Mulligan's Yard (35 page)

‘Now, we have Mrs Jessie Evans who spent five years as a designer at Marshall and Brooke in Manchester. Yes, I can see that you have heard of them, so I know that you will appreciate their
high standards and the prices to match. Mrs Evans is pure magic in the field of fashion – yes, she’s the blushing one over there.’ Amy twinkled at the shy, clever woman.
‘She will do you all proud, ladies. And we shall be a great deal less expensive than Marshall’s.’

Jessie Evans giggled, hid behind her handkerchief. Having fallen on her feet within a job that allowed her to cater for her children outside school hours, she was as happy as a deserted wife
could manage.

Amy, more relaxed now that she had the audience’s approval, went on to describe the services offered. Miss Mona Walsh, who was not available this morning, had run the laundry for many
years. She would be on hand to give advice regarding the treatment of different materials – how to wash silk crêpe, how to iron fine worsted, how to sponge stains. As a larger lady, she
would also be happy to assist those of a similar build to choose suitable fabrics and styles.

‘I am in charge,’ Amy said. ‘For anything that goes wrong, for help, for complaints, come to me.’

‘We will,’ called the wife of an alderman. ‘Don’t you be worrying about that, love. A Lancashire lass is born complaining and dies complaining.’

As she listened to the resulting laughter, Amy realized that she was actually enjoying herself. She was optimistic. Already ideas buzzed about her brain like a cauldron of tangled colour –
Ida’s knitting and crochet, Mona’s concept about hair-dressing, her own thoughts regarding makeup and manicures. The hydro, too, might well become an extension of A Cut Above, a place
where women would gather to talk about fashion and so forth. James was currently supervising the installation of a generator for electricity at the Grange. It was all happening, and Amy was glad to
be a part of it.

Mona Walsh, having sworn that she would never enter a building that contained her past, found herself sitting in the room where she had cooked that last meal, the Christmas
dinner that had never been eaten. All signs of the festive season had disappeared, cleared away by the good wife of Seth Dobson. ‘Furniture’s all going into storage,’ she said
quietly. ‘Though I might as well sell it, I suppose.’ She looked at the girl in Tilly’s rocking-chair. ‘Eeh, lass, this is a bugger and no mistake. Pardon my
language.’

‘That’s all right. It is a bugger.’ She was carrying the child of Rupert Smythe. Having put two and two together, Margot also suspected that her sister had run off to be with
Rupert. What a mess. ‘I shall have to tell Amy.’

‘Aye, you will. No use trying to hide it for much longer, ’cos you’re starting to show. A few more weeks and she’ll guess for herself.’ Mona’s heart was
stretched to breaking point. She was supposed to be at A Cut Above, but having offered this girl the choice between blue murder and visiting a doctor, she had felt obliged to accompany her to the
surgery. ‘I told Amy I was going to the doctor’s for myself, like. But she’ll be expecting me. Aren’t you expected, too?’

Margot nodded.

‘We’d best get going down to Mulligan’s Yard, then.’

‘No.’

Mona sat at the table, remembered the chicken and the gravy and Tilly’s stuffing. ‘You’re not the first, and you’ll not be the last.’ She wished that she’d
had a baby, married or not. If she’d had a child, there would have been somebody of her own in the world. ‘We weren’t close, me and our Tilly,’ she said eventually.

‘Oh.’

‘But something like this will bring you and your sisters together.’

Margot sniffed. ‘Well, Eliza is two hundred miles away, while Amy’s busy with her shop. There’ll be no time for me and my little problem.’ She tossed her head.
‘Eliza couldn’t care less, anyway.’

‘Amy’ll care, though.’

‘About the disgrace,’ insisted Margot. ‘About what people think and what they’ll say.’

The girl was in no state to listen to sense. Mona felt that she might as well spit in the wind, because Margot had to talk to her family before listening to anyone at all. ‘So what do we
do now?’ she asked. ‘Shall we go back to Pendleton or what?’

Margot couldn’t have cared less. ‘I don’t think I could hold up at the shop,’ she said, after a long pause. ‘But you might want to go along.’

Mona thought about that. She wanted to make a good impression, needed to make sure that Amy Burton-Massey took her seriously, yet she could not bring herself to abandon this poor young woman.
‘We’ll go home,’ she announced. ‘You can come to Ida’s and wind some wool – she’ll be at the Grange, anyway. I’m keeping my eye on you, young madam.
Then, come tea-time, you and I are off to Caldwell Farm and I’ll let you explain why I never turned up for my first day at work.’

Margot, too wrung-out for tears, was trying hard to come to terms with what could scarcely be described as a shock. She had known the answer all along, yet the pronouncement made this morning by
a medical man had shaken her. Had she hoped, deep down, that the symptoms might indicate something easier? Oh, God. People would whisper in her presence, would point at her as she walked down the
street – ‘See her? Pregnant and not married. And she’s supposed to have come from a good family . . .’

‘It’s not the end of the world,’ offered Mona.

‘It’s the end of mine,’ came the answer. ‘I said Amy would be worried about what people might say – I’m doing exactly that myself.’

‘Nine-day wonder,’ said Mona.

‘Nine-month wonder, you mean.’

The two women sat in gloomy silence for a minute or two, then Mona went to put the kettle on a gas ring in the scullery. She could offer no real help, nothing tangible. She had even considered
keeping one of her two houses, allowing Margot to live away from Pendleton, but the family was known all over Bolton, and Margot was not used to being alone. ‘She probably couldn’t even
light a fire,’ Mona said, under her breath, ‘let alone cook a proper meal.’ It was too late, anyway. Both houses were up for rent, the landlord had reimbursed Mona for
improvements in John Street, so other tenants were to be installed as soon as Mona’s possessions had been removed. ‘Aye, it’s a bugger,’ she repeated, while brewing tea.

At the table, she asked the big question. ‘Right, so what do you want to do?’

‘About what?’ Margot took a sip of hot tea, grateful for some warmth in this chilly, unloved room.

‘About the baby. I mean, will you give it up for adoption?’ Mona wished that she could cut out her tongue – hadn’t she decided to shut up until Margot had discussed the
situation with her sister?

Margot raised a shoulder. ‘There are places, homes for mothers and babies. I could go to one of those and we could all pretend I’d caught TB . . .’

Mona waited for the sentence to end. It remained unfinished, so Mona spoke again. ‘The baby would be taken away and given to some woman who can’t have children.’

‘Someone who’ll want it,’ Margot said.

‘Aye. There’s loads who’d give their right arms for a babby.’

Margot gulped down another mouthful of tea. Something had happened to her in recent days. ‘I think it’s moved a few times,’ she said now. ‘It felt as if I’d been
eating greedily – as I used to – but without the pain. It’s a part of my body, yet it’s a separate thing, and I don’t know what I’m saying.’ She paused.
‘I don’t want it, but . . . But I still don’t know what I’m saying.’

The girl was a battlefield. Although Mona had not experienced pregnancy, she had seen many a mother-to-be in the laundry, had noticed changing moods, tears, laughter that sometimes verged on the
hysterical. All the women at the wash-house had been married. Even those as poor as church mice had been half of a pair. Margot had no partner . . .

‘It’s Rupert’s,’ said Margot now.

‘Well, I’d gathered that for myself.’

‘And he’s in London, probably with my sister.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘Eliza is very strange,’ she announced thoughtfully. ‘She’s like something
connected to James Mulligan’s new generator – switch on, switch off, no real feelings. She fooled me, Mother and Amy for years, such a good egg, dutiful daughter, wonderful pianist,
sugar and spice, all things nice.’ She looked directly at Mona. ‘There’s no soul in her playing, you know.’

Mona, unsure of what to say, nodded encouragingly.

‘She’s cold,’ Margot concluded.

‘Eliza might be on the cool side,’ said Mona, ‘but your Amy isn’t. She’s a fine girl with a big heart and a good head on her shoulders.’ The world on her
shoulders, too, thought Mona sadly.

A faint smile paid a short visit to Margot’s face. ‘You make her sound like a pint of beer – a good head on it. Oh, Mona, what a mess. Why should Amy have an illegitimate
nephew or niece? Who’s going to want to marry me after this?’

Mona sighed heavily. ‘Like you said just now, you can always give it away, love.’

The cup clattered as Margot placed it in its saucer. ‘Can I?’

‘I don’t know, lass. Nobody does. Even you have to work hard getting an answer to that one.’

Mona stood up and pulled on her gloves. ‘We’d best get out of here. It’s colder in this house than it is outside.’ She gazed round the walls at her mother’s
pictures, Victorian prints fading away, an embroidered sampler, a Home Sweet Home, a
When Did You Last See Your Father?
. ‘I don’t need any of it,’ she said absently,
‘though I suppose I’ll hang on to the sewing-box and a few other bits.’

Margot’s gaze followed Mona’s, taking in the small trinkets and trappings that had accumulated over a lifetime or two. ‘Amy says we’ve always to look forward. It’s
no use glancing over my shoulder and remembering what a fool I was with Rupert Smythe. It’s like you, Mona, walking away from all your furniture. You need new things for a new start, leave
regret behind.’

Mona smiled determinedly. ‘You and me is in this together, lass. Come hell, high water, world war – God forbid – it’s thee and me, Margot.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’ And she did.

Our Jack and our Harry, those burly thirteen-year-old twins, were on the scene again, chopping wood, cleaning stables, trying to wash windows in temperatures that almost
removed the ends of wet fingers.

Sally Hayes watched them. These brothers of Mary Whitworth were not her idea of decent people. Also, Mary had displayed for some weeks a deepening resentment for Kate Kenny and, most
particularly, for Mr Mulligan. Mary was up to something again. The stealing had stopped, but there were still ongoings, plans that showed on the girl’s face whenever she dropped a tightening
guard.

‘Sally?’

‘Yes, Mrs Kenny?’

‘Is this you daydreaming?’

Sally turned and smiled at a dragon who was really an angel in disguise. ‘I don’t like those boys,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t we get some from the village?’

The housekeeper pondered. ‘Well, we could, yes, but the Whitworths are poor and those two trek all the way from Bolton, so they must be keen.’

Sally looked over her shoulder. Both of them were grinning at her, their faces hard and set in lines etched deep by poverty and deprivation. ‘I don’t trust them,’ she said.

‘Neither do I.’ Kate placed a batch of scones on the table. ‘Here, lift these on to the cooling rack, Sally. No good’ll come of you staring at them – it’ll
only worsen matters altogether.’

Mary Whitworth sauntered in, a feather duster in one hand, a letter in the other. She poked the envelope towards Kate Kenny. ‘It’s for you,’ she said sweetly.

Kate took the letter, her eyes never leaving Mary Whitworth’s face as she used a sharp knife to slice open the item of mail. ‘Go and tell those two brothers of yours to stop
mullarking about and get on with the jobs, or there’ll be no money today.’

Mary, still brandishing the duster, left the room. Sally, who was placing the last of the scones on a cooling rack, froze when Kate dropped into her fireside rocker. ‘Mrs Kenny?’

‘Jesus, Mary and holy St Joseph,’ breathed Kate. ‘I’ve to get to Chester today, right away. A friend – a good friend.’

Sally waited.

‘I think the weather delayed the post – the funeral’s tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Sally, not knowing what to say next, held her tongue.

‘She came over to England at the turn of the century, worked for a rich family, then for another. Always well treated was Bridget, for she toiled like a horse and prayed like a
saint.’ She paused. ‘Should have taken the veil, but she’d money to earn and send home. Aye, a prisoner of conscience, she was.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Kate looked at the young maid. ‘Pack me a bag, there’s a good girl. Just the basics, just for one night, perhaps two. And I leave you in charge.’

Sally blanched. The two boys would be sleeping on the kitchen floor tonight. Mary was up to no good, so, if Mr Mulligan were to go out – oh, she should not be bothering about such things:
Mrs Kenny’s friend was dead, that was what mattered.

But, as she raced upstairs to pack Mrs Kenny’s case, Sally’s heart went into overdrive. There was badness in the air, a wickedness that was almost tangible. Should she speak to the
master later on, ask him to get rid of Mary’s brothers?

The coal cart arrived. Even from upstairs, Sally could hear the fuel clattering down its chute and into the cellar. She chose Mrs Kenny’s garments and placed them in a small valise. Poor
Mrs Kenny. An old friend dead, a funeral to attend. Concentrating on the task in hand, Sally placed the Whitworth family where they belonged – in the myriad bits of nonsense at the back of
her mind.

The trouble with Jack and Harry Whitworth was that they displayed very few symptoms of common sense. If they wanted to do something they did it, never stopping for one moment
to consider the possible outcome of their action. So, when they saw the coal flaps hanging open in the rear yard of Pendleton Grange, they slid down the gritty chute on to a black and jagged
mountain in the cellar below. There would no longer be a need for their Mary to search for spare keys to the cellar door in the kitchen above. The fact that they needed a key to get out again
simply did not occur to them – the future could take care of itself.