Mulligan's Yard Read online

  ‘And my gran says your dad would have put money on a dead horse.’

  ‘True. It was his weakness.’

  She considered that, deciding that she had done nearly enough thinking for one day. But her mental machinery seemed to have stuck in gear. ‘Is a weakness the same as a sin?’

  ‘Sometimes. Not always, though. A weakness has to be fought against, but occasionally it can overcome a person.’ This young girl was of a cerebral disposition and, in spite of her reputation for thievery, Diane Hewitt displayed a strong sense of morality. ‘Be off now,’ he said.

  She remained where she was. This was Mulligan. Mulligan was a miserable chap who would not get off his horse to save a blind man. He was tough on his tenants, never had a kind word for anybody, was not the sort to stop and give two shillings to a dirty, ill-dressed, nail-biting girl. ‘Everybody hates you,’ she advised him, her tone conversational.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’ve no friends.’

  He laughed. ‘Is that a fact, now?’

  She nodded. ‘So why are you being nice to me?’ This was no Mr Wilkinson. She shivered suddenly. Some of the white-clad virgin bearers of the Light looked a bit shaky when emerging from the inner sanctum. Mr Wilkinson took them in there one at a time to cleanse them, and he often looked sweaty and afraid when he came out. The chief guardian of the Light was oily, but there was no grease attached to this tall, dark man. So if Mr Wilkinson, who was supposed to be good, was not really good, and if James Mulligan, who was bad, was good, then—

  ‘Diane?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Give your brain a rest.’ He patted her head and strode into the inn.

  Diane tossed the coin, caught it deftly. Fish and chips all round soon. It had been an interesting sort of day. She’d almost forgotten about the wash-house, but she would give it some thought later on. Whistling in a fashion that would not have suited a bearer, she made off in the direction of food. Dismissing thoughts of Light versus Catholicism, she went about the business of filling Hewitt bellies.

  As soon as she entered her house, Diane sensed the presence of the guardian. From the midst of a hundred household smells, she caught his sickly odour. It came, she thought, from the stuff he layered on his hair, a kind of gluey application that enabled him to wind thin strands back and forth across a fast-balding pate. Well, bugger him, she thought irreverently. Here she stood, fish and chips three times with salt, vinegar and batter-scraps all wrapped in newspaper, and the guardian had to choose today to bring the Light to Gran.

  She entered the kitchen, walked past the end of Ida Hewitt’s bed, then placed her bundle in the oven. She stoked the fire, added a bit of nutty slack from the bucket, sat in Dad’s rocker.

  ‘Diane,’ said the guardian, ‘come into the Light with us. Praise the Lord.’

  She stared blankly at him. He had set a couple of night lights on a low table by the bed. These he had lit from a glass-sided lantern which, earlier on, would have taken its life from the everlasting source in the temple. Mr Wilkinson was not just the Guardian of the Light, he was also an insurance man. He had two homes – one in Noble Street, with his sister, one in Pendleton, a village north of Bolton. Diane wished he would stay in Pendleton with his brother, then he wouldn’t keep turning up here. She suspected that he moved about from one place to the other because no-one wanted him, not even his family.

  ‘Aren’t thou going to pray with us?’ he asked.

  Diane was not in the mood for prayer. It was hard enough pretending to be a proper laudator three times a week. On top of all her attendances at temple, there was this business to contend with, Guardian Wilkinson on a mission to bring the Word and the Light to Gran at least once a week. What was it all about, anyway? Praising the Lord and telling herself that the Lord would provide? She was the one doing the providing, the stealing—

  ‘Did you hear Mr Wilkinson?’ asked Gran.

  ‘Yes.’ Fish and chips were never the same if you left them in the oven. The fish went soggy, while chips stuck to the paper and tasted musty.

  Mr Wilkinson carried on chanting, thanking God for some burning bush that had appeared in the middle of a place called Texas in America. Diane fixed her eyes on him. He was short and round, and his belly hung over his trousers. He had little eyes like currants stuck in grey, uncooked pastry, while his hands moved a lot, stumpy fingers clinging to each other, then stretching out in front of him, above his head, at each side of his bloated body. He was, Diane thought, just about the ugliest person ever created.

  ‘Pray,’ mouthed Gran.

  No, she wasn’t going to pray.

  The visitor glanced at the child. ‘Praise and glory,’ he said, the words forced between crooked, gappy teeth.

  ‘Fish and chips,’ muttered Diane, her stomach rumbling in agreement. Why had Gran joined this daft lot? she wondered. Just before losing heart, Ida had thrown herself into the Temple of Light, had screamed for her dead son, had taken comfort from a man who looked like something off the fair, one of the freaks in those green tents round the edges and away from the rides. A gnome, he was. He should have been an exhibit like the Fat Lady, the Smallest Woman in the World, the Two-Headed Baby.

  He finished praying. ‘How was school?’ he asked.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Hast thou learned thy Bible verses?’

  ‘No.’

  He tutted. ‘She needs to spend more time with the Good Book, Mrs Hewitt.’

  Ida looked at her granddaughter, so thin, so pale and tired. ‘If only I could shape meself,’ she moaned.

  ‘Thou shalt,’ said Peter Wilkinson. ‘Just lie there and look into the Light.’ He pointed towards the tiny candles. ‘The Almighty is in there, Mrs Hewitt. Seek and ye shall find. When you’ve found Him, you’ll be out of that bed in two shakes.’ He pulled on an overcoat and picked up his lantern. ‘Learn the verses,’ he reminded Diane.

  Diane waited until he had left the house, then she called her brother. Joe always ran upstairs when the guardian visited. She took the meal from the oven, then blew out the night lights.

  ‘Diane,’ cried Ida.

  Diane shrugged. ‘No use setting the house on fire, Gran.’

  ‘But . . . but that was the Light.’

  ‘And this’, replied the ten-year-old, ‘is food.’ She dished out the portions, making sure that little Joe got plenty of fish. She didn’t really want to upset Gran, but sometimes, after a hard day, Diane got a bit fed up with her grandmother. It was as if Gran was the younger of the two females in the house, because Diane had all to do and all to worry about. It wasn’t right.

  ‘Where did you get money for fish and chips?’ asked Ida, her mouth full of cod.

  ‘I did some errands for the doctor.’ Lies and more lies.

  ‘Nice,’ said Ida.

  ‘Lovely,’ grinned Joe.

  It was all for him, Diane told herself firmly. For him, she would look after Gran, because there had to be a grownup with them. If anything happened to Gran, the two children would go into the orphanage. For Joe, she would steal, make do and mend. For herself, well, there were several things she wanted. And a white frock for cleansing was not on the list.

  The food was too much for little Joe. He studied his leavings while they cooled, wished with all his heart that he could stoke up against an uncertain tomorrow. Force-feeding himself was not a good idea, since an overloaded stomach often led him down the yard where all would be lost in the lavatory shed.

  Diane understood. ‘One day, Joe,’ she whispered.

  ‘One day what?’ asked the woman in the bed.

  But Diane said no more. One day, there would be a glass bowl on a table, apples, oranges, pears for Joe to pick at. He wouldn’t need to wait for mealtimes, because the food would be there all the time. White tablecloths, silver cutlery, thin cups and saucers. A garden, a dog, blue skies, sunshine. One day, she told herself. One day, life would begin.

  18 March 1921

  Took the Light to M
rs Hewitt. She still cannot get out of her bed. The child is so thin, her soul darkened by sin, yet still untouched, since she has not reached the age of reason and she knows no better. Time will heal. Praise the Lord.

  Through the latch hole in the back gate, I saw the girl dragging a zinc bath, struggling as she took it inside the house. The copper must have boiled, because I saw Diane carrying water to the bath tub, a heavy jug in those frail little hands. The grandmother was hideous when unclothed, her flesh loosened by bedrest.

  Then the child took her turn, lowering herself into water already sullied by Ida Hewitt. Her bones are thin and sharp, easy to bend, easy to break. Concave belly, no body hair, no secrets to hide.

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

  Two

  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.�
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  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.