Margot raised a shoulder. ‘There are places, homes for mothers and babies. I could go to one of those and we could all pretend I’d caught TB . . .’
Mona waited for the sentence to end. It remained unfinished, so Mona spoke again. ‘The baby would be taken away and given to some woman who can’t have children.’
‘Someone who’ll want it,’ Margot said.
‘Aye. There’s loads who’d give their right arms for a babby.’
Margot gulped down another mouthful of tea. Something had happened to her in recent days. ‘I think it’s moved a few times,’ she said now. ‘It felt as if I’d been eating greedily – as I used to – but without the pain. It’s a part of my body, yet it’s a separate thing, and I don’t know what I’m saying.’ She paused. ‘I don’t want it, but . . . But I still don’t know what I’m saying.’
The girl was a battlefield. Although Mona had not experienced pregnancy, she had seen many a mother-to-be in the laundry, had noticed changing moods, tears, laughter that sometimes verged on the hysterical. All the women at the wash-house had been married. Even those as poor as church mice had been half of a pair. Margot had no partner . . .
‘It’s Rupert’s,’ said Margot now.
‘Well, I’d gathered that for myself.’
‘And he’s in London, probably with my sister.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘Eliza is very strange,’ she announced thoughtfully. ‘She’s like something connected to James Mulligan’s new generator – switch on, switch off, no real feelings. She fooled me, Mother and Amy for years, such a good egg, dutiful daughter, wonderful pianist, sugar and spice, all things nice.’ She looked directly at Mona. ‘There’s no soul in her playing, you know.’
Mona, unsure of what to say, nodded encouragingly.
‘She’s cold,’ Margot concluded.
‘Eliza might be on the cool side,’ said Mona, ‘but your Amy isn’t. She’s a fine girl with a big heart and a good head on her shoulders.’ The world on her shoulders, too, thought Mona sadly.
A faint smile paid a short visit to Margot’s face. ‘You make her sound like a pint of beer – a good head on it. Oh, Mona, what a mess. Why should Amy have an illegitimate nephew or niece? Who’s going to want to marry me after this?’
Mona sighed heavily. ‘Like you said just now, you can always give it away, love.’
The cup clattered as Margot placed it in its saucer. ‘Can I?’
‘I don’t know, lass. Nobody does. Even you have to work hard getting an answer to that one.’
Mona stood up and pulled on her gloves. ‘We’d best get out of here. It’s colder in this house than it is outside.’ She gazed round the walls at her mother’s pictures, Victorian prints fading away, an embroidered sampler, a Home Sweet Home, a When Did You Last See Your Father?. ‘I don’t need any of it,’ she said absently, ‘though I suppose I’ll hang on to the sewing-box and a few other bits.’
Margot’s gaze followed Mona’s, taking in the small trinkets and trappings that had accumulated over a lifetime or two. ‘Amy says we’ve always to look forward. It’s no use glancing over my shoulder and remembering what a fool I was with Rupert Smythe. It’s like you, Mona, walking away from all your furniture. You need new things for a new start, leave regret behind.’
Mona smiled determinedly. ‘You and me is in this together, lass. Come hell, high water, world war – God forbid – it’s thee and me, Margot.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’ And she did.
Our Jack and our Harry, those burly thirteen-year-old twins, were on the scene again, chopping wood, cleaning stables, trying to wash windows in temperatures that almost removed the ends of wet fingers.
Sally Hayes watched them. These brothers of Mary Whitworth were not her idea of decent people. Also, Mary had displayed for some weeks a deepening resentment for Kate Kenny and, most particularly, for Mr Mulligan. Mary was up to something again. The stealing had stopped, but there were still ongoings, plans that showed on the girl’s face whenever she dropped a tightening guard.
‘Sally?’
‘Yes, Mrs Kenny?’
‘Is this you daydreaming?’
Sally turned and smiled at a dragon who was really an angel in disguise. ‘I don’t like those boys,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t we get some from the village?’
The housekeeper pondered. ‘Well, we could, yes, but the Whitworths are poor and those two trek all the way from Bolton, so they must be keen.’
Sally looked over her shoulder. Both of them were grinning at her, their faces hard and set in lines etched deep by poverty and deprivation. ‘I don’t trust them,’ she said.
‘Neither do I.’ Kate placed a batch of scones on the table. ‘Here, lift these on to the cooling rack, Sally. No good’ll come of you staring at them – it’ll only worsen matters altogether.’
Mary Whitworth sauntered in, a feather duster in one hand, a letter in the other. She poked the envelope towards Kate Kenny. ‘It’s for you,’ she said sweetly.
Kate took the letter, her eyes never leaving Mary Whitworth’s face as she used a sharp knife to slice open the item of mail. ‘Go and tell those two brothers of yours to stop mullarking about and get on with the jobs, or there’ll be no money today.’
Mary, still brandishing the duster, left the room. Sally, who was placing the last of the scones on a cooling rack, froze when Kate dropped into her fireside rocker. ‘Mrs Kenny?’
‘Jesus, Mary and holy St Joseph,’ breathed Kate. ‘I’ve to get to Chester today, right away. A friend – a good friend.’
Sally waited.
‘I think the weather delayed the post – the funeral’s tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Sally, not knowing what to say next, held her tongue.
‘She came over to England at the turn of the century, worked for a rich family, then for another. Always well treated was Bridget, for she toiled like a horse and prayed like a saint.’ She paused. ‘Should have taken the veil, but she’d money to earn and send home. Aye, a prisoner of conscience, she was.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Kate looked at the young maid. ‘Pack me a bag, there’s a good girl. Just the basics, just for one night, perhaps two. And I leave you in charge.’
Sally blanched. The two boys would be sleeping on the kitchen floor tonight. Mary was up to no good, so, if Mr Mulligan were to go out – oh, she should not be bothering about such things: Mrs Kenny’s friend was dead, that was what mattered.
But, as she raced upstairs to pack Mrs Kenny’s case, Sally’s heart went into overdrive. There was badness in the air, a wickedness that was almost tangible. Should she speak to the master later on, ask him to get rid of Mary’s brothers?
The coal cart arrived. Even from upstairs, Sally could hear the fuel clattering down its chute and into the cellar. She chose Mrs Kenny’s garments and placed them in a small valise. Poor Mrs Kenny. An old friend dead, a funeral to attend. Concentrating on the task in hand, Sally placed the Whitworth family where they belonged – in the myriad bits of nonsense at the back of her mind.
Twenty
The trouble with Jack and Harry Whitworth was that they displayed very few symptoms of common sense. If they wanted to do something they did it, never stopping for one moment to consider the possible outcome of their action. So, when they saw the coal flaps hanging open in the rear yard of Pendleton Grange, they slid down the gritty chute on to a black and jagged mountain in the cellar below. There would no longer be a need for their Mary to search for spare keys to the cellar door in the kitchen above. The fact that they needed a key to get out again simply did not occur to them – the future could take care of itself.
They were in. When the coal doors closed, when chain and padlock rattled, when all light was lost, they felt no fear, simply because they had not the imagination required to suffer that emotion. ‘Dark,’ mumbled Jack. ‘And that slide were all covered in slack.’
‘I’ve hurt me leg,’ came the reply, ‘bits of coal stuck in it where me trous
ers split.’
They sat in the gloomy pit for several minutes, pupils widening hungrily in the automatic search for light. ‘Can’t see a door.’
‘Can’t see any bloody thing.’
‘What shall we do, then?’
‘I dunno, do I? We should have waited for our Mary to find a key.’ Too late, a glimmer of common sense visited them – how were they going to escape? Mary had been sent out to the yard only minutes earlier with a message from Mrs Kenny. Mrs Kenny’s messages were always the same, work harder, work faster, you’re doing it wrong. Mary had still found no key.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘You’re always flaming hungry.’
Silence hung heavy in the dusty air.
Then Jack was visited by a thought. ‘Some bugger’ll come for coal in a bit. I mean, they have to get coal, don’t they?’
Another pause dragged its weary self into the arena.
‘Harry?’
‘What?’
‘There’s only him comes for coal. The housekeeper never gets it and he won’t let Mary or the other one carry owt on the heavy side, like. He never lets nobody down here and that means he must have plenty to hide.’ Jack sniffed. ‘Her from th’ orphanage thinks she’s somebody. Her’d likely be too grand for coal-carrying.’
‘Nobody’ll be nobody when we find whoever he’s got down here,’ answered Harry. ‘That bad Irish bugger’s keeping some poor swine locked in one of these cellars. Brings food down, he does. They’ll all go to jail except for our Mary.’
‘Right,’ announced Jack. ‘Let’s find the door out of this cellar into the next. If we go through all the rooms, we can save him what’s been shoved down here.’
Harry considered the next move. ‘I can see a bit now.’
‘Aye, me and all.’
‘Jack? It might not be a him, might be a her. And we could get in the papers, heroes, happen a reward.’
‘Get a grip of my arm, Harry. We make our way round the walls till we find that door.’
‘Have to find the bloody wall first.’
‘Shurrup,’ snapped Jack. ‘It’s got to be done.’
‘Heroes,’ smiled Harry. ‘That’s what we’ll be. Flaming heroes.’
The magic had happened. Quite by accident, Peter Wilkinson had stumbled upon a small hut in the woods, a dilapidated construction whose original purpose had been to shelter gamekeepers while they spied on poachers. As this was winter, Wilkinson needed cover, somewhere to hide from the sight of others and from the cold during his solitary retreat. Within these boarded walls, he would commune with the Lord, would find his own salvation and, with the help of the Light, he might even find a path for Margot Burton-Massey, whose destiny surely lay in Texas.
The greatest miracle of all was a paraffin heater, a rusted item last used by an employee of the Burton-Masseys, he guessed. This treasure had responded to cleaning and was now ready for use. He could make tea and he could fry and boil, while his body would be kept above freezing point.
It hadn’t been easy, not with just a bike, but the hut now contained fuel for the stove, two blankets and enough food for a week, mostly tinned and bottled stuff. Outside, in the frost, he had placed a box of bread and scones, allowing them to freeze so that their freshness could be maintained for as long as possible. His family, his customers and his fellows in the Light all believed that he had travelled to Birmingham on Temple business. But no, he was in Sniggery Woods with the Light, a Bible and ample sustenance for several days.
Because the trees were naked, he could see, with the help of binoculars, the back of Ida Hewitt’s house, the edge of Caldwell Farm’s garden, and a worn track that led between the two. Pendleton Grange was out of view, but that was no matter. Wilkinson concentrated on the lane, which was straight ahead when he stood in line with the shack’s doorway, occasionally twisting his attention to the left in order to pick up any movement from the direction of Ida’s house.
As evening dropped its shades, he watched two figures making their way from Pendleton village towards Caldwell Farm. He walked out of the hut, creeping stealthily towards this pair of companions. One was Mona Walsh, the second the girl of his dreams. Their progress was slow, while it was plain from the position of their heads that they were engaged in conversation. A dart of pure hatred struck his heart, making him gasp. Margot Burton-Massey had made a companion of Mona Walsh, who was no more than a washerwoman. He, Peter Wilkinson, guardian of the Eternal Light, had been granted no space in the diary of Miss Margot. Mona Walsh, a one-time worshipper of the Light, had inveigled her way into the life of Wilkinson’s dearly beloved.
He breathed away his anger and stepped back into the hut, closing the door in his wake. There were no windows, but three slits, each some eighteen inches wide and six inches deep, had been cut into three of the walls. Over these gamekeeper’s spy-holes, Wilkinson had placed sacking, as he did not want even the palest glimmer of light to escape from his hide. Now, he would eat bread and cheese, would drink tea, would rest. She still walked in the woods, even in winter, and he had a week in which to claim her.
The sound of a motor cut into the guardian’s thoughts, and he stepped outside once more. James Mulligan’s car was rolling along the lane towards Caldwell Farm. He would be taking Amy Burton-Massey home after the second opening of that shop. Wilkinson had read about the shop in the Bolton Evening News. Any minute now, James Mulligan would be sharing space with Margot. Pores opened along Wilkinson’s arms – he could feel every hair as it rose up and stood to attention.
She will never be yours, for you are the spawn of Hades. I shall take her from this place to a new life.
He blinked. How? How might he convince her? No, he must not question, must not worry. She would see the Light, would come to her senses after the cleansing, as she was truly worthy and good.
The Light is in my heart and in my soul. The Light will guide, and I must ask no questions. The flame will burn and cleanse. I am a messenger, a vessel. Praise the Lord in glory and gratitude, for He will show the way.
James pulled the car into a side track, turning off the lights and allowing the engine to idle. In spite of multiple reservations, he was going to talk to Amy. The journey from Bolton up to Pendleton had offered no opportunities for conversation, as Diane and Joe had been sitting in the back seat.
Amy bit her lip. The man had said not one word of warning before pulling off the lane, yet she had no fear of him, no sense of imminent danger. He would not hurt her; she could imagine no situation in which James Mulligan might become predatory. With her hands curled together in her lap, Amy waited.
James clasped the steering-wheel as if it were a lifebelt. Having decided to speak up, he was suddenly bereft of words. Had there been a dictionary to hand, that would have been no help, because the problem lay not within his mind but deep inside his heart. ‘Amy.’ He dragged the two syllables from the pit of nowhere.
‘Yes?’
James cleared his tightening throat. ‘Margot did not arrive at the shop, then?’
‘No. Nor did Mona.’
He might be wrong, prayed to be wrong, yet he was almost certain that Margot had been trying to abort her child by riding recklessly all over the estate. ‘Margot seems ill-at-ease these days.’
Amy’s heart lurched.
‘Have you questioned her?’
‘No. No, I haven’t.’
‘And she has volunteered no information at all? Has she not said that she feels ill?’
‘No.’
James’s grip on the wheel was causing pain, so he tried to relax. ‘Your sister is, I think, carrying Rupert Smythe’s baby.’ There, it was said. A motor taxi passed the end of the track, though neither passenger in James Mulligan’s car truly noticed the vehicle.
‘Amy?’
She shook herself out of her sudden stillness. ‘I think I already knew that, James. Knew it and rejected it at the same time.’
He allowed a deep sigh of tension to leave his chest. ‘I may
be misleading myself and you, but I suspect that the absence of Margot and Mona was no coincidence. They were together today, I am sure of it.’
Amy swallowed, did not know what to say.
‘I . . . er . . . I know of places where young mothers go to give birth, then adoption is arranged . . .’ The words died.
‘And now Eliza is with him,’ said Amy. ‘I know it. She is in London with that dreadful man.’
‘He’ll get nowhere with her,’ replied James. ‘Eliza guards herself extremely well.’
‘Yes . . . yes, she does.’ Amy removed a glove, ran the freed hand through her hair. ‘James?’
‘What?’
‘I cannot manage all this. It’s not just Margot and . . . the baby. It’s not just Eliza and her coldness towards the family, her recklessness. There’s the business, the house, trying to keep track of money, balancing investment in the business with the needs at Caldwell Farm. I feel too young for all of it.’
‘Let me help you,’ he pleaded.
‘Mother would not—’
‘Louisa is dead. Even were she alive, she would have come to me, Amy. Louisa and I were becoming good friends, you know. Look,’ he turned slightly in his seat, managing not to moan when the gear lever tried to bite his thigh, ‘I rent a great deal of land from you at a price that is almost peppercorn. Double your charges, Amy. It will all be yours in the end, whatever.’
‘Whatever,’ she repeated, the consonants softened by an attempt to imitate his accent. ‘Very well, you may pay double. And thank you so much.’
Words trembled on the tip of his tongue. He ached to hold her, to stroke the lines from her forehead, to . . . No. He could never do any of that, must not give in to such urges. But, oh, it was becoming so difficult . . .
‘I shall speak to Margot,’ she announced. ‘And her wishes will be my guide. I am not surprised, you know. Margot needed love and thought she had found it. She is not a murderer, not a thief. I hope she will hold up her head— Was that Camilla’s van on the lane?’
Mulligan's Yard Page 28
