Mulligan's Yard (50 page)

In her heart, Sally could not help agreeing with the younger girl. The grown-ups within Sally’s sphere did not always function correctly. They needed a little shove now and then, a slight
push in the right direction. In Diane’s much stronger opinion, they needed a kick up the backside. But . . . but what? Things were going to change anyway, so why not make an effort to steer
life towards the better option?

‘Sal?’

‘What?’

‘You with me?’

‘Course I am. You know I am.’

‘Good.’ Diane grinned at Mr Mulligan. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘are you taking over here now?’ He might be taking over the gate, but Diane was about to attend to
the rest of his life without even consulting him.

‘I am. Go and watch the dancing, then do the hoop-la. Have a lovely day.’

It was wonderful. The two girls dashed round the treasure trail, each finding sweets and home-made biscuits along the way. They watched an Irish piper filling his instrument, not by blowing but
by pumping the instrument with his arm. Children performed reels, their elaborate costumes in green and gold glittering with shiny beads.

At twelve, knitters began their furious race, needles and wool moving in masses of colour. Then there was the greasy pole, the tug-of-war, the races. Pendleton won hands down in most categories.
Pendleton Clough would have to supply several kegs of beer as payment for their second-class status.

Orphans came, whooping and leaping about the tennis courts, using the new pool, a lifeguard at hand in case of mishaps. Ponies trundled about in the cruel heat, children on their backs, until
Amy decided that the beasts had had enough. A band marched, youngsters skipping behind the parade; refreshments ran out twice, most people were photographed.

By three o’clock, the party had ground to a halt. As if reacting to a signal, everyone suddenly sought shade, some near hedges, many under trees. The old slept; the young, disappointed by
their own lethargy, made daisy chains and chatted in small groups.

Diane nudged Sally. ‘Now’s as good a time as any,’ she said, ‘and the longer we put it off, the harder it’ll be. Come on, we have to shape, get them two daft
beggars together on their own.’

‘Oh, heck,’ gulped the maid-of-all-work. ‘They’ll kill us.’

Diane nodded her cheerful agreement. ‘Yes, but you only die once – me gran says.’

‘Me gran says, me gran says,’ mimicked Sally. ‘And you take no notice of her.’

‘I’m lovable with it,’ grinned the smaller girl. Her expression changed. ‘Oh, heck. Oh, heck, Sal. Forget Amy and Mr Mulligan for a minute.’ She swallowed audibly.
Her own plans were laid aside as she prepared to be upstaged. What she saw, what everyone saw, made the air even heavier than before. There were no clouds in the sky, yet a storm gathered on a hot
July day during a summer fair at Pendleton Grange. Even the ponies seemed to hold their breath . . .

Margot had made up her mind. William was not going to be hidden from sight just because he had no father, or because the father he might have had was a dead rake. The baby was
a fortnight old now, a pretty blond child with no visible flaw, and he was ready to make his début.

Margot had decided to get it all over in one fell swoop. ‘You see,’ she told her son, as she leaned over the pram to straighten his matineé jacket, ‘the mountain has
come to us.’ There were hundreds of them, it seemed. But she held her head high against a judgemental world. Why take her punishment in small portions eked out over a period of months? And
what had she done? The real sinner, a man who had tormented young girls, who had killed William’s aunt, was languishing in jail awaiting trial. ‘I killed no one,’ Margot muttered,
under her breath. ‘I hurt nobody except myself and you, little one.’

When she thought about the riding, the attempts she had made to be rid of the baby, she tensed into a state where the major nerves of her body became like steel: Margot had never suspected that
a child could bring so much love as he screamed his way into the world. William was fast becoming the centre of her universe, the reason for her continuing existence.

Her steps slowed as she reached the driveway of Pendleton Grange. All eyes would be on her, gossip would ripple through ranks like a summer wind across fields of corn. It had to be done. It had
to be done now, before she lost the strength.

Most people were seated, probably overcome by the day’s powerful heat. Margot pushed her pram towards the edge of the field, waiting with unaccustomed patience for the world to inspect her
son. ‘Your first parade,’ she told him. ‘Best behaviour now, no dribbling or crying.’

Then a car pulled up on the drive, tyres slewing and displacing gravel. A few chippings caught the pram, and Margot turned her newly acquired maternal anger on the driver. ‘What on earth .
. .’ she began. But when she saw the occupant of the parked car, she took a step away. Oh, no, not here, not now.

Helen Smythe leaped from the vehicle. Her usually coiffed hair fell in ragged strings around her face; her clothing, always pristine, was creased and dirty. She dashed from car to field in a
matter of seconds. ‘Slut!’ she screamed. ‘You thought you would trick him, but he tricked you by dying courtesy of your sister.’

Several people rose carefully to their feet – it was plain that the paternal grandmother of Margot’s son was in no mood for negotiation.

‘Give him to me,’ continued the distraught female.

Margot positioned herself between the pram and Helen Smythe.

‘That farm is damp,’ cried the latter. ‘I can give him everything he needs, an education, a decent home.’

Margot tossed a few curls from her face. ‘Your son had everything he wanted, and look how he behaved. Go home, Mrs Smythe.’

At the back of the audience, Amy found herself next to James. ‘No sudden moves,’ she muttered. ‘The woman is clearly crazed.’

He inclined his head in agreement. ‘Rupert’s death has knocked the lady out of her, I’m afraid. And she must be stopped now or Margot will become a bundle of nerves.’

‘No, she won’t,’ Amy promised. ‘She has developed a passion for my nephew. There is no chance of anyone getting a look-in. So far, she has proved herself an excellent
mother.’

They noticed movement in the far hedge. ‘Oh, God,’ said Amy. ‘Diane Hewitt’s secret society is on the march again.’

‘Only two members so far,’ he replied. ‘It’s when she starts with dogs, boot polish and laundry that we have to worry.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind, Amy.’

Margot faced her tormentor. ‘William is my son – I have rights. Aren’t you an expert on the rights of women, Mrs Smythe? Now, go home and behave yourself.’

Diane popped up from behind the hedge. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said graciously. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

‘No,’ snapped Mrs Smythe. She did not notice the second girl, since Sally had crossed the lane lower down and was now behind the dishevelled interloper. Moving with all the grace and
cunning of a panther, Sally Hayes, orphan, good girl and maid-of-all-work, removed the keys from the ignition. Even if Mrs Smythe did manage to grab the baby, she wouldn’t get far in a dead
vehicle.

While Sally ran off, Diane remained, her hard gaze fixed on Mrs Smythe’s face. ‘If you touch that baby of hers,’ she jerked a thumb in Margot’s direction,
‘I’ll get the police. Then this lot behind me in the field will be all over you like measles, Mrs Smythe.’

Members of this lot in the field were moving anyway, galvanized by the sight of Sally running off with the keys. A solid mass of people surrounded Margot, some pulling at the pram, others making
sure that Mrs Smythe stayed away from her target.

Camilla arrived, beetroot cheeks at odds with burnished red hair. ‘Mother!’

Helen Smythe turned. ‘They killed him. This woman’s sister killed Rupert – I know it. Surely I deserve to have a hand in the rearing of Rupert’s son?’

Ida, dragging Mona in her wake, pushed herself to the front. ‘See?’ she gasped. ‘There’s loads of us, so you don’t stand a chance. If you don’t beggar off,
I’ll hit you – do you hear me?’

Camilla stepped in front of her mother. ‘No-one will hit her,’ she declared firmly. ‘She’s ill, driven out of her mind by my brother’s death. How many of you lost
men and boys during the war?’

Ida backed off. She understood. Loss could send people mad, could put them in bed for months on end. ‘Take her home, lass,’ she advised Camilla, ‘and keep her there.’

The fuss died after Helen had been driven off in her daughter’s motor van. Little William was cooed over. A star to the core, he did not cry as he was passed from hand to hand. Margot, her
heart still working double time after her close encounter with Helen Smythe, began to relax. She had done the right thing, had chosen to face the future head on. He would be loved. No matter what
happened after today, William Burton-Massey would be protected by these villagers.

Amy dried a tear. She suddenly felt fiercely proud of her sister, whose backbone remained rigid despite the child’s illegitimacy. No, she told herself. It was because of William’s
status. Margot had gambled her last card, had turned up the ace of hearts. ‘We all gamble,’ said Amy aloud.

‘We do,’ replied the man at her side.

‘Ah, James,’ she murmured.

He smiled. ‘Ah, Amy. I shall see you later.’

The day drifted idly towards evening, the heat refusing to remove itself even when its source began to drop towards the Pennines. Stragglers and tidiers wandered about the
grounds, while several groups of people continued to chat beneath trees.

At a denuded hoop-la stall, Sally and Diane watched the scene, both on pins while they awaited their chance. Sally, after running off with Mrs Smythe’s keys, was not looking forward to the
next piece of trouble, though she agreed with Diane – something had to be done before the end of this day.

‘Sal?’

‘I know, I know.’

‘I do him, you do her.’

‘Right.’ Sally dragged a length of damp hair from her face, pushed it behind her ear. ‘They’ll kill us.’

‘Stop saying that,’ answered Diane.

The two girls hugged, separated, then formed the pincer movement on which they had agreed. Little Saul Dobson from Pendleton Clough had lost his guinea pig. This remarkably stupid animal, whose
name was Squidge, had insinuated himself under the door of a stable, had refused to come out, while poor Saul, distraught with worry, had been dragged home for a bath. That was the fairy tale to
which Diane and Sally intended to cling.

Thus it was that Amy Burton-Massey and James Mulligan found themselves locked up together in a stable as hot as an oven. Too late, they noticed the door closing, heard bolts shooting home in the
door’s top half, the bar slamming into position on the lower part.

‘You’ve twenty minutes,’ yelled Diane. ‘Get it sorted out before we all go mad. There’s iced water in that enamel bucket and there’s two cups and
all.’

‘And no guinea pig,’ added Sally, for good measure. ‘So don’t bother looking for it because we made it up.’

The girls stared at each other. ‘We’ve been and gone and done it now,’ smiled Diane. ‘Come on, let’s see if there’s any food left.’

‘We should leave all this until midnight,’ said James, ‘because it’s too hot for thinking and talking.’ He filled a cup, passed it to her, filled
another. Instead of drinking, he poured the contents over his head.

Amy made no reply. She had stumbled quite by accident over her feelings for this man, though she realized already that he had owned her heart for some time. This was embarrassing. Two children
had forced them in here, so how many had noticed the non-courtship that had not been going on? ‘The whole village must know,’ she whispered.

‘And Pendleton Clough,’ he replied.

Amy sighed, took a draught of water. ‘I don’t even know what we’re talking about.’

‘Yes, you do.’

She felt the heat in her face as it registered beyond any calculable scale. ‘Explain it to me, then.’

No, he would not do that, not in this cruel weather. But he could begin to trim the edges off, he supposed. ‘How do you feel about Pendleton Grange?’ he asked.

‘It’s a house,’ she replied, knowing the response to be foolish.

‘In which you and your family used to live.’

‘Yes.’

A fly buzzed by his face and he waved it away. ‘It’s a beautiful place,’ he said now, ‘and the hydro will keep you for ever.’

No sensible words entered her mind, so she remained silent.

‘Amy?’

‘What?’

‘The shop and the rents – they will give you and Margot an income. And the house will still be yours, but . . .’

What was he up to? Was this an older version of Diane Hewitt, a plotter, a planner, one who kept everything secret until the very last minute? ‘Spit it out,’ she demanded.

James smiled ruefully. She had probably been as open as this all her life – never mind the niceties, the truth will do. ‘Have you seen Joe Hewitt’s legs?’ he asked.
‘Crooked, thin, better now than they used to be.’

Amy fished about in her drink, pulled out a piece of ice and rubbed it all over her face and neck. ‘I wish I had the energy to horse-whip his sister once we get out of here.’ She
glanced at him. ‘Go on, then, play the cards.’

‘Nothing up my sleeve.’

‘Your sleeves are rolled,’ she reminded him, urging herself not to look at brown skin and firm muscle.

‘I want to open a school,’ he announced.

‘I see.’ She didn’t, but the need for peace made her utter the white lie. ‘In Ireland?’

‘No.’

Her heart leaped joyfully, and she fought to keep her facial expression neutral. He was intending to stay. Had the atmosphere not been so oppressive, she might even have kissed him. No. No, she
wouldn’t. Amy was a lady; ladies waited. I am a lady in waiting, she giggled inwardly.

‘It’s not just the orphans,’ James said now. ‘There are children in the towns who need a special sort of school, one that cares for mind and body. They need a swimming
pool and we have one. We have tennis courts, ponies, woods and trees. If we open up the attics we could get another twelve boarders – we can sleep thirty children, plus staff, very easily.
Nurses on hand, Amy. Windows wide open, airy dormitories, lessons outside in the summer.’