Mulligan's Yard Read online

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Amy. Poor old Elspeth had so much on her plate. She and her husband were the only resident staff, though a woman from the village came in twice a week to do the heavier chores.

  Louisa shook her head and waited for the coffee. What on earth was she going to do with this wayward daughter? And what sort of example was Amy setting the other two girls? It was hopeless. Amy had put rather less than her whole heart and soul into exploring the social circuit. Not that Bolton’s environs held a lot of possibilities, but these three beautiful girls were surely capable of ensnaring decent, affluent husbands?

  Amy could read her mother like an open book. Louisa imagined that marriage was the cure-all for every ill, that her daughters’ supposed beauty would overcome every other obstacle in the wedding stakes. Well, it didn’t work that way. Money married money, trade married trade, the working classes sought partners within their own spheres. Amy and her sisters did not fit into any category – they belonged nowhere. She handed a cup of coffee to her mother.

  Louisa sipped, pulled a face. ‘As weak as dishwater. Ask Elspeth to make some more.’

  Amy began to bubble inside. She tried to ignore the feeling, told herself to remain calm, but she realized quickly that Mother had gone too far. ‘No,’ she answered, her voice low. ‘I shan’t. You take far too much for granted. This house needs caring for, and Elspeth cannot be in two places at once. We are very lucky to have kept her, because she and her husband could earn far more elsewhere. She will be preparing vegetables now, for lunch or for this evening. The coffee will just have to do.’

  Louisa’s jaw dropped, but she righted her expression quickly.

  ‘And, Mother, when you judge the coffee to be dishwater, I wonder how you manage to know? I daresay you have never contended with dirty crockery.’

  ‘How dare you talk to me like this?’

  Amy placed her cup and saucer on the tray, then rose to her feet. ‘Because I must. The facts have to be faced squarely. Look at me, please.’ She paused until she had the older woman’s attention. ‘My father gambled away everything he had—’

  ‘I need no reminder of that.’

  ‘Listen, please. For once, stop grieving and hankering after the past. He killed himself. I loved him and I love you so very much. But, oh, you are annoying, blinkered and negative.’ She walked to the window in case tears began to flow. ‘When I found him, my first feeling was one of intense relief.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Relief,’ Amy repeated. ‘His suffering was too great, too huge to be contained.’

  ‘And how would you know?’ Sarcasm trimmed Louisa’s words.

  Amy swivelled, looked her mother in the face. Yes, five years was long enough for Mother to have lived in ignorance. ‘Because he talked to me. You were his wife, while I was a chit of sixteen, but he came to me because he knew that you would be upset by his agony. His love for you was boundless.’

  Louisa blanched.

  ‘When Father was . . . injured in battle, the chap next to him was blown to kingdom come. Not to put too fine a point on it, there were bits of flesh and bone everywhere – in Father’s hair, on his face, even in his mouth. He drank and drank to take away the taste, but he never succeeded. Then he gambled to stop himself thinking and remembering. That one moment of war finished him.’ Perhaps Mother might worry rather less about weak coffee now. It was time for her to grow up, time for her to stop reading silly magazines. There was a lot more to life than Worth, Chanel and the level of this year’s hemlines.

  Louisa remained motionless for several seconds. ‘And he told you this,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Yes.’ She recalled how he had ranted and wept, how he had clung to the hand of his oldest child. In death, even with his face contorted, he had looked comparatively serene. ‘You know only too well that the drinking and the gambling were not a part of his true nature, Mother. He was enduring unimaginable mental torture. So he put an end to it.’

  Louisa absorbed this unpalatable information. ‘He should have told me,’ she said at last. ‘Me. I was his wife. I might have stopped him.’

  ‘He could not have been stopped by anyone.’ Like her father, Amy had tried to take away the taste, had hidden her own terrible anguish from this childish parent and from her sisters. Eliza, twelve months Amy’s junior, was a sensitive soul, while Margot, not quite fourteen at the time of her father’s suicide, had been far too young to witness Amy’s shock. ‘It really is time for you to mature, Mother. Finding him like that devastated me but, like him, I was unwilling to cause you further distress. We have nursed you for long enough.’

  Louisa focused on her daughter. Of the three girls, this one had the most interesting appearance. Slender yet strong, with dark blonde hair and huge brown eyes, Amy might have been described in theatrical terms as a show-stopper. Eliza, paler and more ethereal, was possessed of her own fine beauty, while Margot was all sunny smiles and bouncing curls.

  ‘I have to move on, Mother.’

  ‘Move on?’

  ‘Make plans.’

  ‘Ah.’ Louisa stood up and smoothed a skirt that was at least three years old. ‘I am sorry that I have been such a dreadful mother. I am also sorry that I allowed myself to believe that you were unmoved by Alex’s death.’

  ‘You had your own grief to contend with. We all knew that you and Father had a good marriage.’ This was, without doubt, one of the most awkward moments in Amy’s life. Attempting to teach a parent good sense was not usually the task of a daughter.

  ‘I depended on him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Too much, perhaps.’ Louisa picked up her magazine and tossed it into a wooden rack. ‘I shall go upstairs for a while,’ she said evenly. She gazed at her daughter for a few seconds, then left the room and ascended the flight. She needed to think. But one resolution remained untouchable, non-negotiable. She would never throw herself on the mercy of a man whose father had taken away property and money at the turn of a card.

  She sat on a wicker chair at her bedroom window, her eyes turned towards Pendleton Grange. She could not see her old home, but she did not need to. Every creak of a floorboard, every sound of a closing door, every sight and smell was etched deep into memory. Louisa had not set eyes on the Grange for five years. She avoided it like a plague, causing Moorhead to drive the pony and trap the long way round whenever his mistress left Caldwell Farm.

  Two defining moments, then. The first had arrived courtesy of the German army, the second had been delivered from a pack of cards. The king of hearts had not been good enough; the ace of spades had won the day. That blackest of cards had been a suitable choice for Thomas Mulligan, now deceased. The king of hearts? Alex had certainly been the ruler of her heart. Now, a dark, secretive creature resided in luxury at Pendleton Grange, a proud and unapproachable sort with a soft accent that did not match his hard interior, his forbidding face.

  Amy was probably in the right, as usual. The girl had been born sensible, knowledgeable. The more Louisa concentrated on the recent past, the more she realized her own deficiencies. ‘Poor Amy has been mother to me, to Eliza and to Margot,’ she whispered into the silence. ‘She is not wayward, she is merely direct.’

  Louisa considered her own failings, knew that she should be pulling herself together. ‘But how does one change quickly, radically? What must I do to improve myself? Oh, Alex, where are you?’ Silly question. Had Alex been here, she would not have needed to change. Or . . . or what if he had remained disturbed, out of order? She would have been forced to alter her ways, had that been the case.

  She leaned back against the chair’s hard shoulder, thought about her relationship with Amy, with her other two girls. The children had raised themselves, she supposed. Oh, there had been a succession of nannies and governesses, followed by education at a good private school, but Louisa could not remember spending time with the girls. When had she taken them for walks, for dentistry, for a theatre outing? When had she last kissed
them, hugged them?

  ‘So selfish,’ she muttered. ‘So close to him, so far from them.’ At the end of the day, what was there? Just children, then grandchildren. There was Amy, backbone of steel, heart of gold. Then Eliza, excellent musician and painter, designer of clothes, seamstress, poet. Margot, vigorous and silly, winner of sporting trophies, remarkable horsewoman, fluent in French, funny, a performer who, as a child, could sing, dance, keep an audience happy for hours.

  Louisa walked to the bed and laid herself flat on the eiderdown. They had lost a father, and a father was supposed to be so important to a girl. The male parent had a hand in helping choose a husband. The qualities in a father were often echoed by the son-in-law. May God grant that the three Burton-Masseys would seek husbands who reflected Alex’s real characteristics, the ones he had displayed before the war.

  For five years, Louisa had simply allowed life to happen. The girls would marry reasonably well, she had believed, so everything would turn out satisfactorily. Money was tight. Much of her dowry had been invested in improvements at the Grange, and she was left now with just a few thousand, the capital sum of which she dared not touch. The quarterly income, handled by Amy, was paltry.

  Even so, Louisa Burton-Massey knew that she could not change herself overnight, was possibly incapable of changing at all. At forty-five, she was not old, but her wool was dyed sufficiently fast to preclude the application of new, brighter colours. So, it could well be Amy’s task to better the family’s financial status. Amy, again.

  Sleep beckoned. It was scarcely noon, yet Louisa was tired to the bone. Alex had spoken to Amy, only to Amy. That beautiful voice, deep, yet soft and tender, had poured itself into his daughter’s ears. Yet Amy had retained her sanity, had held herself in check, so solid, so sure. Louisa must try now to turn herself into another Amy. It should have been the other way round, she thought sleepily. What sort of a role model had she been . . . ? Thoughts slowed, became disjointed.

  Chanel. Vogue. A nice little number edged with squirrel fur. Eliza. Louisa was suddenly bolt upright on the edge of her bed. What had Amy said earlier this morning? It was quite respectable to earn money these days. Hadn’t Helen Smythe’s daughter gone into catering? It wasn’t common-or-garden food – no sausage rolls and sandwiches for Camilla Smythe. No, Camilla’s exclusive range was for moneyed folk whose domestic staff had gone off into factories and so forth. If Camilla Smythe, daughter of one of the wealthiest chaps in Blackburn, could cook for the gentry, then why not . . . ?

  Louisa was off the bed and down the stairs before taking breath. She entered the drawing room, scarcely noticing that Amy still wore riding clothes, that Eliza was at the piano, that Margot was missing, as usual. Louisa snatched up her magazine and left the room.

  When their mother had returned to the upper floor, Eliza swivelled on the stool and spoke to her older sister. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.

  ‘Mother happened.’

  ‘Ah.’

  This morning’s diatribe seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, mused Amy. Mother was plainly intending to live in the past, her attention cornered by trends in fashion, her mind centred on what might have been had Father lived, had the Kaiser died, had Germany slept. Oh, well, let her read her silly magazines. Amy had tried her best.

  Upstairs, Louisa sketched furiously, outlining the shapes of skirts and coats, changing details, drawing a handbag, a hat, a scarf whose width varied to fit with a collar. She had always been a designer at heart, and Eliza had inherited the ability. An excitement simmered gently inside a woman who was too much of a lady to allow joy to show. She stopped for a moment, pencil poised. ‘I’m not a lady any more,’ she informed the dressing table. ‘After all, I did say “damn” and “hell” today.’ Perhaps there was hope for her yet.

  Downstairs, Amy stared at her riding boots while Eliza practised a bit of Chopin. Much as Amy disliked James Mulligan, she had to allow that he had shown some decency in trying to present an olive branch to Mother. His plans for Pendleton Grange were not settled, had not yet been engraved in stone, but at least he had an eye to the future.

  Mother, deeply embedded in her yesterdays, was not prepared to listen to reason. She saw Mulligan’s proposition as charity, while Amy viewed it as an act of conciliation. Thomas Mulligan, dead for several months now, had been the owner of the ace of spades. James, his son, had simply inherited his father’s ill-gotten gains. Underneath the mop of black, tangled curls and behind that sullen face, a corner of conscience seemed to linger.

  What now? wondered Amy. A secretarial course for herself, a job in a stables for Margot, a position in music teaching for Eliza? A little voice inside Amy’s head suggested that all three girls should go in with Mulligan. She could tackle administration, Eliza might like a place in a string quartet, would, perhaps, play soothing music to the guests at Pendleton Grange during afternoon tea or just before supper. As for Margot, well, she could make herself useful at organizing outdoor pursuits.

  But there was Mother. Who would want to come home to her sulks after a hard day’s work? The fire breathed again, puffing smoke in the manner of a dragon preparing to belch flames. Eliza’s sweet music trickled into the soot-laden atmosphere, the clock declared that lunch was a mere fifteen minutes from now.

  Margot fell in at the door. Amy grinned. There was no real need for timepieces at Caldwell Farm, since Margot’s stomach was always on red alert at lunch, tea and supper.

  ‘It was amazing, truly wonderful,’ cried Margot. ‘He had to put his arm right inside the cow, tie a sort of rope thing to the calf’s hoofs, then pull like blazes. And there it was, a whole cow in miniature. I was there, I saw everything.’

  Amy shook her head gleefully. Margot often happened to be around when something unusual was happening.

  ‘Of course, Mr Mulligan never said a word, strange man. Just took off his coat and got stuck in.’ She giggled. ‘The farmer said that the calf took one look at Mr Mulligan’s face and decided that this was a grim world. That was why it took so long to be born.’ She paused for breath. ‘Actually, I like Mr Mulligan. He’s very good-looking, almost handsome, I’d say. There’s something about a man who frowns a lot. What do you think, Amy?’

  ‘I think you and I should get cleaned up,’ said Amy.

  Margot, to whom dirt clung like glue, glanced down at herself. ‘Gosh,’ she hooted. ‘I must pong like a midden.’ She smiled her wonderful smile before wandering off in the direction of soap and water. Amy got up and followed the youngest towards the bathroom. Like Mother, she was beginning to wonder what would happen to them all.

  Three

  ‘I don’t know who the blooming heck he thinks he is.’ Tilly Walsh’s several chins shivered with indignation. A small amount of colour was paying a brief visit to suet-pudding skin, twin circles of red anger situated just below brightened button-eyes. ‘Carrying on as if he’s somebody, throwing his flaming weight about.’ She sniffed, causing her chest to expand even further until it threatened to burst right out of her blouse. Had the sisters been in the presence of an audience, someone might have made a comment about weight being thrown about, because the Walsh ladies were massive.

  ‘I miss Mr Burton-Massey,’ agreed Mona Walsh, anxious, as always, to keep both peace and pace with her older sister. ‘All you got was your quarterly visit and a couple of quid for a night out. Did us proud, he did. See, Tilly, he were a gentleman through and through. He knew how to treat folk, how to get the best out of them. Very kind, he were, when you think back. Just used to let us get on with it, no messing.’ Gentler in nature than her sister, Mona strove to keep up with Tilly, to be as tough as Tilly, who did not believe in being pleasant, humorous or even overly civil. ‘Women in business has to be tough,’ was Tilly’s motto. ‘We give no quarter, Mona. Remember that – no quarter.’

  Tilly grunted with the effort of taking two steps sideways to allow a customer to reach the door. ‘We got a lovely chicken at Christmas, plum puddings made by his staff. And w
hat have we got now?’

  ‘An Irish lummox,’ replied Mona, parrot fashion.

  They stood together in the wash-house doorway, twin remnants of Victoriana, white blouses, black floor-length skirts, hair cordoned off severely with the aid of pins and grips.

  ‘Well, we’ll not be safe now.’ Mona pulled the grey shawl across cooling shoulders. ‘And he’s bringing the blinking thing right into the yard, and all. Some poor devil’ll get run over. I don’t hold with these fancy ideas. What’s wrong with a horse and cart, eh? Or a bloody tram, come to that. At least a tram stays on its rails. You know where it’s going and you know where it’s been.’ Mona was genuinely disturbed by the arrival of their landlord’s car. She had seen cars about, of course, but she had not expected to have a motor vehicle parked so close to the laundry. ‘What if it blows up?’ she asked darkly. ‘We’d all be killed.’

  They stared at the black Austin. All shiny and new, it was sitting outside the inn’s stables. Chrome headlights, little windscreen wipers, spare tyre housed at the back, sweeping mudguards, lined running-boards beneath the doors.

  ‘Frightens the horses, too,’ complained Tilly. There weren’t as many horses as there had been in the Walsh sisters’ youth, but those in the Red Lion’s stables were in for nervous breakdowns what with all the honking and belching of exhaust.

  ‘Eeh, but times is changing,’ Tilly continued. ‘I can’t keep up at all. Wind-up gramophones, electric irons, refrigerators. There’s washing-machines as well, you know. I mean, they’re not the sort of stuff everybody can afford, but I reckon our days is numbered. And there he is with his motor car.’ She tutted. ‘Makes you think, eh? All this lot – and more – won after a poker game on a single cut of the pack. I mean, he should have give it all back, that Thomas Mulligan, because it weren’t fair.’

  Mona shook her head. ‘Too much of a gentleman, he were, our Mr Burton-Massey. Man of his word, you see. They say a gentleman’s word is his bond, Tilly. King of hearts, Burton-Massey had in his hand. And that drunken bugger come through with an ace.’