Mulligan's Yard (27 page)

He went upstairs to one of the three cubby-hole bedrooms, put on new shirt, jacket and trousers, spat on a hand, smoothed down his hair. In a pitted mirror, he gazed at his reflection. The upper
half seemed normal. If it hadn’t been for his legs, he’d have looked quite a toff. Never mind. In a few years, he’d be in long trousers; in a few years, he would be a real
toff.

Laughter floated up the stairwell, children played outside. He saw a snowflake floating earthward. In Joe Hewitt’s book, all was well with the world.

Mona could not bring herself to venture up the stairs.

The chicken sat in the centre of the table, all golden and moist. She knew it was cooked properly, because she’d shoved a number twelve knitting needle in just above a leg, and the
released juices had been clear. Sausages wrapped in bacon overcoats lay around the bird, punctuated by clusters of sprouts and carrots. Mona believed in presentation. A colourful dinner always
looked more appetizing.

Tilly’s sage and onion patties had been placed next to the gravy boat at Tilly’s side of the table – she was a beggar for gravy and stuffing, was their Tilly. The pudding was
all right, just about. There was brandy sauce to go with it, then some nice mints bought from the market hall last Friday.

Mona took a sip of sweet sherry, gazed into the cheerful fire. The Walsh family had always had a good do at Christmas, especially during Mother’s lifetime. She’d been a bit grim and
grizzled, and very chapel, but she’d always laid on a decent spread. Turkish Delight. Eeh, what had made Mona think of that? Dad had made quite a ritual of bringing out the circular box of
thin, splintery wood, taking care not to rupture the frail timber while removing the lid.

Everybody except Dad had hated Turkish Delight. It was rubbery pink stuff, perfumed, covered with icing sugar. But no-one would have dreamed of telling him that they didn’t relish the
horrible, glutinous stuff. Even Tilly hadn’t liked it, and she enjoyed nearly everything that was edible.

She still couldn’t go up the stairs.

They’d had a melodeon in those days, a squeezebox that had been left to Mother in the will of some long-dead aunt of hers. Carols after supper had been the nearest the Walsh family had got
to entertainment. With parents who were dyed-in-the-wool Methodists, Tilly and Mona had enjoyed a regulated childhood.

She had to be dead. No way would their Tilly have stayed upstairs till half past two on Christmas Day. ‘Whatever shall I do?’ For a suddenly independent woman, Mona was seriously
devoid of ideas. She went through a list of acquaintances, crossing off each one as unsuitable. What a blinkered life she had led.

Really, she should fetch the doctor. But what if Tilly was just in a deep sleep? What if she was seriously ill? No. Tilly was a noisy sleeper, and the house was silent. The doctor, then. No. It
was Christmas. Mona didn’t want to cause a song and dance for nothing. She could feel the hysteria rising in her throat, knew she was getting into what Tilly called a state and a half.

Then a thought struck. She rummaged in the sewing-basket and came up with a small card, white with black print. ‘Seth Dobson, Undertaker, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.’ Seth would
know the difference between dead, ill, or just asleep. As well as the yard address, Mr Dobson’s home was listed with a telephone number. Mona had never used a telephone, wouldn’t know
where to start. So she lit the mantles, just to make the house a bit more welcoming for the undertaker, pulled on her outer garments and made for the door.

As she stood in the street, she noticed the sounds of Christmas floating out of other houses. She and Tilly had never bothered much with neighbours, and Mona regretted that for the first time in
her life. An understanding friend would have been a bonus today.

She dragged her way up Deane Road, was grateful that she had shed some weight. Half an hour later, she stood just inside the gates of Seth Dobson’s detached but modest home. All the lights
were on. She could see the family sitting in the parlour, noticed that Seth Dobson managed to look sad even when he laughed.

She pulled the bell and waited.

Seth opened the door. ‘Mona?’

She gulped down a draught of oxygen. ‘I made the dinner.’

Immediately, Seth Dobson realized that there was something very wrong with the younger Miss Walsh. Used to people in grief and shock, he played along with her. ‘Did you, love? Well,
that’s nice. Just step inside and tell me all about it.’ He guided her into the hallway, placed her in a chair, closed the door. ‘Now, then,’ he began. ‘Start at the
beginning.’

‘Has it gone three, Mr Dobson?’

‘It has,’ he replied. ‘It’s going on quarter past, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘See, she’s still in bed. I even made her sage and onion patties, ’cos she doesn’t like scraping stuffing out of a bird. And gravy, I made that. But she never came down,
Mr Dobson.’

‘Seth. You can call me Seth, Mona. We’ve worked next door to one another for a fair few years, eh?’

Mona removed her gloves and placed them on a table. ‘I think she must be dead.’

‘Your Tilly?’

She nodded mutely.

‘Have you . . . felt for a pulse, tried a mirror near her mouth?’

This time, Mona shook her head. ‘I’ve not been upstairs. I tried, but I got stuck after about three steps, couldn’t go no further. Like I was frozen. Like me feet weren’t
listening to me head any more.’

‘You should get the doctor,’ he suggested. ‘You’re not the only one feared of going in a room with the deceased. I come across this all the while. The doctor’s your
man, love. I don’t come into it until the certificate’s signed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she moaned. ‘She might not be dead. I think she is, though. I couldn’t work out what to do for the best. I know it’s Christmas and I
shouldn’t be disturbing a doctor or you—’

‘You can forget that before the kick-off, Mona Walsh. I’ve been called out twice today already. Death doesn’t stop for Christmas, and Christmas mustn’t stop for death. We
do what we can, all of us.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Will you look at her for me? See, you’ll know whether . . .’

‘Course I will, you know I will.’ He called over his shoulder. ‘Janet? Fetch a sherry for this lady, will you? I’m getting me coat and hat on.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a trouble to you.’

He placed a hand on her arm. ‘Mona, you’re no bother at all. My job is to look after folk when they’re at their lowest ebb – some of them dead, many grieving. Let me go
now and get my boots – it’s cold out yon.’

Janet Dobson brought Mona a sherry. ‘Here you are. Put yourself outside of that, it’ll take the chill off.’

‘I’m sorry,’ repeated Mona.

Mrs Dobson tutted. ‘Look, in a business like ours, we have to be prepared at all times. This isn’t a job, it’s more what you might call a vocation. We none of us mind, I
promise you. My Seth’ll look after everything. Would you like me to come and all? I don’t mind, you know, I’ve done it in the past.’

Mona felt a huge sob bubbling in her throat. She wasn’t used to kindness. There was a bit of banter at work sometimes, the odd joke, some gossip. But in the normal run of her domestic
life, all Mona got was caustic comments and criticism from their Tilly. To hide her hysteria, she gulped at the sherry, accidentally allowing some into her air passage. The resulting coughing and
choking filled the time until Seth came back with his cart.

‘You’re sure you don’t want me?’ asked Janet Dobson.

‘We’ll manage.’ Seth kissed his wife on the forehead. ‘You play with the grandkids,’ he advised. ‘I’ll be back in two shakes.’

The sherry made Mona dizzy as they walked down Deane Road, so she concentrated on listening to her companion’s attempts at conversation.

‘. . . and we’re going motorized,’ Seth Dobson was saying. ‘I’ll keep the horses, because some folk prefer them, and I can’t afford more than one motor
hearse. I never thought I’d see the day, but I’ve thrown my cap in with the rest. Price of progress, eh?’ He was talking to himself, but this was all a part of the balm he applied
to wounds of the recently bereaved. Even so, he could not help worrying about Mona Walsh. Tilly was the driving force. Although Mona had made a great noise about leaving home, Seth had entertained
reservations on the subject. In fact, he had been running a book, taking bets on whether or not Mona would move out when the big day finally arrived.

At last, they reached the house. ‘Do you want to stop out here?’ he asked. ‘Fetch one of the neighbours to be with you?’

‘No. I’ll wait in the kitchen,’ she answered. She allowed him to help her into the house. When the front door was closed, Mona heard, felt and almost tasted the silence. Even a
full brass band could not have swallowed up this deafening noiselessness.

She heard Seth ascending the stairs, tried not to listen. The dinner was cold; a thick skin had formed on the gravy, and all the vegetables looked sad and neglected. A little Christmas tree
drooped on the dresser, its arms weighted down by small, silver-wrapped chocolates. All movement above had ceased. He was looking at Tilly now.

Mona’s eyes settled on two parcels, one from Mona to Tilly, the other from Tilly to Mona. Tilly should have been opening hers now; she always got her present before supper, then Mona would
open her gift from Tilly after supper had been cleared. It was tradition. ‘I got you a beautiful blouse,’ said Mona. ‘Lovely blue, it is, with pearl buttons and a high
neck.’ He was coming down the stairs.

Somewhere, there was a nice little cameo of Mother’s. Dad had bought it as a birthday present years and years ago. It would look lovely at the throat of Tilly’s Christmas blouse.

‘Mona?’ He placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘Open my present for me, Seth.’

‘Eh?’

‘My present from Tilly – it’s there, wrapped in green tissue.’

The bemused undertaker did her bidding. It was a heavy linen tablecloth. He read from the enclosed card. ‘“To my sister, Mona, for the new home.”’

‘She didn’t want me to go,’ said Mona quietly. ‘Right against it, she was. But she bought me that cloth to show there was no ill-feeling. Oh, Seth, I killed her. I killed
my sister as if I’d stuck a knife in her heart.’ Mona grabbed the man’s hands and sobbed. ‘God forgive me, oh, God forgive me.’

Seth Dobson, who, since the arrival of adulthood, had handled more funerals than he’d eaten hot dinners, felt a pricking behind his eyelids. There was something really pathetic about this
woman, as if she’d missed out on life altogether. Tilly, the brains, the pilot, lay as dead as a dodo upstairs.

‘I shouldn’t have got that house,’ cried Mona. ‘She thought I needed her, but it was the other road round. She needed me, Seth. She was frightened of being on her
own.’ The sobbing settled, turned into shuddering breaths. ‘See, I’m the nervy one, she’s the rock. But Tilly keeps it all inside.’ Mona blinked away a few more tears.
‘She is . . . dead, isn’t she?’

He inclined his head. ‘Aye, she’s gone, love.’

‘Did she suffer?’

‘I’m no doctor, but I’d say she went in her sleep, never felt a thing. She looks really peaceful.’

‘Right.’ Another deep breath shook its way out of her lungs.

Seth tightened his grip on her fingers. ‘Now, it’s up to you, but I’ve had a lot of experience, as you know. I always advise folk to say goodbye properly – face to face.
You don’t have to do it now. You could visit her in my little chapel if you’d prefer, but it’s important to do it if you can.’ He pulled away and picked up his hat.
‘I’ll fetch the doctor now. Shall I get a neighbour?’ he asked again.

‘No. And thank you. I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Seth.’ She listened as his footfalls died in the lobby.

After making herself a cup of tea, Mona sat by the fire and drank deeply, enjoying the taste of sugar after many weeks of self-denial. She realized with a sudden jolt that she was hungry, almost
starving. There was plenty of chicken and bread – she could make herself a sandwich later on.

Placing cup and saucer on the mantel, she smoothed her hair, checked in the mirror. For such a momentous occasion, she wanted to look her best.

Slowly, Mona Walsh climbed the stairs and entered the front bedroom. She sat in the wicker chair next to her sister’s bed, laid the new blouse on a bedside table. ‘I’ll find
your best grey skirt, the one with the pleats. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t put Mother’s cameo on your new blouse, Tilly, only I think it should stay up top, not six feet
under.’ A thought struck. ‘Oh, you won’t be getting buried, will you? It’ll be that brand new crematorium for you with a bit of your Light fed into the furnace. It’s
not my religion any more, Till. I’ve been watching Mr Wilkinson for Mr Mulligan.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Looks like Wilkinson’s a bad lot. Looks like the Light’s a load
of cow pats and all.’

She stroked Tilly’s hair, pushed a few strands off the cold face. ‘If I’ve killed you, I didn’t mean to. I only wanted a bit of a change, love.’ She still wanted a
change. The prospect of working in the laundry until she retired was not an attractive one. ‘I think I might still move,’ she told the body. ‘Don’t believe that I
didn’t love you, because I did.’ They’d got on each other’s nerves, that was all. It was what happened when folk lived and worked together all the while – only to be
expected.

Mona stayed next to Tilly’s bed until Seth returned with the doctor. The undertaker followed her downstairs, sat her in a rocker, made her a fresh pot of tea. ‘Now, look,’ he
began, ‘you don’t want to be stuck here on your own, do you? I’ll be moving your Tilly as soon as the doctor gives me a certificate.’

Mona had nowhere to go.

‘I’ve taken a liberty,’ he continued. ‘While I was at the doctor’s, I telephoned the post office up at Pendleton. The sub-postmaster took a message, promised to
pass it on.’

‘Oh.’ She remained mystified.

‘He’ll look after you.’

‘I don’t know anybody as works for the post office.’

Seth frowned, making his eyes look all the more out of alignment. Then the light dawned. ‘Nay, I don’t mean him. Though he will be telling his brother, because the funeral’ll
be at the temple. The sub-postmaster’s Peter Wilkinson’s brother. No, I mean Mr Mulligan. The message was for him.’