Mulligan's Yard (26 page)

She found her shoes, placed all her gifts in a shopping basket. Then she sat by the fire and gazed into the flames, looking for pictures in the red and yellow tongues. Father had played this
game with her when she was a child. Father’s final game had placed his whole family in dire trouble . . . ‘Onward,’ she repeated.

The future. A Cut Above? Margot had flatly refused to consider working there, while Eliza just looked vague and secretive whenever the subject arose. Eliza made Amy rather uncomfortable these
days, as did Margot. The former seemed to be living in a dream world and was reticent about her movements, while the latter, suddenly sickly and troubled by indigestion, kept running off outside in
all weathers, almost as if trying to escape from herself.

Amy knew that she could not be a mother to her siblings. Had there been an aunt near by, she might have sought advice, at least, but there was no-one. ‘I have to do something,’ she
said. ‘The money will run out altogether soon.’ Mother had invested a chunk of capital in the business, and the interest on the residue would not keep the residents and staff of
Caldwell Farm beyond a matter of weeks.

She rose and walked to the window, looked out on a Christmas scene, a light sprinkling of snow decorating fences, walls and trees, crisping the grass. James had found someone, apparently. A
young designer who had worked for a good house in Manchester was in need of employment. She had children and no husband to support her. Local folklore had it that he had gone off with a barmaid,
leaving his wife and two small sons with no real means of support. ‘Which is all well and good,’ muttered Amy, ‘as long as she can design, cut and fit cloth.’ Of course,
Eliza, too, would settle down. She would see sense and come to work in what was to become the family business. Margot? The bit of savings Margot had managed to acquire over the years from her
paltry allowance would run out soon. Amy hardened her heart against both her sisters – no work, no pocket money.

The world was so pretty today. Christmas promised to be interesting, too, as James Mulligan had made the unilateral decision to do all the cooking. Kate Kenny, his housekeeper, had been
muttering darkly for days about food poisoning, gravy solid enough to slice and a goose so underdone that it would find its own way to the table without much encouragement. She had promised that
all who partook would go down with the ague, which word she pronounced as ‘aygew’, making it all the funnier.

‘I’m noticing life again,’ Amy said. ‘That has to be a good thing.’ It was not a sin to laugh, enjoyment was no crime. Perhaps Eliza and Margot were still grieving
deeply. If that was so, it was time for them to look ahead occasionally. The trite adage about life having to go on was suddenly a piece of wisdom. Amy made up her mind there and then to enjoy the
day, to treat the Christmas period as a time for pleasure, a chance to laugh and rest before opening A Cut Above. The shop would be Mother’s living monument, a tribute to her genius.

Amy closed her eyes and daydreamed not about the past, but about a future that had to succeed.

Ida Hewitt, stronger by the day, looked out across her little patch of front garden, a squarish area edged by boundary walls of stone. It boasted a pathway made of
hammered-down brick, with a full stop at the end in the form of a green wooden gate. The grass, still thick with hoar, stood to attention like a thousand tiny soldiers dressed in white. It was
beautiful, almost overwhelming.

The Hewitts had been here for just a few weeks, but Ida was already worrying about returning to Bolton. Mr Mulligan would go back to Ireland, as would his housekeeper. What would happen to Ida
and the children then? she wondered. James Mulligan had given her some pride, too, had got her working at the big house. Oh, why couldn’t she just grab this time and make the best of it?
After all those years in bed, she was now experiencing real worry, as if she had merely saved it up until now. God was punishing her for carelessness and idleness, it seemed.

The children were outside, both wrapped up against the weather, each engrossed in games. Diane was sliding with the older children, while little Joe, his legs already surer, was helping others
to build a snowman from a few remaining banks of drifted snow. The Hewitt children had received books, toys and clothes, all bought by Mr Mulligan. He was so kind, such a good man. Only months ago,
Ida had dismissed him as another flaming Catholic, all booze, Latin and gambling, but she knew better now. And, as she had taken to admitting begrudgingly, perhaps other Micks weren’t as bad
as she had once believed.

She fingered a scarf at her throat, knew that it was silk, for hadn’t she tested it by crunching it in a closed fist? When her fingers had opened, the cloth had jumped out immediately. So,
Ida Hewitt, late of 13 John Street, owned a silk scarf, all pastel shades and fringed at the ends. Mr James Mulligan had bought the scarf for her. He valued her, and she was more than grateful.

She turned away from the small-paned window and looked at her new life. It was so cosy, just two rooms down and three up, the latter having been made from one long space in the roof. In that
area, weavers had toiled at looms, had made cloth from yarn spun in other cottages. They had slept on the ground floor, Ida supposed, spread about on straw mattresses in front of the fire, under
the stairs, beneath tables.

Now, the house was truly comfortable. In the front room, there was a cast-iron fireplace with tiled sides, a proper dining-table, some chairs, a small sofa, a dresser, an occasional table with a
plant standing on a lace mat. There were pictures on the walls, little ornaments dotted about, a brass-framed mirror, shelves with plates balanced along their surfaces. The kitchen was a dream,
with a proper porcelain sink, cupboards, a big range oven with a large copper, pans hanging from beams . . . oh, when the time came, she would not be able to give this up.

She walked to the front door and called the children. Soon Mr Mulligan would arrive to ferry them to Pendleton Grange. Today Ida would be a guest, not a worker. Kate had been in a bit of a
mither just lately, because Mr Mulligan was going to cook the dinner. Well, let him, thought Ida mischievously – it was time men realized that food didn’t arrive by magic.

Diane turned. ‘Aw, Gran. Just another five minutes – please?’

Joe waited. He always left complicated negotiations to his sister.

‘All right,’ called Ida. She watched while a big lad picked up Joe and allowed him to put coal ‘eyes’ in the snowman’s face, while Diane skated on glassy ice at a
very fast pace. They were safe here, so settled, unthreatened.

‘Hello.’

Instinctively, Ida Hewitt drew back. ‘Oh,’ she mumbled, ‘hello.’

Peter Wilkinson leaned on the green gate. ‘Just taking my morning constitutional,’ he said. ‘My sister Doris and I are spending the festive season with our brother. He has the
post office and the bakery.’

‘Right.’ Ida’s hand crept of its own accord to her throat. There was something very reassuring about the feel of Mr Mulligan’s silk scarf. She thought about Guardian
Wilkinson’s brother, Stephen, who seemed a decent enough fellow. Doris, the sister, Ida had never met, though she had heard of her. Doris played the piano at the temple, and she had the
reputation of being a miserable sort.

‘Happy Christmas, praise the Lord,’ added Mr Wilkinson.

‘Same to you, I’m sure.’ Ida waited for the man to go away, willed him to be off, to stop putting his weight on the hinges of her little green gate.

‘I’ve brought the Light to my brother’s house,’ he told her now. ‘Would you like me to fetch it here later on? We could pray together and thank the Light for your
recovery.’

She coughed nervously. ‘Well, that’d be nice, only we won’t be here, me and our Diane and our Joe. We’re going out.’

‘I see.’ He paused, waited for further information, received none. ‘Are you going somewhere nice?’ he asked.

Ida’s grip on her scarf tightened. ‘To Pendleton Grange,’ she replied, after a short but measurable pause.

‘Ah.’ The ugly man stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘And will you be joining in the rosary, the Catholic blessing of the food, will you be praying to plaster statues?’

‘I doubt it.’

He lowered his head and his tone. ‘You owe everything to the Light, Mrs Hewitt.’

Ida could feel her dander rising. She released the hold on her scarf and folded her arms. ‘But I don’t owe anybody my granddaughter. Nobody with any sense would send young girls off
to a foreign country as payment for a few loaves and the odd scrape of butter. How do you know what’ll happen to them? They could get raped, beaten up or whatever.’

He blanched, stepped away from Ida Hewitt’s anger. Temper in a woman had always terrified him. It wasn’t meant to be like this, because men were supposed to be the dominant ones. He
wasn’t even a man; at times such as this, he realized all over again that he was inadequate, incapable of fulfilling his function as a creator of life. Even so, Ida Hewitt should be grateful,
compliant. They should all be servile . . .

‘Did you hear about that poor young girl in my house down John Street?’

He felt his Adam’s apple bobbing about like a cork in a bath, tried to swallow, was appalled when a groaning sound escaped his lips. She was staring so hard, so coldly.

‘Some damned fool drugged her, took all her clothes off and left her freezing in the scullery. Mr Mulligan says it’s likely one of them impotent men, them who can never be real
husbands.’ She left a pause. ‘Whoever it is is having a look and trying to work himself into a lather so’s he can perform, like. Disgusting behaviour that. Don’t you think
so, Mr Wilkinson?’

He stepped further away from her. ‘He blamed me. Did you know that? Did you know that he brought the police and gave them my name?’ God, why didn’t the woman say something? She
was staring and staring, not blinking, just fixing him with her eyes, poleaxing him to the spot. ‘Mrs Hewitt, I—’

‘Go away,’ she said plainly. Mr Mulligan was right: this was the one. ‘I’m done with you.’ Her grandchildren were not as safe as she had imagined, then. While
creatures such as this roamed the earth, no one was truly out of danger. ‘Stay away from me and mine,’ she advised.

He pulled himself together. ‘Are you implying that you believe that man’s accusations? He has poisoned you against me – I can see that. How could you listen to him?’

‘With my ears,’ she answered. ‘The same way as I’m hearing you now. And my eyes are seeing things in your face – guilt and fear, Mr Wilkinson.’

He took yet another step backwards, lost his footing, hit the ground hard. Children ran to help him up, but Ida spoke to them. ‘Leave him,’ she said. ‘His precious
Light’ll look after him.’

‘I damn you and yours for all eternity,’ he growled.

She leaned over the little green gate. ‘Only God Almighty can do that. He’s the judge in the end.’ She shooed the children away. ‘You’d best lift yourself up off
the floor,’ she said, ‘but never try to lift yourself above God. And remember, He sees everything you do. Oh, and your hair’s come undone.’ The side-pieces, grown to cover
his bald pate, were dangling towards his shoulders.

He got up, made a feeble attempt to cover the barren area of scalp.

‘Am I forgiven?’ Ida asked sweetly. ‘One of the main things Jesus preached was forgiveness. All Christians are told to love their neighbour. Do you love me, Guardian Wilkinson?
Or am I not young enough? Am I too old for you to practise on?’

He felt the blood in his face, heard it buzzing in his ears. Words collected, but they refused to slide from a tongue as dry as dust. The ground, thick with frost, threatened to drag him down
again. While attempting to regulate his breath, he allowed his eyes to slide across the lane to where Diane Hewitt played with half a dozen others.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Ida.

He hadn’t been thinking about anything.

‘You’re crackers.’ Her tone was even, conversational almost. ‘The craziness pushes you on, I know that. But if I had a mad dog, I’d have him put to sleep for the
sake of safety. So next time there’s a full moon, you’d best keep your eyes peeled, because I might just be at the back of you with a loaded shotgun.’

He bent to retrieve his hat, turned to walk back towards his brother’s shop. Then he felt the foot as it pushed its way into his lower back. For a brief moment, he looked over his
shoulder, saw Ida Hewitt standing outside her green gate, triumph burning in her face, then he slid several yards down Blackberry Lane’s mercifully gentle slope.

The children, imagining that this queer-looking man was making a slide, dashed across and helped him on his way, every last one of them whooping and yelling, pleased that an adult had joined in
their Christmas games.

Ida did not stay to watch. Diane and Joe, too, walked into the house, mouths and eyes round with disbelief. ‘Gran,’ ventured Diane.

‘What, love? Hey, Joe – fill that kettle, I’m clemmed.’

‘You kicked him, Gran.’ Diane’s voice was small and high.

‘Ooh, I did, didn’t I?’

‘You did, Gran. And his hat was off and his hair was long enough for plaits.’ The child’s mouth twitched.

Ida felt a pain in her chest, was forced to open her mouth wide in search of breath. A howl of laughter escaped her lips, and she doubled up in agony. ‘I’d . . . I’d never
noticed how ugly . . . no oil painting, like, but . . . ooh, it hurts.’

Diane threw herself on to the sofa, lay on her back, limbs paddling in the air like the legs of an over-excited puppy. At first, she was laughing because Guardian Wilkinson had met his match in
Gran, then she was laughing at Gran laughing.

Joe came in and looked at the pair of them. ‘I’ve put the kettle on,’ he said. For a reason he could not fathom, this simple statement resulted in near-hysteria. Diane sounded
as if she might be ready to vomit, while Gran, tears coursing down her face, folded herself up in a rocker near the fire.

Joe smiled tentatively, transfixed by the scene. His family was happy at last. Gran was doing a little job, he and Diane were helping at the yard after school, bits of sweeping and polishing.
They had a lovely house, nice neighbours and a real Christmas dinner to look forward to. He felt a smile breaking out. If Gran and their Diane wanted to carry on like a couple of daft things, let
them. It was Christmas.