Mulligan's Yard (4 page)

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.

‘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 what 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.’

‘From up his sleeve, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Aye, we could put money on that.’ Mona looked across at Mulligan’s office. He presided over the yard most days, his watchful eye making mental notes of comings, goings, who
kept the place tidy, who left a mess. He ran his own business, too, something to do with Irish racehorses and breeds of cattle he wanted to introduce. ‘Miserable sod,’ declared Mona,
before placing a pinch of snuff on the back of a hand. She inhaled, sneezed, passed the snuffbox to her sister who went through the same ritual.