Mulligan's Yard (34 page)

Thankful for her much-improved legs, Ida stood up, dragged a shawl across her upper body, walked to the door. ‘Hello, Mr Wilkinson,’ she said, suddenly keen to get on his right side.
‘Cold enough for you, is it?’

‘Certainly chilly, Mrs Hewitt. But you are looking well. The Light seems to have done its job.’

‘Oh, aye, I’m a lot better, thanks.’

‘We should hold a special service of thanksgiving.’

Ida swallowed. She’d been rude to him in the past, had even caused him to fall in the ice, but she was suddenly anxious not to insult him again. Not that she could work out why, but he
seemed . . . well, different. Angry, perhaps, or out of sorts. ‘When the weather’s better, eh?’ she suggested.

‘Good idea.’ He smiled, doffed his hat, giving her the dubious double benefit of woven hair and dreadful teeth.

‘Come in, now,’ she told the children.

Once safely inside, Ida realized that she was shaking. She was afraid of him. Why? Why now, all of a sudden? Perhaps ideas had been put into her head after the discovery of that girl in the
scullery at number 13. Oh, surely not. Yet deep inside her soul, she harboured a feeling, a sense that the guardian might just have been guilty, that he was building up to . . . something.

The cleansings. She told herself to stop trembling in case she frightened the children—

‘Gran?’ Joe’s face was screwed into quizzical mode. ‘You’re shaking all over.’

‘It’s the cold, love.’ It wasn’t the weather. The gooseflesh on her arms was caused by something primeval, an animal reaction to terror.

James clattered downstairs. ‘It all looked very easy on paper,’ he said, to no-one in particular. ‘Bunks, like sailors have, eh, Joe? It’s just getting them straight . .
. Ida?’

‘I’m all right.’

He turned to the children. ‘I need tea,’ he ordered. ‘A huge amount of tea, and some bread and butter with a little jam, a bit of cake for Mona, who is, at this moment, wedged
into the corner of the room. You’ll have to take hers in, because I can’t get her out. So, your lodger is in residence.’

Ida sat in her rocking-chair. ‘Wilkinson was out there.’ She swallowed. ‘I can’t stand him going near Diane. Oh, I’m just a foolish woman, but he fair made my hair
stand on end this time.’

‘Calm yourself.’

‘He was never out of my house. He was always good to us. What’s changed?’

James squatted down in front of her. ‘You are stronger, you are no longer dependent upon him. It’s all about power. Not only have you left Bolton and the Temple, you are befriended
by me, a Catholic. See how much you have changed. Now, I’ve told you how twisted that cult is. You already know what a difficult life the man has had. He is deformed in the head. But you and
yours are safe, please believe that.’

She sniffed back a tear. ‘I’ll feel safer when Mona moves in.’

James stroked her face. ‘She has moved in. She is stuck as fast as the sun in the sky, no shifting her.’

Ida looked hard at him. ‘I thought you were joking.’

‘I never joke about a wedged woman, Ida.’

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Oh, he was good at cheering folk up, was James Mulligan. ‘What’ll we do?’ she asked.

He stood up. ‘There’s always goose grease. Or we could just leave her there while she loses a few more pounds.’

The cry came then. ‘Is nobody doing owt about this? I can’t move. Will somebody come?’

James and Ida dissolved into laughter. But if they had stopped long enough to look and listen, each might have noticed a hollow quality in the other’s merriment.

Mona was freed eventually and life continued apace. But Ida felt uneasy for the rest of the day, and she could not fully account for that.

The news of Eliza Burton-Massey’s planned departure filtered through to the villages of Pendleton and Pendleton Clough in a matter of hours. Opinions were expressed,
theories propounded, then most folk went back to the business of celebrating the arrival of a brand new year. What them up yonder did was interesting, but not all-consuming. They could get on with
it – there were meals to cook and eat.

But Peter Wilkinson was not most folk. He was dismayed, confused because the Light had shown him that Eliza was the one for him. The Light did not make mistakes, so the fault was his; he had
simply misinterpreted the message. So, he had to move his sights across to Margot, the youngest. She would be useful; she could ride a horse, and horses were plentiful in Makersfield.

Now, there remained just one hurdle: he had to prove to himself that he was a full man, one who was capable of reproducing himself. At this juncture, his feelings and plans became rather blurred
about the edges. He knew that he had to find Margot, trap her, put her to sleep and mate with her. Once he had claimed her, she could be told about how she had been chosen, about America and the
rich life she would enjoy within the compound.

He always got a headache when he reached this uncertain point. Faith was the answer. As long as he claimed her, the Light would guide her the rest of the way. Of course, everything had to be
done stealthily, as non-believers would not accept his way of working. How sad they were, those who had not met the Light.

Preparations began straight away: he stored the chloroform, the rag and his dark clothing in a shed at the back of his brother’s house-cum-shop. There might be a lot of waiting involved,
as he would need to cover his tracks. It was complicated, but he was gladdened by the knowledge that the Light would guide him. Margot, not Eliza, he must remember that. He made a chant of it to
remind himself. Margot, not Eliza. Margot was to be the companion of his future life.

James Mulligan made his way up the cellar stairs. He doused the lamp, placed it on the top step, emerged into the kitchen. For a few moments, he stood still, his head lowered
as if deep in thought, then taking a large iron key from a pocket, he locked the heavy door, rattling its handle to ensure security.

Kate, who was trimming the pastry edges from an apple pie, noticed how old and weary he looked. Every time he came up from the cellar, he was as miserable as a wet washday. ‘Away now till
I make you a cup of tea,’ she ordered. ‘And I’ve a new batch of soda bread, still warm, it is, just as you’ve always liked it. Or would you like one of my famous potato
cakes?’ She knew that she was gabbling, but how she longed to comfort him, distract him, make his life easier and happier.

‘Oh, Kate.’ He groaned his way into a chair. ‘It’s getting to me. I feel like a bone torn at each end by a big dog.’ He sniffed, picked up a spoon and played with
it absently.

‘Ah, well.’ She placed the pie in the range oven. ‘I suppose one would be an Irish wolfhound, the other an English retriever. The retriever is the prettier of the two, I
don’t doubt.’ With her arms akimbo and an oven cloth dangling from each hand, she looked hard at him. ‘A man with two mistresses is a country at war.’

‘It’s not funny.’

‘Love is seldom amusing,’ she replied quickly. ‘And being dragged two ways can make a person a deal less than comfortable. Life has a way of sorting itself out, but.’

‘It’s agony.’ He placed his elbows on the table, cupped his chin, watched her bustling about in her quick, sure way. Kate was a born organizer. She had built a good life with a
husband she had adored, had watched him fade and die, had delivered a stillborn boy. And look at her now, he thought, agile, cheerful, acidic, amusing. ‘Did I tell you recently that I love
you?’ he asked. He did love her. She was mother, friend, companion. She was also his little bit of Ireland in this foreign place.

She considered the question, bread-knife in one hand, a small loaf in the other. ‘Yesterday,’ she answered. ‘Just after breakfast.’ He was wrenching the heart from her;
she could almost reach out and touch the pain that surrounded him. ‘God knows, you can’t go on like this. You’ll end up in one of those funny hospitals with padded walls and
scruffy, bespectacled doctors.’

‘You know I’m too strong for that, Auntie Kate.’

She froze for a few seconds, saw him running down the lane, no laces in his boots, ragged shirt flapping in the breeze. ‘He’s hitting Mammy again, Auntie Kate.’ And she would
go back with him, because she was the only one who could tackle Thomas Mulligan without fear of death. How many times had the child come for her? How many grains of salt in the dish?

‘Don’t think about it.’ His voice was low. ‘She can suffer no more, and he is where he belongs.’

‘We’ve always been in tune, you and I,’ she said. ‘Sure, we can each read the other like a book.’ She gazed at him, her expression an improbable mix of hope and
despair. ‘If I’d a hundred pounds just now, I’d back the English retriever to win the race.’

‘Would you?’ They both laughed, because their dislike for gambling and gamblers was another of many shared emotions. ‘Ah, well, there’s only time will put me straight.
Talking of straight, it took me two hours to fit those beds.’

Kate nodded proudly. This was her lad now. His daddy, her brother, was dead, as was his poor mammy. She loved him as dearly as she would have loved her own child. ‘You’re more of a
head man, James. Look how you came top of everything at the university. Now, anyone can build a bed.’

‘I can’t. The whole thing is balanced on bricks. I’m getting a carpenter to fix it.’

‘Horses for courses,’ she pronounced, before getting on with her chores.

Sally struggled in with a wicker basket of washing. She dumped it on the floor and shook a finger at it. ‘If you don’t dry yourself, how can I iron you?’ she asked, before
spreading it on maidens in front of the fire.

James looked upon the scene of domesticity, remarking inwardly how normal it seemed. Sulky Mary Whitworth entered, but even she didn’t spoil the atmosphere, since many families contained a
difficult teenage son or daughter. She had put back most of the stolen items, at least. Little Sally had not said a word, but James, a seasoned handler of children, always knew the score.

Kate shooed him out so that she and the maids could serve up a nice New Year meal of pork with all the trimmings. He stood in the hall and thought of the Burton-Masseys, whose house this had
been through three generations. It seemed bare out here, cold and uncared for. There were patches on the walls where paintings had hung, their liquid value converted now into racehorses. He had
sold half a dozen horses at a hundred per cent profit. Now, he could start the hydro and get this place on its feet again.

But there was a deep unease in James Mulligan’s bones, a sense of foreboding, almost. It was as if he stood in quicksand, forever mobile, unpredictable. Was this discomfort caused by the
imminent departure of Eliza? Or were his suspicions about Margot making him fidgety? He had seen Wilkinson today, had looked insanity in the eye.

But no. The main reason for his malaise was just below his feet, in the darkness of the cellar. He was, he concluded, a fool and his own worst enemy.

The second opening of A Cut Above, whilst a great deal quieter than the first, was a resounding success. This was due in no small way to the editor of the
Bolton Evening
News
, a man who had decided to throw his weight behind the tragic Burton-Masseys by giving them cut-price advertising, plus several inches of editorial space.

The first thing Amy noticed on entering the shop was a huge mass of flowers sent by other tradespeople on Deansgate. As this was January, most blooms had been cultivated in hothouses so the
generous gifts must have cost a pretty penny. Camilla was already installed, coffee pots and cups to the left, teapots to the right, a smile on her homely, generous face. She was wearing a superb
suit designed by the dead Louisa, sewn by the absent Eliza. Her hair, shiny after careful brushing, was pinned attractively to the top of her head, while the subtle application of makeup made her
less horselike.

Later, Amy watched her potential customers as they milled about oohing and ahhing over fine materials, good handbags and shoes. But the main attraction came from a totally unexpected source. Ida
Hewitt, she of the lost heart and uncertain legs, had produced three evening shawls in crochet so fine that it floated like gossamer. Two were earmarked immediately, while Amy had to fight to keep
the third as a sample for display. What talents people had, she mused. Ida had also knitted a Fair Isle cardigan so beautiful that several orders were placed there and then. No more vegetable
peeling for Ida, it seemed. Though the good woman would probably sit in the Grange kitchen to knit alongside her good friend, Kate Kenny.

There was excitement in the air as Amy made her little speech of welcome. She explained that informality would be the order of today and every day, that she intended to ensure that each customer
would be treated as an individual with needs to be met and that total slavery to fashion fads would never occur. ‘We may be small,’ she told them, ‘and therein may lie our
potential success. All I ask is that you try us and make your comments openly to us.’

She went on to describe the future as clearly as she could manage. ‘I envisage an extended family whose members will meet at the start of each season – perhaps at the inn, perhaps
here in our parlour, with every one of you having a say, bringing ideas, pictures, even your own drawings. We shall not dictate to you. Our intention is to look at fashionable trends and
incorporate them into design without becoming total victims to the suggestions of the big houses. This is an adventure. Come with us on this new journey; help us to create our own distinctive
designs. There will be fashion shows, informal meetings here, a staff who will always listen and learn from you, the customer.’

Amy cast her eyes over the gathering, counted twelve people, saw excitement in their faces. ‘Feel free to drop in any time for a chat, for a cup of coffee, or both. During opening hours,
we shall be here for you.’

They liked the idea. Already friendships were forming as women turned to their neighbours to nod or to whisper words of approval. It was plain that Louisa had been possessed of a natural
business sense, since the fashion shows and informal sessions had been her inventions. Amy continued, ‘Attention will be paid to good fitting. Women do not come in sizes dictated by the
fashion industry. Take me as an example – where ready-made clothes are concerned, I have to choose between a good fit on the hips, or a good fit across the bust. For the larger female,
particular heed will be paid to this problem.’ She looked around the room: Mona had not yet arrived. Nor had Margot.