Mulligan's Yard (10 page)

‘That’ll do,’ she announced, after thirty seconds.

‘He looks daft,’ commented Danny.

Diane’s eyes travelled the length and breadth of her human accomplice, a journey that took a mere split second. Danny was all angles and scabs, a small scarecrow crowned by a lifeless
pudding-bowl haircut. ‘If looking daft were a crime, Dan Duffy, you’d have been in prison for years. Come on.’

The dog allowed himself to be dragged along on the length of washing-line that served as a leash. He was fed up, because he knew he smelt wrong, yet he sensed something at the end of all this
rope, perhaps a bone or a meat pie, so he went along with it.

Diane was already disguised in so far as she was wearing other people’s clothes, items culled from washing-lines earlier in the day, some of them not quite dry. She cut a strange figure in
her over-long skirt, baggy jumper and headscarf. Danny Duffy wore his usual, rather scruffy garments together with his dad’s flat cap, which was pulled low over his eyes. Far from promising
to blend in with their environment, the pair looked like something from
Oliver Twist
, underfed, weirdly dressed and a mile or two short of clean.

The next few minutes were a blur of frantic activity. The dog did his duty, pausing only to cock a leg against a washing-board. He bit several ankles, barked shrilly, got mixed up in a sheet. He
was still wearing this item when he left the building by the rear door, his lord and master in hot pursuit.

Diane did not get as far as the counter. As ill-luck would have it, Maddie failed to bite either of the Misses Walsh, who guarded their interests throughout the riot, finally emerging from
behind their counter to make a citizen’s arrest.

Diane hung from Miss Tilly Walsh’s clenched fists, each of which had found purchase on the shoulder of the ‘borrowed’ jumper.

‘I’ve seen her afore,’ announced Mona, ripping the scarf from Diane’s head.

‘Me and all,’ responded Tilly. ‘She’s from the temple, should know better, but her’s never been up to much good.’ She glanced at her sister. ‘Give that
lot the first-aid box.’ She nodded towards the customers. ‘Then you’d best fetch Wotsisname.’

‘Mulligan?’

‘Aye,’ said Tilly grimly. ‘For summat as serious as this, we go right to the top.’

Diane felt the blood draining from her head towards the floor.

‘This were meant to be a robbery, weren’t it?’ Tilly asked.

Diane swallowed hard.

‘All dressed up and nowhere to go,’ continued Tilly. ‘Disguised, I’d say. Even the bloody dog didn’t look right. And it’s made off with somebody’s sheet
into the flaming bargain. Well? Nowt to say for yoursen?’

Diane watched Miss Mona as she left the wash-house to fetch the boss.

‘You were after my takings and all these ladies’ purses, weren’t you?’

The customers had sorted themselves into an audience, two ranks, tallest at the rear.

‘Thou shalt not steal,’ said Tilly. ‘And you a laudator and all. Just you wait till Mr Wilkinson gets a grip of you, girl. It’s a commandment is that one about
stealing.’

The audience, having transformed itself into a congregation, muttered about the young, about sin and about Ada Carter’s double flannelette sheet.

‘Well?’ Tilly shook the child. ‘Any more dumb insolence out of you, and I’ll give you a good smack.’

The gathering shouted words of encouragement. Its members would have liked nothing better than to watch Miss Tilly Walsh tanning the backside of somebody who had disturbed washday. Washdays were
sacred. They were for gossip, flasks of tea, the cleaning of clothes and household linens; most of all, washdays were a chance to get away from home and all its problems.

The whole place fell silent when James Mulligan arrived. Big burly housewives strode back to their business, while the scrawny ones, strangely braver, hung on to watch the show for a few more
seconds. When no great drama occurred, they, too, scuttled off to sinks and washboards.

‘Well?’ James Mulligan raised an eyebrow.

Mona, behind the great man, touched his sleeve tentatively. ‘Her and a lad come in with a dog,’ she said. ‘Like I said before, they were after money.’

‘Were you?’ he asked the child.

Diane gulped again. For a reason she could not have expressed in a month of Sundays, she was unable to lie to this man. It was as if he could see through the stolen green jumper and right into
her sinful heart.

‘Well?’ He tapped a foot on the flagged floor. ‘Give her to me,’ he told Miss Tilly.

‘What about Mrs Carter’s sheet? What about clothes what has to be washed again ’cos of all the black stuff on the dog? I mean, they shouldn’t get away with it, should
they?’

He pushed a hand into his pocket, withdrew some coins and tossed them on to the counter. ‘If that is not sufficient, be good enough to let me know.’ He wrenched Diane from
Tilly’s grip, then marched her across the yard and into his office.

Dumped without ceremony into a leather chair, she studied the floor. It was brown. Most floors were brown, usually oilcloth, but this one was tiled in small squares, like very posh flags. She
couldn’t look up. There were two rugs on the floor, both red with light brown bits in the pattern. There was a desk with thick wooden legs. Slowly, she raised her eyes to look at the top of
the desk. It was very neat, just a few papers, some pens, a pair of ink pots and a square blotter.

‘Look at me.’

He was seated at the desk. He wore a black coat, a grey waistcoat and a very dark blue tie. She could not look at his eyes. Behind him, the window was dressed with maroon curtains and a green
blind at half-mast. She glued her eyes to his chin. It was strong and square, with a little dent in the centre.

‘Diane?’

‘What?’

‘Why?’

She shrugged listlessly. It was over and she had failed. If the police found out, she might get put away. Then Joe might well starve. Diane could not quite bring herself to worry about her
grandmother.

‘There has to be a reason,’ he said quietly.

The door opened. Diane felt cold air fanning her ankles.

‘Later, please, Miss Burton-Massey.’ He waited until the intruder had gone. ‘Tell me,’ he persisted. ‘Who looks after you? Didn’t I hear that you live with
your grandmother?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Who cooks, Diane?’

‘Me.’

‘Because your grandmother has no heart.’

‘Aye.’ Questions, questions. They wanted to know everything or nowt, only started taking an interest if you were in trouble for trying to take something off them. ‘I’ve
already told you about six month ago – folk have got to eat.’ Let them come for her – she had had enough.

He watched her face. She was older than the hills, cleverer than the Blarney Stone, a woman-child with no hope, no pattern to build on, a past worth forgetting, a future already darkening.
‘What am I to do with you? This is my yard, Diane. All the buildings in it, including the inn, are mine. It is my duty to protect those who work here from thieves and vagabonds like
yourself.’

She felt almost hypnotized. Were she to live in Ireland among folk with voices such as this, she’d be in a permanent stupor. Even though he was telling her off, even though the tone had an
edge to it, she wanted to stay and hear more. No, she wasn’t hearing it, not really. She was feeling it, letting it flow through her like warm cocoa, silky, smooth, comforting.

‘Diane?’

‘What?’

‘Are you hearing me?’

She went for the truth. ‘Not really. You’re putting me to sleep.’

A smile tugged at his mouth, but he bit it back. ‘You’re a thief, child. A common thief. Listen to me, please. The women whose money you meant to steal are not rich. You steal from
them and you steal from their children. How do they buy food? Will they have to become thieves so that their families might thrive? The disease called theft is very contagious – that means it
spreads. So, while you use their money, they are forced to take someone else’s. Am I clear?’

She was listening now. ‘Yes.’

‘So, what are your immediate needs?’

She had never thought about any of this before, had never worried about those she deprived. The main driver behind Diane’s behaviour was a picture in her mind, an image of Joe with his
little crooked legs and his thin white face. Feeding her brother, getting clothes and shoes for him and for herself – these necessities had been the mothers of Diane’s inventiveness.
‘Food for our Joe,’ she replied thoughtfully.

‘And fuel? Who pays for coal?’

She raised her chin. ‘If we can’t buy it, I pinch it.’

He saw the defiance colouring her cheeks. ‘You cannot continue like this. Eventually you will be caught, then you will spend years in a variety of institutions. Who will care for your
brother when that happens?’

She folded her arms. This was all very well – she even agreed with the man – but what was the alternative to stealing? ‘All right.’ Her voice was low. ‘So can you
tell me how we manage on parish pennies and a few bits from the temple? What would you do if you got up in a morning, no coal for the fire, no bread, no milk? And if you had a little brother, could
you look him in the face and tell him that he’d just have to get on with it and starve to death?’

He tapped on the blotter with his fingers. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m eleven – just.’

Eleven and going on fifty, he mused. ‘I shall not inform the police as long as you comply with certain conditions.’

She sat rigidly still. ‘Go on, then.’

‘I must speak to your grandmother.’

Diane almost cried out, but she managed to overcome the urge.

‘How old is she?’ he asked.

‘Very old,’ she answered. ‘She must be going on sixty.’

Yes, sixty would be aged to a child of eleven. ‘And she never gets out of the bed?’

She shrugged. ‘She goes down the yard, gives herself a bath in front of the fire one night a week. But she’s not been out of the house for years.’

It was time to introduce himself to Diane’s grandmother. It was time for Diane’s grandmother to be introduced to her granddaughter’s way of life. Something had to be done. He
stood up. ‘Come with me,’ he said firmly.

Diane left her chair. ‘Where to?’

‘Number thirteen John Street,’ he answered. ‘In my car. We shall arrive in style, my dear.’

They entered the house together. There was a tiny vestibule, then a small parlour through which they had to walk to reach the kitchen. Furniture in this ‘best’ room
was sparse – just an old table, two straight chairs and a black horsehair chaise. The kitchen was warmer, certainly fuller. It contained a large dresser, a central table, some chairs, a
rocker, a black range fire and a bed under the stairs. In this tumbled item sat a woman with hard eyes, greying scraped-back hair, a mouth set in a rigid line, a faded blue shawl clutched at the
throat with a large safety-pin.

‘This is Mr Mulligan,’ said Diane, after a few tense, silent seconds.

Ida Hewitt’s hands clasped each other on the greasy quilt. She did not encourage visitors, was certainly not in the habit of allowing drunken Irish gamblers into her house. ‘What do
you want?’ she snapped. ‘I don’t remember asking you to step inside.’

‘You could hardly invite me in when you don’t leave your bed,’ he replied easily. He sat at the table. ‘Mrs Hewitt,’ he began.

‘I don’t know why you’ve let him in, Diane,’ said Ida.

‘She brought me in, since I fetched her home, you see.’

Ida looked from Diane to him, from him to Diane. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked eventually.

‘If you will listen, madam,’ he said slowly, ‘then I shall tell you.’

Ida Hewitt almost growled, but she felt something in the air, a threat, almost. Diane had a face on her like a week of wet Mondays, all damp, downcast eyes and quivering lips.

‘You have no work, I take it?’ he asked.

The woman in the bed looked up to heaven for guidance, her eyes snagging on a pulley-line of washing that was not at all clean. ‘How can I work when I’m like this?’ she asked.
‘The road I am, I’m lucky to carry on breathing.’

‘Mrs Hewitt, Diane is resorting to methods of acquiring the wherewithal . . . methods that are not honest.’

Ida fixed her gimlet stare on Diane. ‘You what?’

‘Not to put too fine a point on the matter, Mrs Hewitt, Diane is stealing.’

‘Never.’ The woman pulled herself higher with a show of alacrity that was remarkable in view of her supposed condition. ‘We are members of the Temple of Light, Mr Mulligan. Our
faith does not allow stealing.’ She glared at the child. ‘Tell him. You tell him, love.’

Diane said nothing.

‘She does not earn all the money and food she brings home,’ said James Mulligan. ‘There is very little work for a child of her age. At eleven, she should be concentrating on
her education. Outside school she ought to be playing games, not trying to work out how to feed her little brother. This cannot continue, Mrs Hewitt. If it does, I shall take steps to have her and
her brother removed from your care, since you are clearly unfit to look after them.’

Ida’s skin darkened to a deep shade of magenta. ‘How dare you?’ she snapped. ‘How dare you come over here to my country,’ she beat her breast with a closed fist,
‘my country, and tell me how to carry on? Where were you lot when my lad died in the mud, eh? What did your country ever do to save the world?’

He gazed into the flames for at least thirty seconds. The only sound in the overheated room was provided by Ida’s rasping breaths. ‘I was there,’ he said softly. ‘As for
my countrymen, many fell in the fighting alongside your son, Mrs Hewitt. Not all of us sat at home drinking beer and chewing the cud.’ He turned his head with excruciating slowness and met
her fierce gaze. ‘Oh, I was there, all right. And now I am here, looking to the welfare of your son’s children while you lie there waiting for death.’

Diane was transfixed. Nobody ever took Gran on; nobody ever took Mulligan on, either, so here was an interesting situation. As the tension grew, the child almost forgot her crimes. The reason
for the Irishman’s presence was no longer significant. Daggers were drawn and both contenders seemed keen to see blood.