were married – how had they managed to choose, to know, to be absolutely certain? Was it a lottery?

  Weary to the marrow, Margot Burton-Massey rubbed down her horse, found a dry blanket and some oats. She patted Chloe’s flank. ‘Thank you, girl,’ she whispered. ‘If that hard ride hasn’t worked, it’s none of your doing.’

  Eliza waited at the tram terminus. He was almost twenty minutes late, and she was beginning to wonder whether she needed him at all. She hated being beholden to a man like Rupert Smythe, and she had been working hard to find a way of separating herself from him. Not completely, because even she was frightened by the thought of being lost and alone in the capital. Neverth
eless, he needed to learn his place in her scheme of things.

  A tram pulled in and disgorged its load. The driver changed ends, all the while glancing at the beautiful woman who stood so still and straight near the wall. ‘Are you all right, miss?’ he called.

  She inclined her head.

  Frozen out by the chill in her eyes, the man made no further enquiries, choosing instead to read his newspaper until the time came to clatter his way back into Bolton.

  Eliza’s measures had consisted of a two-pronged advance. First, she had got hold of Rupert’s London address. This had been easy, because the idea was that he would go first, accompanied, of course, by his mother, then Eliza would follow some days later. Second, she had acquired what she considered to be her share of Mother’s jewellery, and had disposed of the same in Manchester, thereby increasing her savings significantly.

  She smiled to herself. She would be living in the same house as Rupert, but not in the same flat. After corresponding with the landlady, Eliza would shortly be the tenant of an attic room with some kitchen facilities and the use of a bathroom on a shared basis.

  He arrived at last, a silly scarf streaming from his throat as he braved the elements, his car hood pinned back, his face reddened by an icy wind. ‘Jump in,’ he called.

  The tram driver looked at the pair of young toffs. Off on a jaunt, he shouldn’t wonder, driving through the countryside at breakneck speeds when gradely folk were doing a day’s work.

  Rupert was unusually quiet. Eliza wondered about that for a second or two, then busied herself by tying a scarf over her hair. She had no intention of being seen out and about while resembling a badly constructed scarecrow.

  ‘Eliza?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve decided to go down before the New Year.’

  ‘Why?’

  Why? Because his sister, who packed the punch of a prize fighter, was on his tail. Because Eliza’s sister, who was at least doing him the courtesy of keeping her distance, might be pregnant with his child. ‘Oh, I’ve had enough of everyone,’ he said airily.

  She knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘Just want to see the bright lights as soon as poss,’ he concluded.

  Eliza looked into a small mirror to check that her makeup was surviving the ravages of Rupert’s driving. ‘I may go myself later this week,’ she said casually.

  His gloved hands tightened on the wheel. ‘But my mother will be there. I’ve promised to take her to a show. Father will spend the holidays playing golf, while Camilla – well, who knows or cares what she gets up to? Catering, I expect.’

  ‘And your mother must not catch a glimpse of me. Is that the case?’

  ‘Sorry, but yes. She’ll be paying our rent and—’

  ‘No, she won’t.’

  ‘Of course she will. I could not afford a flat on the salary I’ve been offered.’

  ‘I’ll pay my own rent, Rupert.’

  ‘Eventually, yes, you shall.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said clearly. ‘I’ve found a room of my own in the same house. Naturally, I shall lie low whenever your mother is within forty paces. Shouldn’t like to be responsible for upsetting the old girl.’ She glanced at him. ‘It’s just as well that this is winter, Rupert. You’d be catching flies.’

  He closed his mouth with a snap, slammed on the brakes.

  ‘Take me back to the terminus,’ she asked.

  ‘But I thought we were going for lunch?’

  ‘No. I think I’ll just go home and pack. I know I shan’t be travelling for a while, but it’s best to be prepared.’

  The tram driver watched as the little car slewed to a halt across the road. As he prepared to begin his journey townward, he saw the young woman crossing while the man drove off in a great hurry. Toffs. He had no time for them.

  Seventeen

  The funeral of Miss Mathilda Walsh took place on New Year’s Eve, 1921, at the crematorium. This compromise had been decided upon by Seth Dobson, who, on learning of Mona’s sudden antipathy towards Peter Wilkinson, reached the conclusion that the Temple of Eternal Light was not a suitable venue. Because of Tilly’s weight and the size of her coffin, extra bearers were brought in for the occasion, and the cortège assembled outside Tilly and Mona’s house at nine thirty.

  Mona had done nothing about the arrangements. Having stayed since Christmas at Pendleton Grange, she had been content to leave all dealings to the undertaker, who, to give fair credit, had made a fine job. The hearse shone, as did the two black horses whose job it was to pull Tilly from her home, across Bolton and to the crematorium. The coffin was made from the best materials, while Seth reassured Mona that Tilly was not in a shroud, but was dressed in her best grey skirt and the new Christmas blouse.

  Seth spent some time with the bereaved sister, holding her hand in a comforting way, telling her that people got distressed at this distressing time, and not to distress herself about getting . . . upset. Mona heard little, saw next to nothing. She was sure of only two things: that she would get through today, and that she would not set foot in any buildings connected to her past.

  Taking into account the fact that Tilly and Mona had collected few friends on their conjoined journey through life, the funeral attracted quite a crowd at all points along the route. Neighbours, who had found the sisters aloof, now declared that the Walsh family had been quiet, decent, and had caused no trouble in the neighbourhood. They had quarrelled occasionally, yes, but who didn’t? And at least there had been no fighting in the street.

  In town, especially near Mulligan’s Yard, people lined the pavements, some with bags of washing in their hands or in prams. Men removed their hats, women lowered their heads, and Mona wished with all her heart that the whole thing could be over and done with. She was cold, tired, and there was nothing she could do for poor Tilly now.

  The main party arrived at the crematorium, the living entering the building before the dead, as was the norm. Seth Dobson hung about in the doorway, hoping against hope that no distress would arise out of Mona’s changed attitude towards the celebrant, one Guardian Peter Wilkinson, who seemed not to have bothered to turn up thus far.

  Mona had many supporters on this sad day. Ida came, though the children, judged too young to attend, had stayed with neighbours. James Mulligan acted as chauffeur to Ida, Amy and Eliza, while Margot was a passenger in Camilla Smythe’s van. James got the distinct impression that the two younger Burton-Masseys had been press-ganged by Amy into coming. Bringing up the rear of this party, the stalwart Moorheads travelled in the trap.

  Already inside the chapel, a representative from every business in the yard and several from Deansgate waited for Tilly. It was when she saw these people that Mona had to bite down hard on her lip. Some folk were nice, after all. There was also a strong contingent from the Methodist chapel to which the Walshes had belonged before the arrival from Texas of a flame carried in the hold of a ship. Mona breathed a little sigh at the sight of the Methodists. That august body, combined with the presence of one dedicated Catholic man, would surely be sufficient to drive the contaminating presence of Peter Wilkinson back to the gates of hell.

  The guardian arrived eventually, his presence announced by the clatter of a bicycle in the porch. Some turned round in their seats to watch as he smoothed strands of hair to fill in the gaps. Halfway up the central aisle, he remembered the bicycle clips and was forced to stop in order to remove them from his person.

  After such an undignified entrance, Peter Wilkinson was much disturbed to find himself facing a dozen Methodists, the beautiful Burton-Masseys and, worst of all, the man he considered to be the greatest enemy of all. James Mulligan. What was he doing here? Weren’t Romans forbidden to attend services in churches other than their own? It was plain that Mr Mulligan was a law unto himself.

  The coffin, borne by eight men, made its slow and stately way up the aisle. When it rested on a trestle, two girls in white appeared from a corner room. One bore a lighted candle, the other a book
. Wilkinson placed the Light on Tilly’s coffin, took the book and began to read from it.

  He started with a collection of verses culled from various testaments, each piece lifted out of context to support the Eternal Light’s message. While he spoke, the white-clad girls stood motionless, one at each side of Tilly’s coffin. The original Light was praised for providing the dawn of creation, much was made of the Whitsuntide tongues of flame, then last, but never least, the burning bush of Moses was dragged into the arena.

  Wilkinson managed to meet the unamused eye of James Mulligan. ‘“Hear and fear all ye who walk a path on which the Light shineth not, for ye shall not be admitted to paradise on the day of judgement. Come forth into warmth and joy, and ye shall be redeemed.”’

  Unfortunately, a latecomer arrived just as the guardian was getting into his stride. The resulting draught travelled through the room, blowing out the Light on Tilly’s coffin. Wilkinson turned to one of the girls to ask that a second source of Light be carried in. Plainly, the girls had neglected to store a flame, and the guardian went into an immediate flap.

  James turned to look at Mona, who sat by his side. Her face was contorted by an emotion he would not have cared to define.

  ‘Er . . .’ Peter Wilkinson searched for words. ‘We shall have to adjourn while I go and fetch a flame.’

  Seth Dobson stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘only there’s another service in half an hour. We’ll have to get a move on as it is, what with you turning up so late.’