Mulligan's Yard (11 page)

‘You’ll not take mine away from me,’ Ida whispered.

‘Is that a challenge, Mrs Hewitt? I do have some clout in this town, some influence. My father may have been a drinker and a fool, but I was not cast in the same mould. However, I did not
come here to explain myself. The purpose of my visit is to inform you about Diane’s behaviour. She is worried sick about her brother. She steals to feed him and you. Now, I have no idea
regarding the nature of your illness, so I shall send a doctor to look at you.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Ida was shaking with temper.

‘As you wish.’ He stood up. ‘But if you will not see a doctor, I shall go straight to the Town Hall and advise the appropriate department about the situation in your
house.’

The front door opened, clattered into the closed position. ‘Diane?’ called a thin voice.

‘In here, Joe,’ she answered. Her younger sibling’s arrival appeared to have fractured the tension.

Yet when the boy entered, James Mulligan sat down again, the movement almost involuntary. He had seen many such children in his time, but none had stood so close to him. Joe was very small. He
had white skin, dark hair and frail, bowed legs. The smile, though, was huge. The lad ran to the bed and handed some coppers to Ida. ‘I did three steps, Gran. And I went for Mrs
Hardcastle’s powders and for Mr Hardcastle’s baccy.’ He turned and looked at the visitor.

‘Joe?’ James threw him a penny. ‘Would you do me the great kindness of watching my motor car?’

‘Yes, sir. Thanks, sir.’ He dashed out as quickly as deformed limbs would allow.

Ida stared malevolently at James.

Unmoved by her expression, James returned the cold gaze with interest compounded by a deepening frown. ‘His legs will not get strong if he’s cleaning steps and running messages all
the while. So.’ He leaned an elbow on the table, cupped his chin in the hand. ‘What do you intend to do about Diane and Joe?’

‘Why should you care?’ Her tone continued defiant.

‘It must be in my nature.’

The sarcasm did not go astray. ‘You just get out,’ she yelled.

‘That’s a strong voice coming from such a weak woman.’

‘Get out,’ she repeated.

Diane gulped. Things had ceased to be merely interesting: she was starting to feel a little shaky, knees wobbling, stomach fluttering. It was like a big boxing match, two adults staring one
another in the eyes, each trying to be powerful enough to knock sparks off the other. But these two didn’t need to try. There was more to be said, more to be done. She imagined that the air
in the kitchen was filled with unspoken words waiting to be plucked and thrown from one to the other and back again.

‘The doctor will visit you on a Friday evening,’ he said, his voice ominously low. ‘I cannot be sure which Friday, as he is a busy man. If you refuse to see him – and
I’m sure you need medical help if you cannot get out of bed – then I shall take this matter to the highest authority.’

Ida’s chest was heaving with barely contained rage. ‘Please yourself,’ she barked, ‘but the Lord will provide through the Eternal Light.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Diane will provide through shoplifting.’

‘Irish pig,’ she answered smartly. ‘What would you know?’

‘Enough,’ he said. ‘I know enough.’ He knew that Diane was suffering, as was young Joe. He saw that this woman had vigour, far too much fight for a person who had stayed
in bed for almost five years. She was probably very unhappy, possibly depressed and out of sorts in a general sense, but the children had to come first.

‘You’re a Catholic.’ She delivered this as statement rather than as question.

‘I am.’

‘Then you’ll not know about the Light.’ Her delivery of the last word ensured that the receiver would be aware of its initial capital.

‘Ah, but I have, indeed, heard about the sect.’

‘Sect?’

He raised a shoulder. ‘Religious group, then.’

Ida sniffed. ‘You think we’re cranks, don’t you? Well, we’re not. That religion of yours is a joke.’

‘I’m glad it amuses you.’ He had won. He knew it, she knew it and the child, too, probably realized that her grandmother was out of her depth. Ida Hewitt could attack every
cardinal, bishop and parish priest, could lash with her tongue at the Pope, the saints and all Catholics living and dead – he didn’t mind. The Church had stood in spite of criticism
heavier than this, and was likely to continue for all time. As long as the confounded woman would give some thought to the minors in her care, she could do her worst in all other areas. ‘I am
glad we understand one another at last,’ he said, rising from his seat.

‘Oh, I understand you, all right.’

He reached the door. ‘I wish you better health, madam.’ In the parlour, he slipped a half-crown into Diane’s hand. ‘When this business is resolved, you will visit me
again in my office. If you want work, we shall find you some.’

She stood with her brother and watched the car leaving John Street. ‘Come on, Joe,’ she said. ‘Meat puddings today.’ They ran off towards the chip shop, mouths wet with
anticipation. This day, and for a couple of tomorrows, they would eat well.

Helen Smythe, long-term friend of Louisa Burton-Massey, was in her element. As chair of the Blackburn-based Women of Industry, she was fully armed when it came to the setting
up of businesses. Her philosophy was simple: men fought wars, women kept the fires burning. If males intended to carry on dying in their millions, then the female of the species needed to be in
charge on the domestic front. Having preached all over Lancashire, she was only too happy to step back into the life of a friend who had, it seemed, resigned from the human race several years
earlier.

It had been a difficult few months for Louisa. Originally she had intended to take a back seat, but she had gradually picked up the reins, and was now at the point where she realized that she
had to remain involved. Amy, the most sensible of the three Burton-Massey daughters, had agreed to manage the business, which, after many discussions led by Helen Smythe, was to be named A Cut
Above. The innovative label sat rather less than comfortably on Louisa’s shoulders, though she had been drawn in by Helen’s infectious excitement. And, after all, this was
Louisa’s money, so she had to keep watch. Sitting at home thinking, sewing and worrying would not have been enough.

After four months of planning, the scene was finally set. Helen was thrilled to pieces with Louisa’s progress. ‘You look wonderful,’ she declared, after a sip of coffee.
‘This is the answer for so many of us, my dear. Why, think of Camilla – she has never looked back since I set her up. Women have to cash in on their own abilities. If we have no
abilities, then we simply invent them. And don’t forget, I am always at hand if you need me.’

Louisa gazed around her domain. She was finally out of the house, was sitting in an upper room of the shop, the area where cutting, fitting and detailing would take place. She supposed that A
Cut Above summed it up, since the real work would take place on the top storey. Because customers would need to come upstairs to choose fabric and for fittings, the floor was carpeted in a rich
blue, the walls papered in ivory, sprigs of bluebells repeated in the pattern. There were chairs, tables, fashion magazines and, beautifully racked and colour-graded, yards and yards of the finest
materials.

‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ asked Helen.

It was more than exciting, thought Louisa. It was absolutely terrifying, because a good fifty per cent of her capital was wrapped up in linen, cotton, silk and wool.

Just off this main upper room, another of similar size housed sewing-machines, patterns and cutting-tables. Three excellent women had passed rigorous tests, one making an outfit for Louisa, the
next sewing for Helen, the third dressing Camilla Smythe. In three days, the shop would be open for business. Already, through the hard work of Helen and Camilla Smythe, no less than five women had
booked appointments with A Cut Above. Interviews would take place downstairs, in a drawing-room setting, where women could discuss with Louisa and Amy their clothing needs. The atmosphere was
geared towards relaxation. A comfortable woman, Helen declared, spent more freely.

‘I’d rather not have the party,’ moaned Louisa.

‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ replied Helen Smythe. ‘Camilla needs her chance to show off her catering skills.’ She laughed rather loudly for the wife of a decorated
major. ‘God, she couldn’t even boil an egg until I pointed out the gap in the market. Now people would kill for her recipe for salmon mousse. By the way, did you see Worth’s new
pleating on that spring collection? So flattering, especially for the larger lady. And there was a hemline with a slight dip, elongates the spine wonderfully – where is that confounded
page?’ She rattled about in a folder. ‘Jennifer Turner wants a wedding outfit for April – blue, I think. Did the shoes come?’

Louisa put a hand to her aching head. An overdose of Helen was just what she needed. Oh, for a moment alone . . .

‘Fabulous bags Chanel has just now. Scarves are in, of course, so flattering and mobile – excellent for hiding a bit of looseness on the neck and throat. And I found some wonderful
costume jewellery in a dinky little factory in Manchester, all hand-set, some semi-precious stones, a bit of jade and so forth. Lapis is so nice, cheap and cheerful, a bit of coral,
perhaps—’

‘Helen, do be quiet.’

Helen glanced at her friend. ‘Sorry. I do go on, don’t I?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid you do.’

The two women stared at one another. ‘Good grief,’ exclaimed Louisa after a few seconds. ‘What have I done?’

Helen pondered. ‘I suppose it must be a bit daunting, old girl, but let me answer your question. You’ve caused employment. There’s the little jewellery place I just mentioned,
then the shoe factory in Liverpool – yours won’t be the only outlet for designer shoes.’

‘Copies,’ Louisa reminded her companion.

‘Who gives a hoot or a boot? If a woman can kit herself out for thirty pounds, why should she spend hundreds? Who’s going to ask to see the labels? This is the future, Louisa. You
are an event, a happening.’

‘I am a migraine.’

Helen reached out and slapped Louisa’s hand. ‘Go home, have a rest, then come back tonight and enjoy yourself.’

‘I shan’t know anyone.’

Helen tutted in mock despair. ‘There always has to be a first time for something to happen. Otherwise there would be no second, third or hundredth. Break out, old girl.’ Lack of
oxygen caused a brief pause in the diatribe. ‘There are one or two widowers on the scene at present. In fact, I think I know of four at least, two of whom are eminently suitable, financially
and physically.’

‘Helen—’

‘I know, shut up. But you should put yourself back on the market.’

‘As a real label or as a copy? As second-hand, remodelled, slightly used?’

Helen clicked her tongue. ‘We are sharp enough for the cutlery drawer, aren’t we?’

Louisa smiled faintly. Mixing with Helen Smythe over the past few months had honed her own tongue somewhat. ‘I thought the idea was for women to stand alone, Helen. Isn’t that what
your organization is all about?’

Helen tapped the side of her nose. ‘It’s still nice to have wallet and cheque book somewhere in the background. Husbands are occasionally useful. If you manage to catch a handsome
one, he can be a rather nice accessory.’

Louisa actually laughed. ‘Get that magazine out, Helen. Look at what Lanvin has to say. If husbands are in, I’ll order one in emerald green and another in navy. They’re next
spring’s colours, aren’t they?’

Shaking her head and a fist, Helen left A Cut Above and went home to gird her loins for the evening fracas.

Louisa closed her eyes, wished that the headache would follow Helen and leave her in peace. A strange mixture of excitement and fear had lodged in her stomach like a huge, indigestible ball. She
was going to stand alone. Well, alone except for Amy, Eliza and Margot. And Helen. Which was hardly alone, she supposed. But, at the end of the day, the quarter, the financial year, Louisa’s
was the name on the books. ‘I am a business,’ she whispered, into the elegant room. The unmistakable smell of new carpet drifted up her nostrils. ‘I’m very new and very
inexperienced.’

Margot entered. Margot was a worry. She wore a pretty little wool-crêpe suit in rust, a cream blouse, pearls at her throat and two spots of natural colour on her cheekbones. Still rather
untidy, Louisa’s youngest was making an effort on the fashion front, was looking less like an ostler and slightly more like a woman of almost twenty. ‘Margot,’ breathed Louisa,
‘what on earth are you doing up here? Weren’t you supposed to be helping Camilla?’

The girl snorted. ‘Camilla’s all done. She’s going home to Blackburn with Mama in the new car. After Mama has done a bit of last-minute shopping, that is. I’m sure Mrs
Smythe has a first-class honours in spending.’ She sidled closer to her mother. ‘Must I come to this . . . event?’

‘Yes.’ Of late, Louisa had decided that explanations were not always strictly necessary.

‘But I want to . . . well . . . I thought I might—’

‘No.’

‘Mother, you don’t even know what I was going to say.’

Louisa knew. She had watched this silly madam coming home all hot and bothered after fruitless pursuit of James Mulligan, who was too old, of the wrong faith, miserable, foreign . . . and
extraordinarily handsome. Now, Margot had set her sights on one of the more worthless young men of her own generation. Rupert Smythe, son of Helen and brother to Camilla, was a rake and a wastrel.
A tall, lean and hungry-looking specimen, he was possessed of a charm that was given to very few youths. Outwardly compliant, forever in agreement with his elders and betters, Rupert had the
ability to court the approval of all females between the ages of nine and ninety. With the exception of one, mused Louisa, one whose youngest had recently fallen under the Rupert Smythe spell.

‘Mother—’

‘No. You are not haring around in Rupert Smythe’s motor car this evening. You will be here to support the rest of your family.’ Unconsciously, Louisa straightened her spine,
pushing herself against the back of the chair. ‘Going into trade is not easy for any of us. Like musketeers, we must stand together. I had not intended to be so involved on a personal level,
but the Burton-Masseys are in need of money, so the Burton-Masseys must, as a clan, go out and earn it.’