Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  While Sally ran off, Diane remained, her hard gaze fixed on Mrs Smythe’s face. ‘If you touch that baby of hers,’ she jerked a thumb in Margot’s direction, ‘I’ll get the police. Then this lot behind me in the field will be all over you like measles, Mrs Smythe.’

  Members of this lot in the field were moving anyway, galvanized by the sight of Sally running off with the keys. A solid mass of people surrounded Margot, some pulling at the pram, others making sure that Mrs Smythe stayed away from her target.

  Camilla arrived, beetroot cheeks at odds with burnished red hair. ‘Mother!’

  Helen Smythe turned. ‘They killed him. This woman’s sister killed Rupert – I know it. Surely I deserve to have a hand in the rearing of Rupert’s son?’

  Ida, dragging Mona in her wake, pushed herself to the front. ‘See?’ she gasped. ‘There’s loads of us, so you don’t stand a chance. If you don’t beggar off, I’ll hit you – do you hear me?’

  Camilla stepped in front of her mother. ‘No-one will hit her,’ she declared firmly. ‘She’s ill, driven out of her mind by my brother’s death. How many of you lost men and boys during the war?’

  Ida backed off. She understood. Loss could send people mad, could put them in bed for months on end. ‘Take her home, lass,’ she advised Camilla, ‘and keep her there.’

  The fuss died after Helen had been driven off in her daughter’s motor van. Little William was cooed over. A star to the core, he did not cry as he was passed from hand to hand. Margot, her heart still working double time after her close encounter with Helen Smythe, began to relax. She had done the right thing, had chosen to face the future head on. He would be loved. No matter what happened after today, William Burton-Massey would be protected by these villagers.

  Amy dried a tear. She suddenly felt fiercely proud of her sister, whose backbone remained rigid despite the child’s illegitimacy. No, she told herself. It was because of William’s status. Margot had gambled her last card, had turned up the ace of hearts. ‘We all gamble,’ said Amy aloud.

  ‘We do,’ replied the man at her side.

  ‘Ah, James,’ she murmured.

  He smiled. ‘Ah, Amy. I shall see you later.’

  The day drifted idly towards evening, the heat refusing to remove itself even when its source began to drop towards the Pennines. Stragglers and tidiers wandered about the grounds, while several groups of people continued to chat beneath trees.

  At a denuded hoop-la stall, Sally and Diane watched the scene, both on pins while they awaited their chance. Sally, after running off with Mrs Smythe’s keys, was not looking forward to the next piece of trouble, though she agreed with Diane – something had to be done before the end of this day.

  ‘Sal?’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘I do him, you do her.’

  ‘Right.’ Sally dragged a length of damp hair from her face, pushed it behind her ear. ‘They’ll kill us.’

  ‘Stop saying that,’ answered Diane.

  The two girls hugged, separated, then formed the pincer movement on which they had agreed. Little Saul Dobson from Pendleton Clough had lost his guinea pig. This remarkably stupid animal, whose name was Squidge, had insinuated himself under the door of a stable, had refused to come out, while poor Saul, distraught with worry, had been dragged home for a bath. That was the fairy tale to which Diane and Sally intended to cling.

  Thus it was that Amy Burton-Massey and James Mulligan found themselves locked up together in a stable as hot as an oven. Too late, they noticed the door closing, heard bolts shooting home in the door’s top half, the bar slamming into position on the lower part.

  ‘You’ve twenty minutes,’ yelled Diane. ‘Get it sorted out before we all go mad. There’s iced water in that enamel bucket and there’s two cups and all.’

  ‘And no guinea pig,’ added Sally, for good measure. ‘So don’t bother looking for it because we made it up.’

  The girls stared at each other. ‘We’ve been and gone and done it now,’ smiled Diane. ‘Come on, let’s see if there’s any food left.’

  ‘We should leave all this until midnight,’ said James, ‘because it’s too hot for thinking and talking.’ He filled a cup, passed it to her, filled another. Instead of drinking, he poured the contents over his head.

  Amy made no reply. She had stumbled quite by accident over her feelings for this man, though she realized already that he had owned her heart for some time. This was embarrassing. Two children had forced them in here, so how many had noticed the non-courtship that had not been going on? ‘The whole village must know,’ she whispered.

  ‘And Pendleton Clough,’ he replied.

  Amy sighed, took a draught of water. ‘I don’t even know what we’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  She felt the heat in her face as it registered beyond any calculable scale. ‘Explain it to me, then.’

  No, he would not do that, not in this cruel weather. But he could begin to trim the edges off, he supposed. ‘How do you feel about Pendleton Grange?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a house,’ she replied, knowing the response to be foolish.

  ‘In which you and your family used to live.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A fly buzzed by his face and he waved it away. ‘It’s a beautiful place,’ he said now, ‘and the hydro will keep you for ever.’

  No sensible words entered her mind, so she remained silent.

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The shop and the rents – they will give you and Margot an income. And the house will still be yours, but . . .’

  What was he up to? Was this an older version of Diane Hewitt, a plotter, a planner, one who kept everything secret until the very last minute? ‘Spit it out,’ she demanded.

  James smiled ruefully. She had probably been as open as this all her life – never mind the niceties, the truth will do. ‘Have you seen Joe Hewitt’s legs?’ he asked. ‘Crooked, thin, better now than they used to be.’

  Amy fished about in her drink, pulled out a piece of ice and rubbed it all over her face and neck. ‘I wish I had the energy to horse-whip his sister once we get out of here.’ She glanced at him. ‘Go on, then, play the cards.’

  ‘Nothing up my sleeve.’

  ‘Your sleeves are rolled,’ she reminded him, urging herself not to look at brown skin and firm muscle.

  ‘I want to open a school,’ he announced.

  ‘I see.’ She didn’t, but the need for peace made her utter the white lie. ‘In Ireland?’

  ‘No.’

  Her heart leaped joyfully, and she fought to keep her facial expression neutral. He was intending to stay. Had the atmosphere not been so oppressive, she might even have kissed him. No. No, she wouldn’t. Amy was a lady; ladies waited. I am a lady in waiting, she giggled inwardly.

  ‘It’s not just the orphans,’ James said now. ‘There are children in the towns who need a special sort of school, one that cares for mind and body. They need a swimming pool and we have one. We have tennis courts, ponies, woods and trees. If we open up the attics we could get another twelve boarders – we can sleep thirty children, plus staff, very easily. Nurses on hand, Amy. Windows wide open, airy dormitories, lessons outside in the summer.’

  ‘Deprived children?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Exactly – non-boarders, too. Think of the lives we could change. And you’d still have the shop, so you wouldn’t need to be involved full time. But imagine introducing a child from the slums to horses, pigs, cows. Imagine him collecting eggs, learning to milk, picking mushrooms for his own breakfast.’

  ‘Yes.’ She fanned her face with a handkerchief.

  He waited. ‘Well?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Just do it,’ she answered. ‘The house is yours.’

  He was not going to travel that particular route again, had no intention of arguing about who owned what, because the path had been trodden so many times that it bore signs of erosion. ‘Look, Amy, what I need t
o know is this. Would you mind if the house were used for the betterment of young lives?’

  ‘I have no particular attachment to it,’ she answered. ‘I have always believed in looking forward.’ She smiled at him. ‘If you keep looking over your shoulder, the future is fraught with accidents. Rather than bumping into lampposts, I keep my eyes front.’

  ‘Could your future contain two or three dozen needy children?’

  Was this the proposal? she wondered briefly. No, he would not propose in this way, would not be so impersonal – might not propose at all. ‘I think it’s an excellent idea, provided you can get funding.’

  ‘I can. We would also be a charity.’

  ‘And you are a qualified teacher.’

  ‘Yes.’ Following Amy’s example, he rubbed a sliver of ice over his face. He had sorted out the deprived, was leaving himself on one side for now, would speak tonight when the air was lighter, when . . . when his face might be in shadow. ‘Do you mind where you live?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘So Caldwell Farm is just another place for you?’

  She nodded her reply.

  ‘Mona loves that house,’ he continued. ‘I mind the time she first saw it – not long after her sister’s death. “That’s a proper house,” she said several times. Ida and the children are cramped – they’d be better at the farm. The Moorheads could have the cottage . . . So . . . you wouldn’t mind a move?’

  ‘As long as Margot and William are safe, I have no preferences for myself.’ Another lie. She wanted to live close to him. That was nearer the truth, though the reality was that she wanted to be closer than close . . .

  ‘I have made some tentative plans,’ he said.

  Tentative? The man was intending to up-end everyone’s life, had probably studied blueprints for days on end. This was not a person who worked in generalizations: like the captain of a ship, he knew his course. ‘May we finish this at midnight?’ she asked. ‘Because my brain is as sluggish as the rest of me.’

  ‘A day to remind us of hell’s heat,’ he answered.

  ‘Indeed.’ She sighed.

  Then they waited in silence for release from prison.

  Twenty-nine

  Kate Kenny was a woman whose clock changed with the seasons, her body either lingering in bed during winter mornings, or leaping up with the lark each summer’s dawn. She had to be busy while the day gave light, resting when the sun dipped, going into her hibernatory phase with the start of autumn. The day after the fair, she was on early shift, as the sun rose before five o’clock and she was too concerned about James to lie still and do nothing.

  She had much to think about, as her nephew was teetering on the brink of a recklessness he had never displayed before. She welcomed his courage, praised his newborn strength, feared for him, too. The fear shot into her hands, making them busy as they punished silver till it shone its way towards blinding brightness. He had stayed out all night. He had spent the night in the company of Amy Burton-Massey.

  ‘I can’t carry on,’ he had told his aunt.

  ‘I know,’ had been her reply. ‘Whatever, go with God.’

  ‘With God?’ His eyebrows had been raised halfway up his forehead.

  ‘Yes, with God,’ Kate had insisted.

  And he had gone. The bed had not been slept in. James Mulligan, confirmed-for-ever bachelor, had spent more than six hours in the company of a woman. Or had he? Was he wandering alone out there, rejected, isolated in this cruel, bitter world?

  ‘Mrs Kenny?’

  Kate jumped. ‘Holy St Joseph,’ she breathed, a hand to her chest. ‘You scalded the heart out of me, Sally Hayes. Whatever are you doing up at this time?’

  Sally was always up early, though she usually took her time getting ready, nice clean frock and apron every day, hair smooth, nails scrubbed, face shiny and fresh. ‘They’re outside,’ she ventured now.

  ‘Who’s outside?’

  Sally looked over her shoulder. ‘In a stable,’ she whispered.

  ‘Some good people come out of stables,’ answered Kate, ‘Jesus Christ among them. I take it you mean my nephew and Amy Burton-Massey?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sally filled the kettle and set it to boil before turning to face the housekeeper. ‘Holding hands, they were.’

  Kate managed not to react. ‘Make tea enough for four in case they decide to come in, Sally.’

  The young maid smiled at the housekeeper. With Diane Hewitt’s help, Sally had achieved so much. She was beginning to agree with Diane – adults did need a push from time to time. ‘Mrs Kenny?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will they get married?’

  Kate kept her expression neutral. ‘Make that tea,’ she pretended to snap, ‘and keep the nose on your face. Don’t go sticking it into other people’s ongoings.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kenny.’

  ‘Stop grinning, Sally. Should the wind change, you’ll have a split face the rest of your life.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kenny.’

  ‘And stop saying “Yes, Mrs Kenny.”’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kenny.’

  Kate looked up at the ceiling. ‘Dear God,’ she implored, ‘is it not enough that I am stranded here in England? Did You have to send me all these pure eejits?’ She addressed Sally once more. ‘Make that tea then go . . . somewhere – anywhere. Take the morning off. And if you say those three words, I’ll stretch you from here to Christmas by putting you through them squeezers.’ She pointed to the mangle. ‘You would not want that, Sally.’

  ‘No, Mrs Kenny.’ A wild happiness had entered Sally’s veins, and she could not help being naughty. She wanted to dance and scream, to throw a few pots at the wall, to celebrate. Instead, she brewed tea, fetched cups, saucers, milk and sugar to the table. There would be a wedding and she would be able to wear the gloves given to her as a leaving gift by the staff at Chiverton Children’s Home.

  ‘Is this you still here, Sally Hayes?’

  Having developed an immunity to Kate’s sarcasm, Sally answered in the affirmative, simply nodding.

  ‘Go.’

  ‘But me and Diane . . . I mean yesterday . . . I just want to see them together, Mrs Kenny. They are made for each other. Diane heard her gran and Miss Mona saying that. I won’t stare, I promise.’

  ‘Aye, keep your promise, Sally, by putting as much space as possible between your excellent self and this house.’

  Sally blinked away some happy-but-sad tears. ‘You know what, Mrs Kenny?’

  ‘Go.’

  ‘You know what? If I had a granny, I’d want her to be just like you.’

  The older woman’s heart melted like wax beneath a wick. She adored little Sal, that conscientious, kind, beautiful child who wore her feelings in her eyes. ‘You’re a good girl altogether, but a desperate pain to me. Finish that tea, pick up your soda bread and let me see the back of you.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs . . . Granny.’

  Kate picked up her polishing cloth and set it flying with alarming accuracy at Sally’s face. ‘Out,’ she screamed, laughter a mere inch from the surface. ‘Take yourself and your cheek to the other side of Pendleton Clough, Miss Clever, or you’ll be mangled.’

  Choosing not to be mangled, Sally set off to find her partner in crime, that famous amateur sleuth, Miss Diane Hewitt. She and Diane had done it again – they had made the grown-ups see sense.

  They had talked all night. For Amy, it had been a homecoming, a sense of remembering this man from her future. It had been an encounter with destiny, she supposed, something meant to happen, a gift straight from God.

  As morning approached, James became less calm. He had not proposed, not yet, though his plans had been expressed in a way that clearly involved her. If she would have him, that was. It was now or never, because she had to know, had to be in possession of the whole truth before making her decision. ‘We’ll go in now,’ he said.

  She looked up at him. This was a face she could trust, yet there was trouble in it. Did he intend to make
her into just a business partner? No, the kisses had been warm, urgent. Why had he not mentioned marriage? Why had he skated lightly over certain parts of his plan? She knew more than she had sought to learn about dormitories, children’s playthings, the benefits of swimming and how much fruit a five-year-old should eat in a week. As to the arrangements for her own future, all she knew was that she had agreed to give Caldwell Farm to two old women and two children.

  ‘Where . . . ?’ she began.

  ‘Yes?’ He offered her a broad smile.

  ‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘I shall ask later.’

  They entered the house, just catching sight of an inner door while it closed in Kate’s wake. ‘She has left us in peace,’ said James, as he placed two tartan rugs on a chair. ‘And look – a feast of toast and jam. We, Amy, are the richest pair of people on earth.’

  She sat down, remembering how glad she had been to wrap herself in one of those rugs: even in a heatwave, the air grew chill towards morning. She poured tea, munched on a slice of toast. ‘James?’ she said thoughtfully, when he sat opposite her. ‘What is going on?’ A lady in waiting? No, she had arrived, wanted the answers, needed a future.

  ‘I love you,’ he replied.

  ‘But—’

  ‘I have dealt with my buts. In a moment, you must face yours.’

  ‘You love me, I love you. Show me the buts.’

  He stood up and scraped back his chair. ‘Come with me.’

  Amy allowed herself to be led to the cellar door. She stood in shocked silence as he turned a huge key in the lock.

  ‘Let’s go down,’ he urged.

  She watched as he lit a lamp, showed no resistance when he led her into a blackness lit only by a spill of light from his lantern. ‘We used to play hide and seek down here,’ she said. Her words bounced from walls and back into her ears. This was his secret. He was about to show her his true self, whatever that was.