Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Ida agreed. ‘Did you take her to the doctor’s, then?’

  ‘Aye, that’s where we were when Amy opened the shop. Still, it wanted doing. That young one needs to know where she stands. Ooh, I hope nowt happens to Margot. She’s a lovely young woman once you get to know her. Then there’s the poor innocent little baby and all, I’m that worried about it, too.’

  ‘Will she keep it?’

  ‘I reckon she might.’ Mona glanced around the room, a look of puzzlement on her face. ‘Ida?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your Diane’s nightie’s still hanging on the clothes maiden.’

  Ida looked at the item in question. ‘She’ll have her dirty one on, couldn’t be bothered changing them over more than likely.’

  The two women stared at one another. ‘No,’ said Ida. ‘They won’t have gone out. They can’t have.’

  Mona jumped up, almost spilling her tea in the process. ‘Shall I go and look, Ida?’

  Ida nodded. She sat perfectly still while Mona trod the staircase, the answer plain in her mind before Mona shouted. They weren’t up there. Somewhere, outside on a bitter night, Diane and Joe were busy getting lost.

  Mona re-entered the room. ‘What must we do, Ida? This is getting daft now. Not daft funny, daft because there’s no sense to it.’

  ‘We mun get Stephen Wilkinson out again,’ replied Ida. ‘Long enough them two kiddies looked after theirselves while I lay there like a dead woman. There’s summat going on in them woods, Mona. And my Diane is drawn to trouble.’

  ‘She’s a good lass.’

  ‘I know that, Mona, but she craves excitement, needs to go about acting like a flaming detective. Go on, love, fetch the baker back. He’s got to go up to Caldwell again and tell Mr Mulligan what’s happening.’

  Mona pulled on her coat. ‘Four missing now.’

  ‘And Sally said something about Mary Whitworth’s brothers doing a disappearing act as well. They’re supposed to be sleeping in the laundry, but there’s no sign according to Sally.’

  ‘Six,’ pronounced Mona, before leaving the house.

  Ida sat bolt upright in her chair. A feeling of great unease played along her backbone, chilly fingers reaching up her neck until the hairs stirred. She thought about Charlie, her only son, just another private who had given his life in 1916. Her mind drifted to Brenda, wife to Charlie Hewitt, mother of Diane and Joe. She had never been a mother, that one. She was a prostitute, a dyed-in-the wool streetwoman with no thought for anyone but herself.

  Oh, how Ida had missed Charlie. She could see him now, playing jacks and bobbers, bowling a hoop, having a game of football with an inflated pig’s bladder, marching off to war, so proud in his uniform. ‘And now I’ve lost your kids,’ she told him. ‘Mind, I will say that daughter of yours has a head on her. But I told her to stop in, I did. Watch over them, Charlie. Please make sure they come back to me tonight.’

  She gazed into the dying embers, remembered how she, like Brenda Hewitt, had been of little use to Charlie’s children. ‘I just lay there,’ she whispered, ‘lay there praying for death so I could join Charlie. I never worried about them two poor kiddies. So I’m just as bad as blinking Brenda. Still, with a lot of help, I’ve done a sight better lately.’

  The clock ticked its leaden way towards nine. Ida and Mona were seldom up this late, while the children usually went up at about eight o’clock in wintertime. Where were they? What was in the woods? And would whatever it was leave her grandchildren alone?

  Mona came in. ‘He’s set off for the farm, Ida. Just got some loaves out, then off he went like a good ’un.’

  ‘He is a good man,’ Ida repeated. She watched her friend as she removed coat and gloves again. ‘I’m glad you turned up here, Mona. You’re a comfort.’

  I’ll be no comfort if them children don’t come home, thought Mona. ‘We’re lucky to have one another, love. I know it’s a bit cramped, but I can’t imagine living on me own now.’

  ‘We have to get them two back.’ Ida’s voice cracked. ‘She’s not a bad girl, our Diane. She’s just a bit on the adventurous side.’ The tears flowed. ‘I could have done more. I should have pulled meself together years back, when they needed me.’

  Mona crossed the room. ‘Stop this now, Ida Hewitt. You’re not hitting yourself with a big stick no more, not while I’m living here. Your Diane’ll look after Joe and—’

  ‘I shouldn’t have left them, I should have let Sally go up to the farm on her own.’

  ‘Aye, and the moon should be made of green cheese and all.’

  Ida attempted a smile. ‘They’ll be all right, won’t they, Mona?’

  ‘Course they will.’ Mona sat down and prayed. They would be all right, because the alternative was unthinkable.

  He dragged the body along uneven ground, felt every bump as he forced the dead weight over stones, fallen branches and exposed roots. There was no fear in him: he was a chosen one, a decider, a maker of the future. This had been the wrong one, so he had eradicated the interloper and was now waiting for his destined partner to put in an appearance.

  When Eliza Burton-Massey’s still form lay behind the gamekeeper’s hut, Peter Wilkinson covered her with a couple of sacks and some old newspapers. She would not smell: the weather was too cold for quick decay. Eliza, who had unwittingly become a part of the grand plan, would be with the angels, because she had played her part in the Light’s plan.

  He returned to the shack and prepared a pot of tea, using water drawn from a clear stream at the other side of Sniggery Woods. Soon, he would read passages from his Bible in order to absorb more strength into himself. Eventually Margot would come. Then everything could take shape. He was so near to the Lord, so secure in the Light Eternal – nothing could touch him now.

  ‘So I went back in the shop and telephoned the police,’ said Stephen Wilkinson, who was torturing his cap yet again, squashing and twisting it between thick, clean fingers. ‘See, with there being two kiddies missing—’

  ‘Four, possibly,’ said Amy. ‘Sally said that Mary Whitworth’s younger brothers seem to have disappeared from the face of the earth.’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘Well, I’ve lived up here going on twenty year, Miss Amy, and I’ve never known such queer goings-on in all that while.’

  Amy sat on the second stair. James had gone out to make one final search of the woods before calling out the farmers. But if the police were on their way, perhaps the landworkers would not be needed. ‘Diane’s a sensible girl,’ she pondered aloud.

  ‘Mrs Hewitt and Miss Walsh are worried past themselves,’ replied the baker. ‘It’s all to do with a light in the woods.’

  Amy nodded. ‘Yes, there’s the old gamekeeper’s hut – hasn’t been used since my father’s time – so I directed Mr Mulligan towards that. In the dark, it won’t be easy. But on the other hand, if there is the slightest glow coming from the hut, the darkness will become a help to the searchers.’

  ‘Hasn’t Mr Mulligan got a lamp?’

  ‘Yes, he found a storm lamp in the stables.’

  ‘Ah.’ Stephen straightened his cap and placed it on his head. ‘Then he could be seen by whoever’s in there.’ He sighed and lowered his chin. ‘I must go back to the shop, miss. I’ve the post office to open in the morning, and cakes to ice. Might not be much of an excuse, but I can guarantee that village’ll be wanting its breakfast tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, you go.’

  He walked away, turned. ‘Mind, if you need anything – the phone, my van – just let me know.’

  ‘I shall, thank you.’

  When he had gone, Amy placed her head against the wall and wept. She knew why Margot had run off, realized that guilt had driven the girl to dash off in pursuit of Eliza. Was Eliza worth the effort? Yes, Amy told herself determinedly. All humans warranted saving. But if anything happened to Margot, Amy would not be able to contain her feelings towards her other sister.

  The house felt so empty. The Moorheads were in bed,
blissfully unaware of more recent developments. James was now out in the cold, as were the two children from Bramble Cottage. It was a nightmare, and all Amy could do was to sit here and wait for someone – anyone – to return from those dark, thick woods.

  The idea of someone hiding out in the gamekeeper’s hut was bizarre – surely no-one in his right mind would be in there while the weather was so bad? But what about a person in his wrong mind? She shuddered. Lights in the woods? Ridiculous. Eliza and Margot would be carrying no lamps. Margot in particular knew every inch of Sniggery, every branch, every leaf in summertime. Eliza was a different matter: it was not like her to be outside so late and so long.

  Sally Hayes was no liar. Diane Hewitt, for all her chequered past, was no longer given to uttering untruths. So there must have been somebody there earlier on, because lights did not create themselves without the intervention of thunderstorms. Margot, James and Eliza were out there. Even in her panic, Amy noticed how James, rather than Eliza, had come second on her list.

  Four children missing, too. What on earth had happened to Jack and Harry Whitworth? By all accounts, they were stupid, shiftless creatures who came up to Pendleton Grange three or four times a year to do odd jobs. Kate Kenny complained about them, then paid them because she carried a soft heart beneath the brusque exterior. According to Sally, the two boys had not been paid – their money was still in a jam jar on the kitchen dresser.

  Oh, if only Kate Kenny had been here. Kate had a way of driving through problems, head down, horns sharpened, wits on red alert.

  ‘All I can do is wait,’ sobbed Amy. Like the wife of a serving soldier, she had to sit and find her patience.

  Twenty-four

  A ray of pale moonlight settled on her hair. Wilkinson drew in a sharp breath, picked up the necessary implements, poured chloroform on to the cloth. She was staring right at the shack, so he lowered the lamps before stepping outside. ‘You came,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Margot could not quite make him out, though the voice rang a bell. ‘Have you seen my sister?’ she asked. ‘Eliza Burton-Massey – she was walking in the woods, I think.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but she’s gone now. Will you step into the hut? I can make you a warm drink.’

  An extra chill visited Margot’s body, causing her to shiver violently. This new coldness was not a result of frost: it was a reaction to the man. There was something odd about him, something odd about anyone who chose to spend a January night in a gamekeeper’s hut during severe weather. ‘Where did my sister go?’

  ‘Home,’ he answered firmly. ‘She went to her home. Your sister is now where we all belong.’

  The baby moved. Margot dragged Elspeth’s winter coat across her body, tightened the grey shawl. ‘Then I shall go home, too,’ she said.

  ‘It is not time yet,’ he told her. ‘Your destiny lies on a great plain in a new country, a dry land rich with oil. We shall go there, you and I, to begin the new dynasty.’

  Margot’s heart began to beat like a bass drum. She caught her breath. ‘You are crazy,’ she said, her voice thinned by terror. ‘What have you done with Eliza? Where is she? And I shall go nowhere with you.’

  He leaped across the small clearing, grabbed her as she turned, stuffed the rag over her mouth. In spite of her struggles, he managed to contain her until the chloroform hit home. She was limp now, limp and compliant. He dragged her by the feet into the hut and placed her on the floor, her head almost touching the outward-opening door. To close it, he had to step over her carefully. This one must not be marked: this one had to be saved intact and beautiful.

  He removed her clothes, folding the items carefully and stacking them all on the upturned fruit box. She was heavier than he had expected, difficult to manipulate in so confined a space. But this was the right one, because his own body was responding, was preparing itself for the joining.

  He picked up a lamp and looked at her face, so lovely, so calm. Her upper body was perfect: she had the breasts of a mother, a mother of many children yet to be born into the Light. The waist was slightly larger than he might have expected and . . . and . . .

  And this was the wrong one. He should have chosen the other, she who had been in London, the unexpected arrival. Confused, he swung the lantern away from Margot and wondered about Eliza. Eliza was a truly beautiful woman, but she was . . . she was with the angels.

  He knelt, placed the lamp next to Margot. This girl was with child. Tentatively, he placed a hand on the slight distension, felt a small movement from within. Here lay no virgin, no bride for a guardian. He did not know what to do.

  Then he heard the words, words shouted by the devil’s own henchman. ‘Eliza, Margot, where are you?’ It was the papist, the Irishman, disciple of Lucifer. Lucifer meant light, the wrong light, the wrong woman naked on the floor, the right one – where? Outside, covered, cold, beaten.

  He strode over Margot, picked up a lantern, threw open the door and stepped outside. He had to save himself, because he was a guardian, a chosen one. There would be another for him, perhaps the oldest of these three well-bred girls. Women were disposable, replaceable, but he, who would become Supreme Guardian one day, was too valuable to be lost.

  Dropping his lamp, he ran off as fast as short legs would carry him, bumping into trees, feeling the small, skeletal branches as they reached to scratch his face. He fell head first into a field at the wood’s edge, forced himself upright, carried on and on until he completely lost track of where he might be.

  Then he saw a lighted window, moved towards it, slower this time, careful not to make a sound. The third one was in there, so this was Caldwell Farm. She was standing at the window, was waiting for her sisters to return. Waiting for Mulligan, too, he supposed. She and the Irishman were often seen together.

  Confusion reigned in his head once more. Without the Light, without frequent bouts of meditation, he was virtually powerless. Where to go? He crept round the back of the house, found a barn, covered himself in hay. Tomorrow, he would think again.

  Diane left her brother where he had fallen. Winded but unhurt, Joseph Hewitt sat on cold earth, leaned against the bole of a large tree and waited for Diane to return. He rubbed his shin, shivered and drew thin legs into his body. It was cold enough to freeze the eyes in your head, as Gran was often heard to say.

  Diane moved stealthily. She heard a dragging sound, saw light shining dully through covered slats in the hut. Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then someone shouted, called for Eliza and Margot. The door crashed outward and more light poured out, this time illuminating the figure of a man. He ran down the side of the shack, and just before discarding his lamp, held it for a split second so that it shone upward on an ugly, familiar face. It was Guardian Wilkinson.

  The girl shivered. She did not want to see any more, had no wish to share space with Peter Wilkinson. Anyway, there was Joe to attend to. Diane turned and went back to Joe. He had probably heard and seen nothing, which was just as well. In Diane’s book, Guardian Wilkinson was an item to be avoided. Gran would be back by now. A tale had to be invented.

  All the way home, Diane instructed her brother in the art of deception. ‘Why did we go out, Joe?’ she asked repeatedly.

  ‘We heard a kitten crying, Di,’ he replied, twenty or more times.

  ‘And what did we do, Joe?’

  ‘Followed the crying till we couldn’t hear it any more,’ he said, through chattering teeth.

  ‘Well, mind you stick to that story, Joe Hewitt, else we’ll be in very hot water.’

  Hot water sounded great to Joe, but he remained compliant. Where their Diane was concerned, the line of least resistance was the best option.

  James stopped running. He had lost the storm lamp several seconds earlier and was unable to see where the man had gone. Turning back, he stumbled in the direction of a hut, the gamekeeper’s hide to which Amy had sent him. There was a slight glow coming from two slats, one at the rear, the other on one side. The door and the o
ther wall of the shack were invisible from James’s current vantage point.

  As he passed the rear end of the structure, he heard a small groaning sound. There would be few young animals about at this time of year, he thought. There it was again, a groan of pain, muffled in some way, as if it struggled through cloth. He bent, used his hands to feel his way around the rear of the shed.

  ‘Good God,’ he exclaimed, as he made contact with cold human fingers. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It hurts,’ replied that same small voice.

  He found the head, knew that his hand was covered in blood. ‘Eliza?’ he asked. ‘Margot?’

  ‘Eliza.’ The word, forced through bubbles, sounded like a death rattle and James had heard many of those.

  ‘What happened?’ He knelt and supported what was left of Eliza Burton-Massey, cradling the weight of her against his breast. ‘Oh, Eliza, who did this to you?’

  ‘Man,’ she answered. ‘Bad man.’

  Be strong, he urged himself. You are strong, you have done all this before. But before had been a battlefield, a place where men went to win or lose, to live or die. ‘Eliza?’

  ‘I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I killed.’

  She was making a dying statement. ‘Rupert?’ he asked.

  ‘Ye-yes.’

  ‘He was going to hurt you, Eliza?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then God will have mercy on you.’

  He held her close to his chest till she died, his eyes closed as he concentrated on listening, waiting for that final, long-drawn sigh. He placed what remained of her head on sacking and what felt like newspaper, closed her eyes, sat back on his heels. ‘He forgave a crucified thief. I pray that He will also take you to His right hand.’

  His heart burned in his chest, his head ached, his hands were so frozen that he could scarcely feel the tips of his fingers. Eliza, so lovely, so cold now in more ways than one. God was good, God had a forgiving nature. ‘Into Thy hands I commend this spirit,’ he mouthed.