Mulligan's Yard (22 page)

He tutted, let out a long sigh. ‘It would be wrong.’

‘In whose book?’

‘In my own – in a book I’ve neither read nor written yet.’ These words were edged with a hint of impatience.

‘And if we won’t accept your charity?’

‘Margot will. Eliza, too, I think. Do what you will with your own portion.’

She swung round. Their eyes clashed, locked, narrowed. ‘I think we are very alike, you and I,’ he said. ‘The mule was a good creature to think of, as we are both stubborn and
proud beyond stupidity.’

‘Immovable,’ she agreed, noticing that he would not lower his gaze.

‘You will allow this,’ he said quietly. ‘I am returning your history to you.’

‘Only if you accept a small salary, enough for your own provision. I shall send it to you in Ireland.’

Silence reigned for several very long seconds. ‘Open that shop, then,’ he said at last. ‘Do something to occupy yourself and the other two. Remember how much your mother
invested in that business. At this rate, the materials will have gone to dust before ever seeing a sewing-machine.’

Amy was acutely uncomfortable. She knew him, didn’t know him at all; she liked him, didn’t like him one bit. ‘Eliza seems to have lost interest,’ she told him.

Determinedly, he kept his opinion of Eliza to himself. ‘Then find another designer, somebody who can’t get a job in a city, perhaps a mother of schoolchildren. Eliza’s not the
only creature in Bolton who can draw a frock or copy one from a magazine.’

‘She’s up to something.’ Immediately, Amy wished that she could bite back the words. She did not want any more of his advice.

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘She’s deep.’

‘And talented.’

‘That, too.’

Amy stood her ground until he averted his eyes. Like a stupid child, she had resolved to win the staring-out contest.

Eliza entered the office. There was an atmosphere, but she chose to ignore it. ‘I found very little in the shops,’ she declared, arranging herself gracefully in a leather chair.
‘I just had to buy what was available. So, if Christmas presents aren’t quite up to the mark this year, blame the tradesmen of Bolton.’ She offered the man a sweet smile, was
unmoved by the lack of response. ‘Of course, financial restrictions make the job harder.’

James looked at the pair of them. Amy, bright-eyed and angry, tapped her foot in the manner of an impatient horse. Eliza, folded correctly and neatly in her seat, wore the air of a woman who
knew that the world was hers to have and to own. Her devastating beauty gave her a confidence that was almost supreme. Amy was right – Miss Eliza was up to no good.

Eliza studied the man covertly, played with the idea of setting her cap at him. No, no. She wanted to get away – and wasn’t he planning to return to Ireland? If he did manage to
repay his father’s debts, everything would be invested in the estate, she supposed. She could not imagine Amy selling up and splitting the money three ways. And even if A Cut Above did ever
open, Eliza did not want to be involved, not yet. Oh, let them all stay here, she mused; they would be hovering and worrying in the background should she ever need or want them. ‘We need to
get something for the Moorheads,’ she told Amy, whose feathers seemed to be settling into a smoother mode. These two did nothing but quarrel, it seemed.

Amy picked up her basket. ‘Come along, Eliza,’ she said, almost snappily.

‘I’ll drive you home later,’ offered James, ‘if you would kindly return by five o’clock.’ He walked them to the door.

The cold one, the devastating beauty, swivelled and looked straight into his face. ‘I understand that we are to spend Christmas with you,’ she said. ‘That is a very thoughtful
and generous gesture.’

‘You will all be most welcome,’ he answered.

Amy pulled at her sister’s arm. ‘Hurry,’ she said. ‘Presents to buy.’

When the two women had walked away, James Mulligan re-entered his office, closed the door and leaned on it. ‘Stop it,’ he bade himself. ‘You can never marry.’ He had not
reckoned on falling in love so desperately, so stupidly. All men window-shopped, he supposed. But he, above all men, was in no position to purchase. ‘Catch yourself on, Mulligan,’ he
muttered, ‘just do the job, then get off home where you belong.’

Mona Walsh’s new house was coming on a treat. It boasted a back boiler, new plaster and paint, a mended roof and a solid front door with 13 in brass at the top. Their
Tilly could do as she liked, but she wasn’t moving into John Street, oh, no. Their Tilly was stopping in the family home where both women had been born and raised; Mona was going up in the
world. Slowly, surely, she intended to improve her lot whether or not Tilly liked the idea. For too many years, Tilly had been the leader, had made all the decisions. Mona was getting divorced from
her own sister. This concept made the younger of the two Walshes smile as she set off to visit her home on John Street.

Mona waddled down Derby Street, her winter coat flapping slightly in a chill breeze. The coat was a bit bigger on her these days, as Mona had begun to shed some of her weight. Her intention was
to be thinner and fitter, because life was short and she had determined to make the best of her remaining time. In a couple of years, a nice little endowment would mature; in a couple of years,
Mona would add that money to her savings. She had it all worked out. She was going to buy a nice house up Swan Lane, Accrington brick, electric lights and a flushing lav.

She stopped outside the second-hand furniture shop, placed a hand over her eyes so that she could examine the darkened interior of Samuel’s Quality Used Furnishings. Squinting slightly,
Mona identified her ‘new’ dresser, table and chairs, making sure that the word sold was affixed to each item. ‘After Christmas,’ she promised her dining set, ‘after
Christmas, you’ll be moving to a good home.’

‘Hello, Miss Walsh.’

She almost jumped out of her skin. ‘Good God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll be giving somebody a heart attack.’

James Mulligan grinned. ‘Are you off to see your house?’

‘I am, that.’ She straightened her hat.

‘Get in the car and I’ll take you.’

Mona hesitated for a split second. She had never ridden in one of these mechanical monsters. ‘Tilly’d have a blue fit,’ she said.

‘And wouldn’t that be a sight for the world to behold?’

She found herself laughing. If only people knew what he was really like. And if only he would stay in Bolton and allow Mona to be his second mam. Once she was thinner and prettier, she might
look good enough to be related to this handsome man.

‘Is this you losing weight?’ he asked.

Oh, she could have died happy, right here and now. ‘Tilly says I look ill.’ He had noticed; he cared.

‘Will we go for a little spin?’ he asked. ‘Give your sister something to get her teeth into? Just imagine what she’d say if somebody told her about it.’

‘Aye,’ said Mona. Then a thought struck. ‘This here road’s a bit slippy, isn’t it?’

He pointed to the tyres. ‘You can’t see much in this light, but these have a tread like Wellington boots. Come on, take heart.’

She sat in the passenger seat, watched him as he walked around the car.

James climbed in, blew into his hands, then set the car in motion.

‘Oh, heck,’ breathed Mona. She was sitting in a tin box that was fuelled by a highly explosive substance. All sorts of whirrings and wheezings were going on under the bonnet.

‘Open your eyes,’ he suggested. ‘There’s nothing to fear. Don’t you trust me?’

She nodded vehemently. ‘Course I do, but I don’t trust this blinking motor. It’s not natural, is it?’

‘It’s progress. And we’re doing ten miles an hour, so.’ He waited until she seemed more relaxed. ‘How is the Temple?’

Mona shrugged. ‘Same as ever, loads of preaching about building a new world in America.’ She paused. ‘He did a couple of them cleansings last week. I’ve found out a bit
about the cleansings, like you asked me. He washes their faces and hands with a white flannel, dries them with a white towel. Then he does their feet.’

James gave her a few seconds, but she said no more. ‘Faces, hands and feet. What about areas in between? I hope I’m not embarrassing you.’

‘Course you’re not.’ She was glad that darkness hid the colour in her cheeks. ‘He’s a right funny man, that Wilkinson. Mind, like everybody else, I got took in at
first. He likes the young girls, always does the cleansings one at a time. It’s what he calls a secret ceremony.’

‘Yes, it would be.’

Mona turned and looked at the handsome profile. In the poor light provided by street lamps, he looked like one of those sideways-on cameo portraits. ‘Do you think he interferes with
kiddies?’

He changed gear, turned on to Deane Road. ‘It’s a possibility. He seems . . . unstable, thwarted in some way.’

Mona inclined her head thoughtfully. ‘There’s a rumour . . .’ Her voice died.

‘A rumour?’

‘Oh, this is hard for me,’ she complained. ‘I’m not used to talking to men about . . . personal things, things to do with folk’s carryings-on and all that sort of
stuff.’

‘Tell me.’ He stopped the car near a gate leading to Haslam Park. ‘Just say it, Mona.’

She marked the fact that he had used her Christian name. James Mulligan made her feel valuable, important. He had chosen her to find evidence against Peter Wilkinson. At first, she had felt a
bit guilty about her mission, but it had become a labour of love, almost. Had he asked her to investigate the King himself, she would have done this Irishman’s bidding.

‘Well, Mona?’

She took a deep breath of cold air. ‘They say he’s not quite up to scratch, if you get my drift. See . . .’ She rooted about her head to find the words. ‘If he’d
got married, there wouldn’t have been any babies, because he can’t . . .’

‘Save your blushes,’ he said. ‘I take your meaning, right enough.’

‘It is just a rumour, though. People say all sorts, don’t they? What I’d like to know is how do they find out he’s not the full twelve pennies to the shilling? Especially
in that . . . department. And if he’s not a proper man, what’s he doing messing about with young lasses?’ Now that she had started talking, she couldn’t seem to stop.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she concluded.

‘Impotence does not always remove desire,’ James said.

‘He’d a terrible childhood,’ Mona continued. ‘His mam kept him in pinafores till he started school – his brother, too. Five years old and still dressed like girls,
the pair of them. It were normal to keep lads in frocks up to three. That was to cheat the devil, because the devil only took boys. But most of them were breeched long before their
schooldays.’

‘So he was a figure of fun.’

‘Ooh, you can say that again. And she were cruel, specially to him. She used to lock him in the coal-hole under their stairs – Emblem Street, they lived. She flayed him with his
dad’s belt till there were no skin left on him. It was because he was so ugly, I think.’

James drove down Deane Road. Peter Wilkinson had probably hated his mother. She had humiliated and belittled him, had locked him up, had beaten him. The man had travelled through life despising
and fearing women. That was the reason, but it was no excuse. ‘His brother seems a decent enough man. Runs the post office up in Pendleton, sells groceries and cakes. Stephen
Wilkinson’s a talented baker.’

‘Aye,’ replied Mona thoughtfully, ‘but, looking back, Stephen got better treated, because he were quite a handsome little lad. He always did what he were told. Mrs Wilkinson
used to say as how Peter looked at her wrong. As far as I can work out, she’d no love at all for her eldest.’ She turned to look at her companion. ‘Does that mean he can’t
help what he does – if he does owt, like?’

‘No, it means nothing of the sort. The man has free will, just like the rest of mankind. He knows the difference between right and wrong.’

She shivered. ‘I’d never have thought but for you mentioning it. If you hadn’t asked me to keep my ears and eyes open, I’d have carried on with them shut. I mean, with it
being a religion, it’s supposed to be about making you a better person.’

He pulled the car into John Street, stopped outside number 13. He remembered earlier visits when he had met Ida and little Joe Hewitt in this very house. ‘It isn’t a religion, Mona.
The Temple of Eternal Light is a cult. Inventors of cults find people who are needy, some rich, some poor. The unloved rich provide funds, while the poor provide manpower. Texas is a big empty
state with too few women. For the promise of enough food and a roof, girls are enticed across the Atlantic Ocean. They are used as brood mares, cooks and cleaners.’

Mona gulped audibly. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Friends in Dallas who write to me.’

‘So . . . so the Light is bad through and through?’

‘Possibly. But that doesn’t make all the members bad. Most of them don’t know what the Light is really about. If my suspicions are correct, any unsuitable females travelling to
Texas could be thrown straight into the arms of uncouth cattlemen or oil workers, men who live hard and drink hard.’ James lowered his chin. ‘I know what it is to live in the wilds with
a dangerous drunk. The Light has to be extinguished.’

Mona felt a sudden dryness in her throat. ‘Do you fancy a cuppa?’ She could show off; she could let him see all she had done to the house. More than that, she could get the subject
changed. She didn’t fancy thinking about poor girls lost in a country full of foreigners and Red Indians. ‘I’ve got gas rings to boil a kettle, and two stools in the scullery. If
we leave the gas on, we’ll be nice and warm.’

‘Promise you’ll keep an eye on him, Mona.’

‘I will.’

‘Good.’ He got out of the car, then helped Mona across the slick pavement. She opened her front door, turned to welcome him.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, when the woman stopped dead in her tracks.

She put a finger to her lips. There was no sound in the house, yet something felt different, as if the air had been displaced by recent movement.

‘Mona?’

‘Shush.’ She took his hand and walked through darkness into the living room. ‘There’s been somebody in here,’ she whispered, moving away to light a mantle.