Mulligan's Yard (3 page)

One day, Diane, I shall cleanse thee not with water, but with the fire in my heart. Praise the Lord.

Louisa Burton-Massey flicked through the pages of her fashion magazine. Not too long ago, she could have afforded the Chanel crêpe-de-Chine suit with its squirrel trim,
hip-length cape and narrow, ankle-skimming skirt. Making do was all very well for the younger generation, but Louisa had grown used to the best and was having great trouble settling for anything
less.

She sighed heavily. Anything less? Everything was less, was sub-standard, third-rate. Five years she had spent here, at Caldwell Farm, with its smoking chimneys, draughty rooms, noisy and
primitive plumbing. It was just as well that Pendleton Grange was not visible from here, because she might well have gone mad had she been forced to look upon all she had lost. No, she hadn’t
lost anything. Her whole life had been stolen from her, frittered away by the man she had loved so dearly. As far as she was concerned, the price of love had been immeasurably expensive.

‘Damn the Irish upstart,’ she muttered, in a hiss that fell short of ladylike. So magnanimous this morning, so charitable. He had offered to swap places. To exchange Pendleton for
this hovel. She shivered. If only she could have taken him up on that, but—

‘Oh, to hell with him,’ she cried, throwing her magazine to the floor. Standards were indeed slipping. Why, a few years ago, the words ‘damn’ and ‘hell’ had
found no purchase in her vocabulary.

Amy dashed in, face flushed from riding, cavalry-twill jodhpurs stained from mucking out and, no doubt, as a result of tumbling from a mount that was far too large and frisky.
‘Mother—’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t ride his horses, Amy, dear.’ Margot, the youngest, was the tomboy of the family, though Amy did a fair imitation at times.

‘Mother—’

‘He is using you as a servant. Why, when we lived at the Grange, you never looked after your own tack, did you? What is going to happen to us?’ she wailed dismally. ‘How could
he? How could your father leave us like paupers?’

Amy blew upward at a darkish blonde tress that had fallen from beneath the peak of her riding hat. Was Mother about to have another of her vapours? And where was that dratted bottle of
smelling-salts? ‘He pays us to stable his horses,’ she said reasonably. ‘There isn’t enough room in the Grange stables. It’s jolly decent of him to allow us to ride
Cleo and George.’

‘Stupid names for horses,’ spat Louisa.

Amy studied her mother. Thin to the point of emaciation, Louisa Burton-Massey was, Amy suspected, as tough as old rope. She had been accustomed from birth to having her own way, and she had
taken to poverty as a gourmet would relish tripe and onions. ‘Mother, Mr Mulligan spoke to me and—’

‘You are not to deal with him,’ Louisa snapped. ‘How many times must I tell you not to associate with that . . . creature?’

Amy reeled in her temper and held it tightly. ‘He seldom speaks to anyone, as we all know to our cost. Had he been more forthcoming, his intentions might have been clearer. He wishes to
return the house to us.’

‘Really?’ screeched Louisa. ‘Really? After all we have gone through? Remember the pity, the pretended sadness and sympathy of our friends. Where are our friends now?
Disappeared, gone off to richer pickings. I absolutely refuse to be a victim of that man’s charity. How should we maintain the place? We have very little capital, no investments to speak
of—’

‘He has a business plan,’ said Amy quietly. ‘The income from the properties in town would help, then there’s the possibility of opening up the Grange.’

‘Opening it up? Like a stately home? It may be a splendid house by local standards, but it’s hardly the seat of an earl.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Amy,’ said Louisa, the name squeezed through tightened jaws. ‘We have our pride.’

Amy dropped into a chair, dragged off her hat and placed it on a side table. ‘We could live in one part of the house and let the other rooms out as a sort of rest home. Well, more of a
health hydro, I mean.’

Louisa Burton-Massey was suddenly bolt upright in her chair. ‘I see. So our grand Irish neighbour wishes to give back the house, the inn, the business premises in town – oh, how
terribly kind he is. And I am to share my home with the sick?’

Amy glanced at the ceiling in the manner of one seeking assistance from the Almighty. ‘No, with people who need respite from their everyday lives. Wealthy people, Mother, who would enjoy
the countryside, the lake, the woods. We could have a swimming-pool, a Turkish bath, perhaps. There’d be horse-riding, a bit of putting for golfers, a beautician for the ladies, mud baths,
tennis in season, walking on the moors, a gymnasium and so forth.’

‘Over my dead body,’ muttered Louisa, with an air of finality.

Amy slumped downward and placed her right foot on her left knee, sitting exactly as her father had used to sit. Knowing that this annoyed her mother, she sniffed and folded her arms
determinedly. She knew that her own behaviour was childish, knew also that her mother was acting like a two-year-old, all tantrums and cross looks.

Louisa closed her eyes, saw him walking up the steps, watched her broken husband struggling to stay on his feet. In the year of Our Lord 1915, Alex Burton-Massey, an officer and a gentleman, had
returned prematurely from the war. From that September day, he had been a stranger to his family. What had he seen? What had turned him into that reckless fool? The leg had improved, as had a
shrapnel-shattered arm. But his mind, his brain . . .

‘Mother?’ Amy saw the tears as they began to drip down Louisa’s cheeks. There was no point in upsetting her any further, so Amy placed both feet on the floor, drawing them
slightly to one side in the manner of a lady. Not that anyone could look graceful in riding breeches, she supposed.

The eyes flew open, crocodile tears drying miraculously. ‘Here you are, Amy, talking as if you agree with Mulligan about the future of your father’s family home . . . and to think
that you were the one who found his tortured body.’

‘Yes.’

Louisa still failed to understand her eldest daughter’s composure. Amy had discovered her father’s body more than five years ago, when she had been just sixteen. He had hanged
himself from a beam in the Grange stables, his face distorted by asphyxia, a note still clutched in a cooling hand. ‘I am sorry, my dear girls. This time, I went the whole hog and have
disgraced myself completely. Our house, the lands and our properties in Bolton now belong to Thomas Mulligan. I managed to hang on to one of the farms and I must advise you that you will be living
at Caldwell after my funeral . . .’

Amy watched her mother’s face. Given Louisa’s upbringing, her reaction to Father’s death was understandable. Louisa had been cosseted, adored, indulged
ad nauseam
by her
husband. An only child, she had been the centre of her parents’ universe. Now, all that remained was a small part of their legacy. On interest from the remains of her dowry, Louisa was
keeping three daughters and two servants, not to mention this house. Yet Amy had always known that her female parent had a special strength, born of stubborn determination and sheer
bloody-mindedness. And, after all, Father had been dead for years. For how long was Mother going to mourn? Was Louisa indulging herself? ‘Mother?’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘Mr Mulligan was talking about a partnership.’

Louisa’s eyes clouded again at the sound of that dreaded name. ‘I have no son to run a business.’

‘You have three daughters. And I am as capable as any man, I’m sure.’

‘I will not have you working.’

Amy looked at the ceiling. It wanted plaster and two coats of paint. The whole house was in need of repair – plumbing, window frames, dry-rotted wainscoting. In truth, Amy loved this old
place. Pendleton Grange was terribly grand, a fairytale mansion built by her father’s forebears. It was not the sort of place where one might slide down banisters or play ping-pong. She bit
her lip. ‘If you want to return to the Grange, this might be your last chance. As Mr Mulligan said not half an hour ago, we are the bigger family.’

‘No,’ screamed Louisa, all thoughts of manners completely abandoned. ‘I will not creep back like a mange-riddled animal seeking a bolt-hole. Have you no finer feelings? What
would people think? What would they say about us then?’

Amy did not know, did not care, offered no response.

‘And your father would turn in his grave if I put you and your sisters out to work.’

A puff of sooty smoke billowed out of the fireplace. Automatically, Louisa pressed a perfumed handkerchief to her nose to save it from taking offence.

‘So, what are we to do with our lives?’ asked Amy. ‘Everyone works these days. What about Margot and Eliza? When we were landed, there was, perhaps, a chance of us marrying
well. Even so, the daughters of many good families are working now, so why should we be different? In fact, we have a case stronger than most, because we three need more than simple occupations to
while away the years before marriage. We must earn money, Mother.’ Amy bit her tongue. She had determined not to upset Louisa, yet these words had to be said, so she might just as well hang
for the full sheep. ‘I am twenty-one,’ she stated now.

‘I am well aware of your age.’ The words were edged with frost.

‘And I am legally entitled to make my own decisions.’

The grandmother clock chimed. Elspeth Moorhead staggered in with morning coffee. She waited until Amy had removed her hat from the table, then set the tray down on its surface. ‘Will I
pour, ma’am?’ she asked.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Amy. Poor old Elspeth had so much on her plate. She and her husband were the only resident staff, though a woman from the village came in twice a week to do
the heavier chores.

Louisa shook her head and waited for the coffee. What on earth was she going to do with this wayward daughter? And what sort of example was Amy setting the other two girls? It was hopeless. Amy
had put rather less than her whole heart and soul into exploring the social circuit. Not that Bolton’s environs held a lot of possibilities, but these three beautiful girls were surely
capable of ensnaring decent, affluent husbands?

Amy could read her mother like an open book. Louisa imagined that marriage was the cure-all for every ill, that her daughters’ supposed beauty would overcome every other obstacle in the
wedding stakes. Well, it didn’t work that way. Money married money, trade married trade, the working classes sought partners within their own spheres. Amy and her sisters did not fit into any
category – they belonged nowhere. She handed a cup of coffee to her mother.

Louisa sipped, pulled a face. ‘As weak as dishwater. Ask Elspeth to make some more.’

Amy began to bubble inside. She tried to ignore the feeling, told herself to remain calm, but she realized quickly that Mother had gone too far. ‘No,’ she answered, her voice low.
‘I shan’t. You take far too much for granted. This house needs caring for, and Elspeth cannot be in two places at once. We are very lucky to have kept her, because she and her husband
could earn far more elsewhere. She will be preparing vegetables now, for lunch or for this evening. The coffee will just have to do.’

Louisa’s jaw dropped, but she righted her expression quickly.

‘And, Mother, when you judge the coffee to be dishwater, I wonder how you manage to know? I daresay you have never contended with dirty crockery.’

‘How dare you talk to me like this?’

Amy placed her cup and saucer on the tray, then rose to her feet. ‘Because I must. The facts have to be faced squarely. Look at me, please.’ She paused until she had the older
woman’s attention. ‘My father gambled away everything he had—’

‘I need no reminder of that.’

‘Listen, please. For once, stop grieving and hankering after the past. He killed himself. I loved him and I love you so very much. But, oh, you are annoying, blinkered and negative.’
She walked to the window in case tears began to flow. ‘When I found him, my first feeling was one of intense relief.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Relief,’ Amy repeated. ‘His suffering was too great, too huge to be contained.’

‘And how would you know?’ Sarcasm trimmed Louisa’s words.

Amy swivelled, looked her mother in the face. Yes, five years was long enough for Mother to have lived in ignorance. ‘Because he talked to me. You were his wife, while I was a chit of
sixteen, but he came to me because he knew that you would be upset by his agony. His love for you was boundless.’

Louisa blanched.

‘When Father was . . . injured in battle, the chap next to him was blown to kingdom come. Not to put too fine a point on it, there were bits of flesh and bone everywhere – in
Father’s hair, on his face, even in his mouth. He drank and drank to take away the taste, but he never succeeded. Then he gambled to stop himself thinking and remembering. That one moment of
war finished him.’ Perhaps Mother might worry rather less about weak coffee now. It was time for her to grow up, time for her to stop reading silly magazines. There was a lot more to life
than Worth, Chanel and the level of this year’s hemlines.

Louisa remained motionless for several seconds. ‘And he told you this,’ she said eventually.

‘Yes.’ She recalled how he had ranted and wept, how he had clung to the hand of his oldest child. In death, even with his face contorted, he had looked comparatively serene.
‘You know only too well that the drinking and the gambling were not a part of his true nature, Mother. He was enduring unimaginable mental torture. So he put an end to it.’

Louisa absorbed this unpalatable information. ‘He should have told me,’ she said at last. ‘Me. I was his wife. I might have stopped him.’

‘He could not have been stopped by anyone.’ Like her father, Amy had tried to take away the taste, had hidden her own terrible anguish from this childish parent and from her sisters.
Eliza, twelve months Amy’s junior, was a sensitive soul, while Margot, not quite fourteen at the time of her father’s suicide, had been far too young to witness Amy’s shock.
‘It really is time for you to mature, Mother. Finding him like that devastated me but, like him, I was unwilling to cause you further distress. We have nursed you for long enough.’