Mulligan's Yard (36 page)

They were in. When the coal doors closed, when chain and padlock rattled, when all light was lost, they felt no fear, simply because they had not the imagination required to suffer that emotion.
‘Dark,’ mumbled Jack. ‘And that slide were all covered in slack.’

‘I’ve hurt me leg,’ came the reply, ‘bits of coal stuck in it where me trousers split.’

They sat in the gloomy pit for several minutes, pupils widening hungrily in the automatic search for light. ‘Can’t see a door.’

‘Can’t see any bloody thing.’

‘What shall we do, then?’

‘I dunno, do I? We should have waited for our Mary to find a key.’ Too late, a glimmer of common sense visited them – how were they going to escape? Mary had been sent out to
the yard only minutes earlier with a message from Mrs Kenny. Mrs Kenny’s messages were always the same, work harder, work faster, you’re doing it wrong. Mary had still found no key.

‘I’m hungry.’

‘You’re always flaming hungry.’

Silence hung heavy in the dusty air.

Then Jack was visited by a thought. ‘Some bugger’ll come for coal in a bit. I mean, they have to get coal, don’t they?’

Another pause dragged its weary self into the arena.

‘Harry?’

‘What?’

‘There’s only him comes for coal. The housekeeper never gets it and he won’t let Mary or the other one carry owt on the heavy side, like. He never lets nobody down here and
that means he must have plenty to hide.’ Jack sniffed. ‘Her from th’ orphanage thinks she’s somebody. Her’d likely be too grand for coal-carrying.’

‘Nobody’ll be nobody when we find whoever he’s got down here,’ answered Harry. ‘That bad Irish bugger’s keeping some poor swine locked in one of these
cellars. Brings food down, he does. They’ll all go to jail except for our Mary.’

‘Right,’ announced Jack. ‘Let’s find the door out of this cellar into the next. If we go through all the rooms, we can save him what’s been shoved down
here.’

Harry considered the next move. ‘I can see a bit now.’

‘Aye, me and all.’

‘Jack? It might not be a him, might be a her. And we could get in the papers, heroes, happen a reward.’

‘Get a grip of my arm, Harry. We make our way round the walls till we find that door.’

‘Have to find the bloody wall first.’

‘Shurrup,’ snapped Jack. ‘It’s got to be done.’

‘Heroes,’ smiled Harry. ‘That’s what we’ll be. Flaming heroes.’

The magic had happened. Quite by accident, Peter Wilkinson had stumbled upon a small hut in the woods, a dilapidated construction whose original purpose had been to shelter
gamekeepers while they spied on poachers. As this was winter, Wilkinson needed cover, somewhere to hide from the sight of others and from the cold during his solitary retreat. Within these boarded
walls, he would commune with the Lord, would find his own salvation and, with the help of the Light, he might even find a path for Margot Burton-Massey, whose destiny surely lay in Texas.

The greatest miracle of all was a paraffin heater, a rusted item last used by an employee of the Burton-Masseys, he guessed. This treasure had responded to cleaning and was now ready for use. He
could make tea and he could fry and boil, while his body would be kept above freezing point.

It hadn’t been easy, not with just a bike, but the hut now contained fuel for the stove, two blankets and enough food for a week, mostly tinned and bottled stuff. Outside, in the frost, he
had placed a box of bread and scones, allowing them to freeze so that their freshness could be maintained for as long as possible. His family, his customers and his fellows in the Light all
believed that he had travelled to Birmingham on Temple business. But no, he was in Sniggery Woods with the Light, a Bible and ample sustenance for several days.

Because the trees were naked, he could see, with the help of binoculars, the back of Ida Hewitt’s house, the edge of Caldwell Farm’s garden, and a worn track that led between the
two. Pendleton Grange was out of view, but that was no matter. Wilkinson concentrated on the lane, which was straight ahead when he stood in line with the shack’s doorway, occasionally
twisting his attention to the left in order to pick up any movement from the direction of Ida’s house.

As evening dropped its shades, he watched two figures making their way from Pendleton village towards Caldwell Farm. He walked out of the hut, creeping stealthily towards this pair of
companions. One was Mona Walsh, the second the girl of his dreams. Their progress was slow, while it was plain from the position of their heads that they were engaged in conversation. A dart of
pure hatred struck his heart, making him gasp. Margot Burton-Massey had made a companion of Mona Walsh, who was no more than a washerwoman. He, Peter Wilkinson, guardian of the Eternal Light, had
been granted no space in the diary of Miss Margot. Mona Walsh, a one-time worshipper of the Light, had inveigled her way into the life of Wilkinson’s dearly beloved.

He breathed away his anger and stepped back into the hut, closing the door in his wake. There were no windows, but three slits, each some eighteen inches wide and six inches deep, had been cut
into three of the walls. Over these gamekeeper’s spy-holes, Wilkinson had placed sacking, as he did not want even the palest glimmer of light to escape from his hide. Now, he would eat bread
and cheese, would drink tea, would rest. She still walked in the woods, even in winter, and he had a week in which to claim her.

The sound of a motor cut into the guardian’s thoughts, and he stepped outside once more. James Mulligan’s car was rolling along the lane towards Caldwell Farm. He would be taking Amy
Burton-Massey home after the second opening of that shop. Wilkinson had read about the shop in the
Bolton Evening News
. Any minute now, James Mulligan would be sharing space with Margot.
Pores opened along Wilkinson’s arms – he could feel every hair as it rose up and stood to attention.

She will never be yours, for you are the spawn of Hades. I shall take her from this place to a new life.

He blinked. How? How might he convince her? No, he must not question, must not worry. She would see the Light, would come to her senses after the cleansing, as she was truly worthy and good.

The Light is in my heart and in my soul. The Light will guide, and I must ask no questions. The flame will burn and cleanse. I am a messenger, a vessel. Praise the Lord in glory and
gratitude, for He will show the way.

James pulled the car into a side track, turning off the lights and allowing the engine to idle. In spite of multiple reservations, he was going to talk to Amy. The journey from
Bolton up to Pendleton had offered no opportunities for conversation, as Diane and Joe had been sitting in the back seat.

Amy bit her lip. The man had said not one word of warning before pulling off the lane, yet she had no fear of him, no sense of imminent danger. He would not hurt her; she could imagine no
situation in which James Mulligan might become predatory. With her hands curled together in her lap, Amy waited.

James clasped the steering-wheel as if it were a lifebelt. Having decided to speak up, he was suddenly bereft of words. Had there been a dictionary to hand, that would have been no help, because
the problem lay not within his mind but deep inside his heart. ‘Amy.’ He dragged the two syllables from the pit of nowhere.

‘Yes?’

James cleared his tightening throat. ‘Margot did not arrive at the shop, then?’

‘No. Nor did Mona.’

He might be wrong, prayed to be wrong, yet he was almost certain that Margot had been trying to abort her child by riding recklessly all over the estate. ‘Margot seems ill-at-ease these
days.’

Amy’s heart lurched.

‘Have you questioned her?’

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

‘And she has volunteered no information at all? Has she not said that she feels ill?’

‘No.’

James’s grip on the wheel was causing pain, so he tried to relax. ‘Your sister is, I think, carrying Rupert Smythe’s baby.’ There, it was said. A motor taxi passed the
end of the track, though neither passenger in James Mulligan’s car truly noticed the vehicle.

‘Amy?’

She shook herself out of her sudden stillness. ‘I think I already knew that, James. Knew it and rejected it at the same time.’

He allowed a deep sigh of tension to leave his chest. ‘I may be misleading myself and you, but I suspect that the absence of Margot and Mona was no coincidence. They were together today, I
am sure of it.’

Amy swallowed, did not know what to say.

‘I . . . er . . . I know of places where young mothers go to give birth, then adoption is arranged . . .’ The words died.

‘And now Eliza is with him,’ said Amy. ‘I know it. She is in London with that dreadful man.’

‘He’ll get nowhere with her,’ replied James. ‘Eliza guards herself extremely well.’

‘Yes . . . yes, she does.’ Amy removed a glove, ran the freed hand through her hair. ‘James?’

‘What?’

‘I cannot manage all this. It’s not just Margot and . . . the baby. It’s not just Eliza and her coldness towards the family, her recklessness. There’s the business, the
house, trying to keep track of money, balancing investment in the business with the needs at Caldwell Farm. I feel too young for all of it.’

‘Let me help you,’ he pleaded.

‘Mother would not—’

‘Louisa is dead. Even were she alive, she would have come to me, Amy. Louisa and I were becoming good friends, you know. Look,’ he turned slightly in his seat, managing not to moan
when the gear lever tried to bite his thigh, ‘I rent a great deal of land from you at a price that is almost peppercorn. Double your charges, Amy. It will all be yours in the end,
whatever.’

‘Whatever,’ she repeated, the consonants softened by an attempt to imitate his accent. ‘Very well, you may pay double. And thank you so much.’

Words trembled on the tip of his tongue. He ached to hold her, to stroke the lines from her forehead, to . . . No. He could never do any of that, must not give in to such urges. But, oh, it was
becoming so difficult . . .

‘I shall speak to Margot,’ she announced. ‘And her wishes will be my guide. I am not surprised, you know. Margot needed love and thought she had found it. She is not a
murderer, not a thief. I hope she will hold up her head— Was that Camilla’s van on the lane?’

‘I think so,’ he replied.

‘Poor little Margot,’ whispered Amy.

‘She will feel better when everything is out in the open.’

‘Perhaps.’ Amy began to cry. She leaned her head on the man’s shoulder and allowed the tears to fall on his coat. ‘It’s too much,’ she moaned, ‘and I
must be strong.’

‘I’ll be here.’ This short sentence arrived after pushing its way past some powerful emotions. He wanted to be brother, father and friend to this woman. And more, so much
more.

‘Strong,’ she repeated.

‘You are stronger than you know.’

‘I hope so, James.’ She placed a hand on his chest and looked up at his face. ‘You are such a good man.’

‘An Irish upstart,’ he answered.

‘That, too.’ Amy managed a smile.

His disobedient body craved to love her, but he could not allow any further contact. This was hardly the time for romance, anyway. He pushed her gently back into the passenger seat. ‘Be
calm,’ he said. ‘I shall come with you into the house in case . . . well, in case you need me.’

Amy dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Wait a few minutes,’ she begged. ‘I don’t want to arrive tear-stained.’

James Mulligan agreed. For Amy and because of Amy, he would sit in torment next to the woman he loved.

Mona was a wreck. She had spent the day with Margot and Ida, the latter knitting, the former existing in deathly silence. Ida’s day off had coincided with Margot’s
visit to the doctor, so the three had been pushed together by this collision of circumstances.

Now Mona sat with Margot in the parlour of Caldwell Farm. Margot’s eyes strayed repeatedly towards the mantel clock, while every chime of the grandmother in the corner had the girl on the
edge of her seat.

‘Not long now,’ said Mona wearily.

‘I can’t do it. I can’t tell her.’

‘Then if you won’t, I must,’ was Mona’s answer. ‘You can’t carry on this road, love. Putting it off’s only making it worse for yourself and everybody
else.’

Margot closed her eyes.

‘I’d forgotten Ida’s day off.’ The hours spent in Ida’s cottage had been difficult for Margot. ‘I thought it would have been just the two of us. See,
I’m only the lodger.’

‘Yes. It’s no matter,’ replied the younger woman.

‘Still, at least the kiddies are back at school.’ Mona bit her tongue. She should not have mentioned children, not while . . . yet why not? Margot needed to face up to the fact that
the planet would continue to turn in spite of her own troubles.

‘I suppose Rupert will have to be told,’ mumbled Margot.

‘Aye, well, I reckon Camilla will batter him when this all comes out. She can’t stand the sight of him as it is.’

Margot’s eyes opened. ‘You see, it’s not just the shame,’ she said, ‘it’s him. I don’t want him. I don’t want to marry him.’

The older woman held her tongue.

‘I can’t be forced to marry, can I?’

‘No, you can’t.’

Margot studied her chewed nails. She had got herself out of what Mother had always termed ‘that disgusting habit’, yet here she was again, working her way down to the quicks.
‘Marriage would give the child proper status. Yet I could never be happy with a man whose backbone is clearly made of treacle.’

Mona hid a smile. In spite of her situation, Margot remained spontaneously funny and very perceptive.

‘I was a fool and I got caught out. Must I pay for the rest of my life for that stupidity? And should this baby pay?’ She patted her belly. ‘I know this much, Mona. Rupert
would make a very poor father.’

Mona nodded thoughtfully. ‘I never married, as you know. But, oh, Margot, I’d give a lot to have a son or a daughter now. Bugger the disgrace – pardon my language again, dear
– aye, bugger the shame. To have someone of my own, happen a couple of grandchildren.’ She paused. ‘But I was never pretty, so I’d no chance of marriage – few chances
of even courting. So I wasn’t in the same boat as you. You could get any man, but I suppose . . . well, a baby could get in the road of any . . . any other . . .’