Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Twenty-eight

  By ten o’clock in the morning, the sun was already in a threatening mood. A flawless sky seemed to shrink away from such violence, paling as if in fear of it, while clouds simply took the day off, refusing to put in an appearance in the face of strong opposition.

  Ida Hewitt blew a strand of hair from her face. ‘We shall all cook,’ she declared. ‘Come three this afternoon, we’ll be like a few hundred Sunday joints, roasted, basted and ready for gravy.’ She mopped her brow with a handkerchief. ‘Never mind,’ she added, ‘soon be Christmas.’

  Kate Kenny laughed. ‘You know poor Elspeth’s doing fortunes in that little tent? Well, she used gravy browning to make herself look a bit more exotic. The browning has all trickled down on to her blouse, so she’s decided to wash her hands – and her face – of the whole business. She’s doing the fortunes, only she’s going to be herself and she’s taken her vest off.’

  Ida did not approve of vestlessness. ‘Catch her death,’ she muttered, waving at Amy who was moving two ponies to a shaded pen. ‘There’s not many women looks good in jodhpurs, but Amy manages to.’

  Kate’s eyes slid across to where James stood, his own gaze fixed firmly on Amy. Things had got no better for him. He was passionately in love and there was not a thing could be done to alter that fact. Kate turned away and offered up a quick prayer. Nothing was impossible, she informed her Maker. God had to help James now, because he was beyond the reach of his aunt’s guiding hand.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Ida, as she arranged a row of baby clothes.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘Then I’m not, so. Come on, I’ve all the jams and pickles to arrange on my own stall.’

  The grounds of Pendleton Grange were beautifully prepared, grass manicured, hedges trimmed, flowers burgeoning in the beds. To the left of the house, a single-storey building housed a brand new swimming pool; tennis courts, still virginal, awaited the arrival of villagers from Pendleton and Pendleton Clough. ‘They’ll ruin all his gardens,’ moaned Ida.

  Kate said nothing. The place was so happy today, bunting stretched across the lawns, stalls selling everything from cakes to white elephants, a greasy pole placed above the pond, animals awaiting judgement by a local vet, a place where photographs would be taken, adults dashing about laying a treasure trail for the younger element.

  Camilla Smythe’s van crawled up the drive. The friendship between her and the two remaining Burton-Masseys had been too deep to perish; Camilla knew now that Eliza had been suffering from a brain tumour, so she had forgiven the murdered girl for whatever she might have done in London seven months earlier. Helen Smythe, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish altogether . . .

  Amy, having deposited her ponies, went to help Camilla unload the van in preparation for the setting up of a tea and sandwich stall. James Mulligan, shirtsleeves rolled, struggled to maintain order among prize-seeking cows, pigs and sheep. The local vet was currently carrying water to another area where domestic animals endured a last-minute grooming from keen owners.

  ‘It’s going to be lovely, so it is,’ sighed Kate, ‘and any profits straight to the orphanage, just as it should be.’

  Ida laid out a set of embroidered traycloths. ‘Why won’t he get married?’ she asked, out of the blue. ‘Is it just because of that bad-tempered dad of his?’

  ‘That’s for him to know and us to wonder about,’ answered Kate, rather quickly.

  ‘Sorry.’ muttered Ida, ‘don’t like stepping on folk’s toes.’

  Kate inhaled deeply. ‘Nothing to be sorry for, but. He’s all I have left and he’s a sore worry to me, has me desperate.’

  Ida pondered for a few seconds. ‘She must be able to see it, Kate. You’d have to be six feet under not to notice what’s going on. Not that I mean . . . well . . . that there’s something . . .’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Kate watched the band as its members spilled from a charabanc, caught sight of a few colourfully dressed children who were preparing to dance. ‘You’re right, Ida. He loves her right through to the bone. Amy must be aware, for his heart is dripping down his sleeve.’

  ‘Happen she’s too busy with her shop – did you see the write-up in the paper? Gone from strength to strength, she has.’

  Kate was of the opinion that James was receiving signals from Amy, messages that were clear but unspoken. ‘No, it’s not that at all, Ida. She’s had a lot of changes and a deal of suffering to cope with. The shop is her distraction. Her love for my nephew is buried beneath grief and suffering, yet it’s there.’

  Ida nodded her agreement. ‘She won’t sit near him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And they don’t have them long conflabs what they used to have.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Even bought her own van so as she doesn’t have to come home with him.’

  ‘I know.’

  They knew. Yet there was little or nothing they could do with that knowledge. With the hydro almost finished, it would soon be time for James to return to Ireland. The two old ladies, versed in life, hopeful for the future, were unable to perform miracles. They prepared their stalls, all the time glancing up to watch Amy and James avoiding each other.

  Mona, who was to help Camilla with teas, sandwiches and cool drinks, dropped by to visit her friends. ‘Right, not long now, girls. We open at eleven,’ she said. ‘Are you two ready? Because if you are, come and give me and Camilla a hand covering everything up, keep flies off.’

  Kate froze. They were walking towards each other. Then James veered to the left, Amy to the right, and they all but collided. Say something, Kate urged within her mind. The great galloping fool needed to speak to Amy, had to speak to her. Go on, she almost shouted. Go on, get it done with.

  ‘Kate?’ Mona was puzzled.

  ‘We’ll be there in a minute,’ replied Kate at last.

  Mona marched off towards the tea tables.

  ‘They’re talking,’ whispered Ida.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Kate. ‘For a minute, they’re talking.’

  Amy looked up at him, dazzled by rays of sun that jumped over his shoulder and into her eyes. She manoeuvred herself into a less painful position. ‘Going well,’ she said lamely.

  ‘Nearly ready,’ he replied.

  Amy glanced down at her stained clothing. ‘No point in me getting changed as I am in charge of pony rides.’

  He looked past her, trying not to breathe in her scent, her essence. ‘Perhaps I should help with – with the gate,’ he managed, ‘you know, the tickets of admission.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Yes. But aren’t you the boss of that motley crew?’ Amy waved a hand in the direction of prize heifers and sows. ‘Some of them look rather splendid,’ she added, after a pause.

  ‘Amy?’

  Her throat was suddenly dry. ‘That’s a rather fine-looking Aberdeen Angus over there.’

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ He drew a hand through tangled black hair. ‘I want to . . . I have to talk to you.’

  Amy felt her fists curling, suppressed a shiver that snaked up her spine. Here stood a man who had become her friend, who was no longer a friend. Nothing had happened: there had been no quarrel, no disagreement. ‘Why?’ The single syllable emerged high, as if dropping from the lips of a child.

  ‘Things,’ he replied quietly. ‘Things I need to say.’

  ‘Er . . . about the hydro?’ she asked.

  ‘Among other topics, yes.’

  She stepped further away, knowing that she was running inside, trying to escape from the sheer confusion of – of what? Why was she bewildered? ‘Are you going back to Ireland?’ When seconds had passed without an answer, she finally looked him in the eye. What was going on in that fine brain? And what was happening inside herself? Her heart skipped, causing her to inhale sharply. No. Oh, no. He must not return to Ireland. He must not . . . leave her.

  �
�Amy?’

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  ‘This isn’t the time or the place,’ he said, ‘and it’s going to be so hot. Would you meet me tonight by the lake? Surely the heat will disperse by midnight?’

  She inclined her head again. ‘Midnight,’ she promised. And her heart was lighter.

  Diane was in the thick of it again. Having discovered that adults were malleable, she had gone into the business of sorting them out. She had solved a problem between quarrelling neighbours in Pendleton by suggesting that the trimming of a hedge was a small price to pay. ‘If you cut that down, she’ll get more sun in her garden.’ It had worked. Like a detective, she made notes, plotted solutions, got herself into all kinds of scrapes. ‘Diane,’ her grandmother had said, ‘what are you up to at all?’

  ‘Training,’ the child had replied darkly.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The police.’

  Ida’s answer to that had been a glance at the ceiling followed by a few words of concern for the constabulary. It looked as if their Diane had set her sights on becoming the first ever female chief inspector. ‘God love them,’ Ida had been heard to mutter, ‘because they don’t deserve what’s coming their way.’

  At the summer fair, Diane was on the gate with Sally. Neither had paid, so each was expected to contribute her time and effort to the proceedings by being helpful. The younger girl, in possession of a new florin, decided to hang on to her money: she would help Sally with the hoop-la, and she would have a good look at all the free stuff. She could drink water, which cost nothing, then the band and the dancing were available for everyone at no extra cost. ‘Two bob,’ she kept muttering. ‘I’ve got two bob, Sal.’

  Sally had little to say. It was too hot, there were people trying to sneak in without paying, and she had had enough last time. The last time to which she referred inwardly was the episode at the police station. Now Diane was on what she called a special mission. Sally, the older by more than three years, had been dragged into the mire once more.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ Diane said, several times. ‘It just wants doing, Sal.’

  ‘But why does it have to be us?’

  Diane took a ticket from Stephen Wilkinson. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ she advised, awarding him a brilliant smile. His brother might be awaiting trial for murder, but the village postmaster was a fine, decent soul.

  ‘Diane?’ pleaded Sally.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean . . . what I mean, Di, is that we shouldn’t be interfering. Things like this have a road of sorting themselves out. It’s not like an ordinary problem. This is love, so they have to fall in love on their own or fall out on their own.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Diane held her defiant head so high that it almost tilted backwards. ‘Listen,’ she said, with forced patience and after collecting a few more tickets, ‘they’re daft. They get their heads that full of stuff like work and things as they can’t see what’s in front of them. Mr Mulligan loves Amy and she loves him. I’ve heard it all at home, me gran and Mona. See, the old folk won’t do anything about it, so it has to be us again. We have a chance of growing up with a bit of sense because we’ve started young.’

  In her heart, Sally could not help agreeing with the younger girl. The grown-ups within Sally’s sphere did not always function correctly. They needed a little shove now and then, a slight push in the right direction. In Diane’s much stronger opinion, they needed a kick up the backside. But . . . but what? Things were going to change anyway, so why not make an effort to steer life towards the better option?

  ‘Sal?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You with me?’

  ‘Course I am. You know I am.’

  ‘Good.’ Diane grinned at Mr Mulligan. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘are you taking over here now?’ He might be taking over the gate, but Diane was about to attend to the rest of his life without even consulting him.

  ‘I am. Go and watch the dancing, then do the hoop-la. Have a lovely day.’

  It was wonderful. The two girls dashed round the treasure trail, each finding sweets and home-made biscuits along the way. They watched an Irish piper filling his instrument, not by blowing but by pumping the instrument with his arm. Children performed reels, their elaborate costumes in green and gold glittering with shiny beads.

  At twelve, knitters began their furious race, needles and wool moving in masses of colour. Then there was the greasy pole, the tug-of-war, the races. Pendleton won hands down in most categories. Pendleton Clough would have to supply several kegs of beer as payment for their second-class status.

  Orphans came, whooping and leaping about the tennis courts, using the new pool, a lifeguard at hand in case of mishaps. Ponies trundled about in the cruel heat, children on their backs, until Amy decided that the beasts had had enough. A band marched, youngsters skipping behind the parade; refreshments ran out twice, most people were photographed.

  By three o’clock, the party had ground to a halt. As if reacting to a signal, everyone suddenly sought shade, some near hedges, many under trees. The old slept; the young, disappointed by their own lethargy, made daisy chains and chatted in small groups.

  Diane nudged Sally. ‘Now’s as good a time as any,’ she said, ‘and the longer we put it off, the harder it’ll be. Come on, we have to shape, get them two daft beggars together on their own.’

  ‘Oh, heck,’ gulped the maid-of-all-work. ‘They’ll kill us.’

  Diane nodded her cheerful agreement. ‘Yes, but you only die once – me gran says.’

  ‘Me gran says, me gran says,’ mimicked Sally. ‘And you take no notice of her.’

  ‘I’m lovable with it,’ grinned the smaller girl. Her expression changed. ‘Oh, heck. Oh, heck, Sal. Forget Amy and Mr Mulligan for a minute.’ She swallowed audibly. Her own plans were laid aside as she prepared to be upstaged. What she saw, what everyone saw, made the air even heavier than before. There were no clouds in the sky, yet a storm gathered on a hot July day during a summer fair at Pendleton Grange. Even the ponies seemed to hold their breath . . .

  Margot had made up her mind. William was not going to be hidden from sight just because he had no father, or because the father he might have had was a dead rake. The baby was a fortnight old now, a pretty blond child with no visible flaw, and he was ready to make his début.

  Margot had decided to get it all over in one fell swoop. ‘You see,’ she told her son, as she leaned over the pram to straighten his matineé jacket, ‘the mountain has come to us.’ There were hundreds of them, it seemed. But she held her head high against a judgemental world. Why take her punishment in small portions eked out over a period of months? And what had she done? The real sinner, a man who had tormented young girls, who had killed William’s aunt, was languishing in jail awaiting trial. ‘I killed no one,’ Margot muttered, under her breath. ‘I hurt nobody except myself and you, little one.’

  When she thought about the riding, the attempts she had made to be rid of the baby, she tensed into a state where the major nerves of her body became like steel: Margot had never suspected that a child could bring so much love as he screamed his way into the world. William was fast becoming the centre of her universe, the reason for her continuing existence.

  Her steps slowed as she reached the driveway of Pendleton Grange. All eyes would be on her, gossip would ripple through ranks like a summer wind across fields of corn. It had to be done. It had to be done now, before she lost the strength.

  Most people were seated, probably overcome by the day’s powerful heat. Margot pushed her pram towards the edge of the field, waiting with unaccustomed patience for the world to inspect her son. ‘Your first parade,’ she told him. ‘Best behaviour now, no dribbling or crying.’

  Then a car pulled up on the drive, tyres slewing and displacing gravel. A few chippings caught the pram, and Margot turned her newly acquired maternal anger on the driver. ‘What on earth . . .’ she began. But when she saw the occupant of the parked car, she took a step awa
y. Oh, no, not here, not now.

  Helen Smythe leaped from the vehicle. Her usually coiffed hair fell in ragged strings around her face; her clothing, always pristine, was creased and dirty. She dashed from car to field in a matter of seconds. ‘Slut!’ she screamed. ‘You thought you would trick him, but he tricked you by dying courtesy of your sister.’

  Several people rose carefully to their feet – it was plain that the paternal grandmother of Margot’s son was in no mood for negotiation.

  ‘Give him to me,’ continued the distraught female.

  Margot positioned herself between the pram and Helen Smythe.

  ‘That farm is damp,’ cried the latter. ‘I can give him everything he needs, an education, a decent home.’

  Margot tossed a few curls from her face. ‘Your son had everything he wanted, and look how he behaved. Go home, Mrs Smythe.’

  At the back of the audience, Amy found herself next to James. ‘No sudden moves,’ she muttered. ‘The woman is clearly crazed.’

  He inclined his head in agreement. ‘Rupert’s death has knocked the lady out of her, I’m afraid. And she must be stopped now or Margot will become a bundle of nerves.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ Amy promised. ‘She has developed a passion for my nephew. There is no chance of anyone getting a look-in. So far, she has proved herself an excellent mother.’

  They noticed movement in the far hedge. ‘Oh, God,’ said Amy. ‘Diane Hewitt’s secret society is on the march again.’

  ‘Only two members so far,’ he replied. ‘It’s when she starts with dogs, boot polish and laundry that we have to worry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind, Amy.’

  Margot faced her tormentor. ‘William is my son – I have rights. Aren’t you an expert on the rights of women, Mrs Smythe? Now, go home and behave yourself.’

  Diane popped up from behind the hedge. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said graciously. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Mrs Smythe. She did not notice the second girl, since Sally had crossed the lane lower down and was now behind the dishevelled interloper. Moving with all the grace and cunning of a panther, Sally Hayes, orphan, good girl and maid-of-all-work, removed the keys from the ignition. Even if Mrs Smythe did manage to grab the baby, she wouldn’t get far in a dead vehicle.