Mulligan's Yard (25 page)

‘There’s always been a woman, hasn’t there?’ said Camilla. ‘Mother has been your cushion, and you cannot go to London by yourself, so Eliza is going to be your soft
landing when things go wrong. Well.’ She stood up. ‘Eliza hides her prickles beneath a layer of softness. Take care. Take very great care. After all, we don’t want you getting
hurt, do we?’

Rupert watched his sister as she left the room. She was a great ugly carthorse who would never get a man in a million years. She was also clever, bright enough to see right through him. Camilla
knew his faults, his Achilles heels; she knew that he was afraid to go south alone. ‘Bitch,’ he spat.

Camilla prepared for bed, her thoughts fixed on Amy and the New Year. She could not remember a time when she had wished anyone ill, and a part of her failed to understand her current attitude to
Rupert and to the Burton-Massey girls. Was she turning bad? Oh, what a mess. She went over and over the problem, yet always returned to the same point. She felt guilt-ridden, amazed at herself. But
although she tossed and turned all night, Camilla’s resolve stayed firm. Amy would survive. Rupert? Never.

Sally Hayes was alone in the kitchen and drinking her cocoa when James Mulligan returned from Ida Hewitt’s cottage. Her eyes smiled at him over the rim of her mug.
‘Mrs Kenny said to tell you she’s had enough and she’s gone to bed.’

‘I see.’ He sat opposite the girl. She was about the same age as the naked child in the scullery at 13 John Street. His blood boiled at the thought of Peter Wilkinson walking freely
in the world. ‘Sally?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Never go out alone at night, especially at the weekends.’ Wilkinson often spent weekends with his brother in the village of Pendleton. ‘Take someone with you.’ Diane
Hewitt now lived in Pendleton. Wilkinson had intended to prepare Diane for emigration. Surely he would not touch a child so young?

‘Right, sir.’

‘Do you still go for walks with Eliza Burton-Massey?’

‘No. She doesn’t bother with me any more.’

James heard the sadness. ‘Where did you walk, Sally?’

‘To the stables or through the fields. Sometimes, we went into the woods.’

‘And did you ever meet anyone?’

She shook her head.

He arranged his next question carefully, as he did not wish to alarm Sally unduly. ‘Did you notice anybody? Not someone you’d meet or talk to, just . . . a man hanging around. I
think he’s related to Mr Wilkinson at the post office, the man who sells those wonderful cakes.’

Sally frowned. ‘I know who you mean – he’s the ugly one. Miss Eliza used to laugh and pretend not to see him. Oh, he stared so hard at her, but that’s because she’s
very beautiful. Miss Eliza said he was the frog and she was the princess, but she’d no intention of kissing him to turn him into a prince.’ Smiling, she paused. ‘But that was when
she was my real friend, before I said I wouldn’t go to London with her and . . .’ The words melted away.

‘Sally?’

‘I wasn’t supposed to say about London. Please don’t tell anyone. She wouldn’t be my friend at all if she knew . . . Oh, please. Miss Eliza hardly ever comes to play the
piano now. She’d stop altogether if she knew I’d said about running away.’

‘You have my word.’ Perhaps Eliza would be safer in London. Perhaps all the young women of Pendleton and Pendleton Clough should escape while the going was good. Was it possible that
Wilkinson might be planning to spread his wings outside the town? Could he be working his way north towards the villages?

‘Thank you, sir.’ She rose and took her cup to the sink, rinsed and dried it, walked to the door. ‘Good night,’ she called.

‘Good night, Sally.’

He sat alone with his thoughts, bone weary after an evening that had seemed to go on for ever. Now he carried the knowledge that Eliza was probably planning to go away. He could not warn her
family because he had made a promise, and he had no intention of betraying Sally. What a disaster.

Had it not been for his own father and Mr Burton-Massey, James would still have been in Ireland. His life there had been so easy, simple, predictable. What would he not give now to be planning
lessons, chasing boys away from the orchard, listening to young voices raised in song or in laughter?

Businesses, mortgages, hydro, farm management – he was not designed for this sort of life. Even so, he knew that he had to stay here until wrongs had been righted, until life had been made
viable for the descendants of the Burton-Massey line. Yet, oh, he was in so much danger. His heartstrings had been tugged by all three girls who lived at Caldwell Farm, but one in particular caused
him much discomfort.

Discomfort was his forte for now, he concluded. With a heavy heart, he entered the pantry to pick up the necessary provisions. From a pocket of his jacket, he took a large key, then made his way
to the cellar. The key groaned in its ageing mechanism, the door hinges screamed for oil, his mind screamed silently for peace.

He descended into darkness, feet made sure by habit, a hand reaching out for the oil lamp. When the wick was lit, he placed the lamp on a table and stared for several seconds into the near
distance.

In here, in this private place, James Mulligan faced his own secrets. In the cellars of Pendleton Grange, the man’s conscience, raw and sore, waited to be nourished and appeased.

On Christmas morning, Mona rose early. This was to be her last Christmas at home: next year she might be a visitor, or she might play hostess to Tilly. So, this was to be a
special celebration, though Tilly refused to regard it as such. Deeply resentful of Mona’s impending ‘desertion’, the older sister had been less than co-operative with
preparations for the feast.

Mona made little patties of sage and onion, remembering that Tilly did not like the chicken to be stuffed. She pricked pork sausages, which were to be roasted in jackets of crisp streaky bacon,
then peeled sprouts and carrots for steaming, potatoes and parsnips for roasting, set the pudding to boil.

At about ten in the morning, with everything ready for oven and hob, Mona had a nice sit-down with one of her penny dreadfuls. Since her declaration of independence, she had displayed her
reading matter fearlessly – in spite of their Tilly’s sniffs and grunts. Mona liked a good story. These were comforting tales, where the hero and heroine inevitably came together in the
end. Upon reaching the last page, Mona always heaved a sigh of relief, gladdened to the core because true love had won through yet again.

She reached a bit about two lovers on a sinking boat, then found herself elsewhere. In the dream, she stood in the scullery at 13 John Street, found the tiny room crammed with naked girls and
piles of clothing. Mr Mulligan was running about in the next room trying to find which frock fitted which girl, then Tilly decided to wash everything. Mr Wilkinson arrived with the Light in a glass
jar, two more unconscious females and a copy of
Illumination
, which was the Temple’s magazine.

Mr Mulligan clouted Mr Wilkinson, who fell out through the door and banged his head on the opposite wall. Seth Dobson, the undertaker from Mulligan’s Yard, brought enough coffins to fill
the house. Mona screamed and tried to explain that the girls were not really dead, but no one listened, though Tilly said, ‘They might as well be dead, after what’s happened to
them,’ while Ida Hewitt walked unaided into the house and reclaimed it as her own.

Mona woke shivering from head to foot. What a nasty dream that had been. Was it an omen? Should she not move to John Street? Was Mr Wilkinson bent on some terrible errand that involved stripping
young women of clothes and dignity? She blinked herself back to full consciousness, looked at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly twelve. The chicken sat raw and white on the table, while a
nasty smell from the scullery advised Mona that the pudding pan had run out of water. She ran to rescue the pudding, returned to the kitchen, stoked the fire, placed the chicken in the range
oven.

‘Tilly?’ Mona stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘Do you want a cup of tea and a biscuit, put you on till Christmas dinner?’

No answer floated down the stairwell.

Mona called again. ‘Tilly? Are you stopping up there while the cows come home?’

Still no reply.

A cold finger of fear traced itself the length of Mona’s spine. Tilly liked her bed, but she had never stayed upstairs till noon. Worse than that, Mona was possessed of a feeling that she
was completely alone in the house. ‘Tilly?’

Mona sat on the second stair. Mathilda Joan Walsh had been born in this very house, as had Monica Jean Walsh. They had travelled through life with the same initials, had been welded together in
the family business, had buried their parents, had stood firm during trials and tribulations. ‘Dear God,’ prayed Mona, ‘I know she’s a pest, but don’t take her from
me. We’re all we’ve got. There’s nobody nowhere who cares about us.’

It was about ten past twelve now. Mona needed to go upstairs to check on Tilly, was determined to climb the flight. But her head and her feet seemed to have differing opinions. She stood up,
tried to move up the stairs, could not manage it. Things would be all right, she insisted. But whatever she did, Mona’s feet would move in one direction only – back to the kitchen.

Strangely, Mona found herself calculating that the small chicken would take about an hour, so she had better put the par-boiled spuds in soon. And the parsnips. Carrots and turnips twenty
minutes on the hob, sprouts fifteen. The sausages could go in the top of the oven for half an hour, and she could fry the patties if pressed for time and space. She smoothed back her hair,
straightened her cooking apron. It had been a really bad nightmare, that one. And it had pushed its way into reality to make her imagine now that her sister was dead. The best thing was to get on
with the job in hand instead of standing here like a lemon. Lemon – there was a thought. She would make a jelly to have for pudding after chicken sandwiches for supper. If she put the mould
in the back yard, it would soon set out there in the cold. A lemon one. Tilly loved lemon jelly.

Margot didn’t feel at all Christmassy. She had a lump in her belly that had suddenly burgeoned into slight visibility, causing her to let out skirts and dresses, making
her hold herself stiff and straight in order to look as normal as possible. Soon, people would begin to point fingers at her. Really, she should visit Rupert, since this lump was his as much as
hers, but she couldn’t be bothered.

On Christmas morning, she sat in her bedroom, relieved that the feast day had merited a small fire in the grate. The Moorheads, faithful old retainers, had lit fires in every room. Having turned
down Mr Mulligan’s all-embracing invitation, they would have Caldwell Farm to themselves today. Margot wished with all her heart that she, too, might stay at home, but she did not want to
draw attention to herself.

Somewhere, she had read about a pregnant woman who had gone horse-riding. Bouncing up and down in the saddle had caused the foetus to come away, prompting the same woman to write an article
about the dangers of riding. ‘My kingdom for a horse, then,’ Margot whispered. She harboured no grudge against the unborn – in fact, her feelings in general seemed to have gone on
strike. But if a simple gallop could rid her of the burden, then a simple gallop would be employed as soon as this terrible tiredness lifted.

Eliza, in the room that had once been Mother’s, lay stretched out on the eiderdown, her mind far away from this dull, grey place. Lancashire was not a very exciting
county, she concluded. The north was not inviting at all – even the cities were centres of smoke and boredom. London, however, was scarcely industrial. She perceived the capital as a huge
bank, a bustling metropolis where all the money was stored, some of it spilling out of vaults and into the silk-lined pockets of gentlemen, the sort of males who treated women with respect.

She stretched out her hands, studied elegant long fingers with nails coloured a soft, ladylike pink, the kind of shade that would look well on the arm of one of those City gentlemen. She would
be snapped up, of course. After she had served a few months as the star of some show in the West End, her admirers at the stage door might very well include a baron, even an earl or a duke. He
would whisk her away to his stately pile in Hampshire or Herefordshire, and she would be married in a private family chapel with Amy and Margot as bridesmaids. Though it could be in a cathedral,
she supposed. Many of the gentry got married in cathedrals. She would be beautiful in a gown of white gossamer, with real flowers threaded through a diamond tiara, silk slippers on her feet, a long
veil suspended from neatly coiffed hair. Yes, the ethereal look would definitely suit her.

Rupert was going to be a bit of a bind, but she would find a way to be rid of him. He was hilariously funny, his eyes practically on stalks every time he saw her. His puerile devotion was
pathetic, as were his clearly visible expectations of success in the seduction scenes he was planning. Let him try, she mused. Just let him try.

Amy, in her bedroom, was staring at herself in the mirror. She had decided to make an effort, and was applying makeup cleverly, in accordance with instructions contained in a
fashion magazine of Mother’s. The trick, of course, was to have a finished product that looked as natural and unmade-up as possible. After a fourth attempt, she threw in the towel and
scrubbed her skin with Pond’s. She looked better without warpaint, so she opted for a mere touch of lipstick, a dab of powder and a thin film of rouge to disguise the pallor of winter.

She wondered how she would look with shorter, in-vogue hair, wondered why she was considering such measures. It was the fault of James Mulligan, she supposed, as he was bullying her to open up
the shop in a few weeks. Perhaps, as the ‘front’ woman, she should be up to date in the couture stakes, but the cutting of hair was probably a step too far.

Christmas – the first without Mother. Of course, Mother had not been much fun in recent years, but, had she survived, she might have enjoyed the holidays this year. ‘Stop it,’
Amy told her reflection sternly. ‘Onward, not backward.’