Mulligan's Yard (17 page)

Sally grinned, picked up her empty wicker basket and sashayed towards the house. Some families weren’t worth having. An orphan was best placed since she could choose her own company
without being lumbered with a crowd of morons. Just before going out of earshot, she tossed a final remark at the Whitworth brothers. ‘It’s not an umbrella, it’s a
parasol.’

‘Now, isn’t this a sight?’ crowed Kate Kenny, who was developing as soft a spot as she could manage for this young maid. ‘Is this you, Sally?’

‘Yes, Mrs Kenny.’

‘Are you certain? Did you check?’

Sally was becoming immune to Kate Kenny’s brand of humour. ‘No, I’m not really sure,’ she replied. ‘I could be somebody else dressed up as me.’

The housekeeper laughed. ‘Ah, listen to you, now. And you’ve no Irish blood?’

‘I don’t know whose blood I’ve got, Mrs Kenny, but nobody never – I mean ever – said anything to me about Irish relations.’

‘Never mind, but. There’s a sparkle in your eye this morning. Surely you haven’t taken a shine to one of madam’s brothers?’ She didn’t need to speak Mary
Whitworth’s name.

‘No, I haven’t. They’re horrible.’

‘And that’d be the truth of it, I don’t doubt. Here.’ She passed a tray to Sally. ‘Away and take that to Miss Eliza. She’s playing the piano for himself, so
there’s an extra cup and saucer on the tray.’

For a few moments, Sally stood and listened to the sweetness of Eliza’s playing, breathing in each note as it slid beneath a closed door. She enjoyed music, wished with all her heart that
she could make those wonderful sounds. But Eliza had been to music lessons; it had taken years to acquire this level of expertise.

When she entered the room, Sally caught sight of an expression on Mr Mulligan’s face. It was there only for a second, but it made Sally’s heart tumble about all over the place. She
set the tray on a side table, then turned to leave. She didn’t want to be rattling china while Eliza was making such lovely music.

The playing stopped. ‘Sally,’ cried Eliza. ‘Thank you for the tea. It’s just what I need.’

Mr Mulligan muttered something under his breath before leaving the room. Sally kept her eyes fixed on him, but his features had settled back into their usual frame.

‘That was Beethoven,’ said Eliza.

‘It was beautiful. I stood outside listening.’

Eliza jumped up and poured tea, handing a cup to the maid.

Sally backed away. ‘No, I can’t. That cup was for Mr Mulligan. We . . . the servants have to eat and drink in the kitchen.’

‘My rules are different,’ insisted the visitor.

‘No. Please, Miss Eliza. This is my job, this is where I work. It wouldn’t be right, not here. See, I have to call you Miss Eliza when you visit. I can’t drink tea with you and
I can’t chat like we do in the stables or when we go for a walk.’

Eliza sipped her tea. ‘Isn’t life silly?’ she asked, before returning the cup to its saucer. ‘Sometimes, I just want to get away from here.’

‘Where to?’

Eliza lifted a shoulder. ‘There’s none of this in the theatre, I’m sure, no master and servant. It’s just one big family, everyone the same, everyone judged by the
audience for what they can do, not for who their parents are.’ She blew out her cheeks in a fashion that did not suit the delicate features. ‘Let’s run away, Sally.’

Sally was going nowhere, but she said nothing. At Pendleton Grange she had all the freedom she needed. There was warmth, security and a tolerant employer. If and when he went back to Ireland,
good servants would be retained to work in the house or the hydro or whatever. Anyway, surely Miss Eliza was not serious about running away?

‘Wouldn’t you like to see London?’ Eliza asked.

Sally pondered. The Houses of Parliament, that bridge that went up and down, boats on the Thames, Buckingham Palace. ‘I suppose I would. Yes, I’d love to see a few different places
like London and York and Chester. Only I’d want to come back.’

‘But that’s the beauty of theatre. Variety acts move about all over the place – we’d return to Bolton, work at the Grand or the Theatre Royal.’

‘And what would I do?’ Sally asked.

‘Well . . . you could be my dresser.’

A short pulse of time passed before Sally replied. ‘That’s a servant, isn’t it?’

Eliza looked confused for a split second. ‘But we could practise dance steps. You might become an act in your own right.’

Sally didn’t want to be an act. She wanted to be a good housemaid, a good housekeeper in the fullness of time. If she met a nice man with a job, she might even get married, have children
and give up being a servant. If no-one came along, she’d be quite happy with her lot.

‘No ambitions, Sally?’ There was disappointment in the voice.

The young housemaid had seldom given thought to the long-term future; she was grateful for her good fortune so far, happy to have been treated well at the children’s home, to have been
chosen to work here, in a decent house and for a decent man. ‘I don’t think I’d like that sort of life,’ she answered at last. ‘I need to know where I am and where
I’ll be tomorrow.’

And that, thought Eliza, was where the difference lay. It was not so much cultural as elemental, essential. Had Sally been born the daughter of a duke, she would still have been a stay-at-home,
a goodly soul programmed to find a man to lead her into a similar existence with no changes except for an address. Eliza Burton-Massey was a different breed altogether. A consummate actress, she
had the ability to shape herself to fit any scenario. For Daddy she had been a tease, a plaything who had sung and danced to order. For the widowed Louisa, Eliza had been soft-spoken, dutiful and
correct. Never, ever, had she been herself.

‘Why do you want to go?’ asked Sally. ‘Aren’t you happy?’

Eliza turned her head slowly and looked through the window. November light, always meagre, poked dull, short fingers past curtains and into the room. She was not unhappy, and she still retained
a sense of duty towards her family. Should Amy decide to open the business, Eliza would stay to help until . . . until the time was right. ‘I just don’t want all my life to be like
November,’ she said. ‘Is it wrong to need a little fun?’

‘No,’ answered Sally.

‘Don’t tell anyone about this, please.’

‘I won’t.’ Sally turned to leave, stopped suddenly.

‘What is it?’ asked Eliza.

The young maid returned to the tea tray. ‘Shall I take this?’

‘No, thank you. Sally? What is it? What’s on your mind?’

Sally could not say it, could not find the words. The way Mr Mulligan had been staring at Eliza, the light in his eyes . . . Did he love her? And wouldn’t it be wonderful if they married?
A kind master, a good mistress, this house ringing with the laughter of children . . . No. Pendleton Grange was to be a hydro, Eliza wanted to go on the stage, and Mr Mulligan needed to find his
own way of expressing feelings. He didn’t need a housemaid to be running around and talking about his facial expressions.

‘Sally?’ enquired Eliza once more.

There were areas that must be avoided even by friends – perhaps especially by friends. Sally poured a second cup of tea for Eliza. ‘It was just a thought,’ she said finally.
‘One of those silly thoughts that just stays for a minute and then gets forgotten.’

‘A butterfly moment,’ said Eliza.

‘Aye, that’s it. Just a butterfly, Miss Eliza.’

The day had come at last. Ida Hewitt, packed and ready for off, sat on the rocking-chair next to the struggling remains of her last fire in 13 John Street. Having decided not
to die after all, she had practised walking, had even ventured upstairs several times to organize the gathering of her family’s sparse belongings. But Ida was uneasy with herself, unsettled
in her own company. She had neglected the children for years, had never been ill at all. Misery was not a disease. A woman such as she would be unlikely to see the face of the Lord, would not
receive the ultimate blessing of Light Eternal.

Joe was already sitting on the front doorstep waiting for Mr Mulligan’s car and a dray cart hired to carry bits of furniture up to Bramble Cottage near the village of Pendleton.
‘We’re going to be villagers,’ said Ida. ‘It’s posher, living in a village. I hope our Joe’s sitting on a cushion, Diane. We don’t want him catching piles
on top of everything else he’s got. Still, we’ll soon be gone, eh?’

Diane was in several minds. Even Daft Danny Duffy and his dog had begun to look attractive of late. She had started noticing things, stuff that had never mattered before. The lamp-posts were
interesting shapes, the Town Hall clock was beautiful, the market was exciting. And what was she going to find up yonder? Fields, trees, cows, more trees, a couple of sheep. It would be good for
Joe, she reminded herself repeatedly. It was already good for Gran, because she’d perked up no end just lately.

Ida stared into failing tongues of fire in the grate. She wasn’t a decent woman. This realization had come to her gradually, had been born when she had started to frame herself a bit
better. The promise of a cottage in the country had goaded her to move; she could have moved earlier, could have helped their Diane. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she mumbled. ‘I
really am.’

Diane studied her grandmother for a few seconds. ‘It weren’t your fault,’ she said. ‘Mr Mulligan’s explained it to me. He said life knocked you down.’

‘And he’s picked me up. A flaming Catholic and all.’

‘Gran?’

‘What?’

Diane sidled to the chair. ‘I’ll still see my friends, won’t I? You know, with coming to school here, I’ll not be lonely.’

Ida closed her eyes, but could not close her ears. It was plain that her granddaughter depended more on her playtime fellows than . . . than on her own folk. ‘Aye, you’ll still go to
the same school. And make sure you do go and all, eh? No playing truant, no stealing. Our Joe’ll be at the school and all, so I’ll get him to make sure you stay put. If you like it up
on the moors, you can change to the village school.’

Diane swallowed a huge lump of pain that contained Queens Park, Manfredi’s ice-cream parlour, Mad Dog, the boating pond at Barrow Bridge, the Tivoli cinema, the Bolton holiday fairs. No,
no, she chided herself. She would still be here most days. But she would be living in the country, sleeping at Bramble Cottage. ‘I bet it’s dark at night.’

‘Aye, it will be. I hadn’t thought, but you’re right enough.’

Diane cast an eye over bug holes in the walls, remembered cockroaches and silverfish, mice, even the occasional rat. Perhaps vermin didn’t thrive up on the moors. And Mr Mulligan was nice
in his own way, so that was another bonus. The shock of finding a nice Holy Roman was beginning to fade, especially since Gran had admitted that Mulligan was all right as far as bead-counters went.
Gran even prayed for Mr Mulligan, begged God to help him see the Light before it was too late.

The Light. Diane perched on the edge of a chair and thought about Mr Wilkinson. Her feelings towards him had changed immensely over the past few months. Having started off as reluctantly
respectful, Diane had travelled through tolerance, impatience, distrust and dislike before reaching . . . was it hatred? There was something about him, something nasty. She didn’t like
standing near him, and it wasn’t just the smelly hair stuff that put her off: it was inside him. What was inside him, though?

To take her mind off the confusion, she placed the last few paper-wrapped cups in a cardboard box. Mr Wilkinson’s brother had a shop up in Pendleton. She spotted Gran’s other shoe
under the dresser, dragged it out and put it with the cups. It was something to do with girls, to do with cleansing. Gran’s shoes were going to need new laces. Joe wanted a new vest. The
Guardian of the Light did things to girls. The girls didn’t say much. He spent some weekends up at Pendleton. There was no getting rid of him, it seemed.

‘Diane?’

‘Yes, Gran?’

‘We’ll be all right, won’t we?’

It wasn’t just children who feared the unknown, then. Gran, too, was afraid of the new life. Having imagined that adults were usually sure about everything, Diane was startled. What chance
was there for the young if grown-ups didn’t have solid answers? ‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘we’ll be all right.’

Ida was genuinely tired, though the daily shifting of herself had made her bones and muscles stronger. She could never give back Diane’s childhood, could never repay that huge debt. From
now on, though, she needed to be positive. The Hewitts could not depend for ever on Mulligan’s generosity, so Ida would need to find work. Where? There wouldn’t be much going up yon,
even if Mr Mulligan had made a joke about cows.

The kitchen door opened. Ida turned, expecting to see James Mulligan, Joe, or both, could not manage to wipe the disappointment from her face after identifying the visitor. ‘I thought
you’d be at work,’ she said.

Peter Wilkinson placed the Light on the dresser. ‘I’m collecting round here today,’ he said, ‘so I thought I’d call in to wish you well. Of course, I’ll see
you at weekends.’

Diane could not be bothered to look at him.

‘Art thou well?’ he asked.

Diane sniffed loudly. Why couldn’t he stick to ‘you’ instead of ‘thee’-ing and ‘thou’-ing all over the shop? In fact, why didn’t he just beggar
off and leave folk in peace?

‘Diane?’ His voice was low. ‘You have been chosen.’

She moved her head and looked at him. ‘Chosen? Chosen for what? I’m not even a bearer yet.’

Peter Wilkinson bared teeth that imitated a row of ancient gravestones after an earthquake, all stained and out of alignment. ‘Some of us will be emigrating to Texas,’ he said, his
chest puffing out like the upper half of a pouter pigeon. ‘We shall live simple lives where everyone will be the same. Except for guardians,’ he added hastily. ‘The Great Guardian
has his own house, of course.’

‘Of course,’ mimicked the child.

Ida rose to her feet. ‘When did all this come about?’ she asked. ‘Nobody’s never told me about America.’

‘Makersfield, Texas, is our spiritual home,’ he replied gravely. ‘Just a chosen few will go there to serve the Great Guardian.’