Authors: Ruth Hamilton
‘No, you won’t.’ His tone was soft, gentle. ‘Because you are not capable of that.’ He turned and left the room.
Amy powdered stained cheeks and applied a little pink lip colour. The man was right. She would always maintain appearances. After all, she had her pride . . .
Peter Wilkinson could not remember a time when he had been more angry. Yes, he could, but he didn’t want to think about Mam with her big red hands, cold, all-seeing eyes,
voice that pierced the air, screaming, fury, locked in the dark, dressed as a girl, no food, no water . . .
Stop, stop, don’t let her hurt you any more; she is dead, gone, but not into any
kind of light save the furnace below. Let her burn beyond time.
He looked at himself in the mirror, saw ugliness and hopelessness combined to make a lost, lonely creature, often hated even by himself. All he had was the Light, the living flame, that brave
flicker of hope around which he had wrapped his heart, his whole life. ‘The Lord has His plan for me,’ he told the uncomely reflection. ‘Soon He will give me the power to be a
real man, so that I can go to Makersfield and take my place among the guardians.’
Doris came in. ‘Talking to yourself again?’
‘Praying,’ he replied.
She pursed mean lips, so like Mam’s, went into her scullery and clattered pots. He waited, listened to the ritual, teeth in a jam jar, quick splash of water on her face, towel pulled off a
rail on the back door, scrub face and hands dry. She emerged, toothless, heartless, frowned at him, stamped off to bed. Every day, every night, she did the same things, made the same remarks,
looked at him with a mixture of contempt and pity.
His own mother had hated him, and Doris didn’t like him, either. Stephen, his brother, saw the best in everyone, so his approval didn’t count. Stephen did not discriminate between
ugly and beautiful, between good and bad. Stephen took little interest in salvation, was too busy baking bread and cakes, selling stamps, issuing postal orders, listening to the village gossips as
they queued for his wares. ‘I am not alone, because I have the Light,’ mumbled Peter.
Inside themselves, inside the crematorium, they had all been laughing at him. Tilly Walsh’s Light had blown out, and he had seen people trying not to let the sniggers escape. They were at
a funeral, yet Guardian Wilkinson was so grotesque that they could scarcely contain their mirth. A figure of fun. A hideous man who collected insurance pennies. A misguided fool with his lamps and
wicks and candles, with his bald head, crooked teeth, poor skin, bulging eyes.
Damn them all into the bottomless pit of Hades, every last man and woman. Mona Walsh, sister of the deceased, had decried and abused him. She would not set foot in the temple again; if she ever
needed him, he would not be available. Those who acted against him must remain in darkness; never again would Mona Walsh receive help.
How little they knew, how stupid they were not to fear and respect him. He had seen the miracle first-hand, had sat with the Light until it absorbed its surroundings and became one with him. He
had seen pictures dancing in the flames, because the Light was his vision, his future, the destiny of the planet and all who laboured blindly on its surface. How little they knew, those who had not
witnessed.
Let them neither mock nor anger me, for I have a strength beyond their understanding. I am one with the Eternal Light, one with the world, and in my sight I behold their destiny, the fate of
the unbelievers.
He dimmed the gas, brought a lantern to the table, stared into its flame. Focused solely on the Light, he allowed the room to disappear, to melt, to cease to exist within his new dimension. As
he entered the hypnotic state, he felt an all-enveloping warmth, so deep that it took the December chill from his bones. This was the truth, the beginning, the end, both the same. Where he existed,
there was no time, breadth, length, weight: all was immeasurable.
Their faces came, one by one, each mouth smirking, decrying him. Methodists, Seth Dobson, James Mulligan, all seeing him as a fool. He was not a fool! One day, he would show the infidels. It was
his to know, his alone, for he carried the certainty that he would be Supreme Guardian, since he had seen that vision within the Light’s core.
Then, as he relaxed, the three girls visited him. The oldest was not his target; the other two spoilt him, spoilt him for choice. Either was surely a worthy wife of a guardian, a fit mate who
would bring forth the next generation. She would sail the ocean by his side, would travel to the holy site, the place from which the miraculous Light had sprung.
Eliza, so lovely, sang in the woods. He heard her now as clearly as ever, watched her turning, dancing in the Light. Margot on horseback, a fine strong woman, able for a new life in the New
World. Which to choose? In a moment, the answer would come. The flame grew, spread, shaped itself, gave the answer. So, she was the one. He smiled, placed his hands flat on the table and prayed.
The miracle had happened. He was awake, aware, and he owned the pure truth.
On the first day of 1922, Eliza Burton-Massey packed her belongings into two cases. With no regrets, she placed clothes, shoes and trinkets on the bed, assessing what she would
need, what she could manage without. A smile played across her lips as she remembered him pleading, begging her not to go. James Mulligan was not without his charms, but he could not keep her
here.
Or could he? Placing herself at the dressing table, she leaned her elbows on its surface, rested her chin in her hands. If he offered marriage, promised to make her sole mistress of Pendleton
Grange, might she stay? Oh, he could wait. First she must live, enjoy herself, see London, meet people of influence. Yes, Mulligan could rest on a back burner for now. He adored her – she had
seen that in his eyes. He was hers for the taking. When she was ready.
Amy knocked, entered. ‘So, you are still bent on going?’
‘Of course.’
‘I thought James might have persuaded you otherwise this morning.’
‘He tried.’
It would be so easy to hate a woman like Eliza, thought Amy. Everywhere she went, men stared, smiled, wanted her. She was talented, beautiful, serene, infuriating. But Eliza was her sister, and
hatred was ugly. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ she said.
Eliza smiled. ‘It’s no matter. We both said things in anger.’
‘Are you capable of anger?’
‘Yes, I am. I just hide it well – usually, that is.’
Amy sat on the bed and talked to Eliza’s reflection. ‘I just hope you will be safe. It’s a big bad world out there.’
‘As James Mulligan reminded me earlier.’
He would, thought Amy. Like every other man for miles around, he had gone hook, line and sinker for Eliza’s undeniable loveliness. Why could no-one see what Eliza had become? Perhaps Eliza
had always been the same, her true self hidden until she allowed it to come out. ‘Would you have gone if Mother had lived?’
‘She didn’t live, Amy.’
The older sister remembered how Eliza had almost fainted in A Cut Above when Mother had collapsed. She wondered now whether that had been genuine or just another facet of this consummate
actress’s repertoire. Was there a real possibility that Eliza had been born empty, that she could fill her shell with whichever manufactured emotion fitted the bill at any given time? What a
frightening thought that was.
‘I don’t mind you not liking me,’ said Eliza, ‘but I do hope that you love me. I love you, but I’m not able to . . . connect all the time. Love for you and the rest
of my family was born with me. Yet I have a mind that separates me from almost everybody. It works all the time, you know, even when I’m asleep. There’s something in me that drives me
on in spite of everyone’s attitudes and feelings. This is what I am, how I am made.’
Eliza had never before attempted to explain herself. That she had insight into her own makeup was good – or was it? Even though she knew her own devastating coldness, she seemed unprepared
to do anything about it. Then all the answers hit Amy like a fork of lightning. Eliza could not mend herself: Eliza’s flaw went beyond the limits of human understanding.
‘You shivered then,’ said the reflection.
Reflection. Poor Eliza was as two-dimensional as that. It was not wickedness, then, not in the true sense, because nothing could be done about it. Did Eliza live beyond the bounds of moral law,
beyond nature? If so, how far might she go before being pulled up? If she didn’t know right from wrong, was that quality a part of her essential self, or had family and teachers failed
her?
‘I shall write to you,’ Eliza promised.
‘Be sure to do that.’
‘And get Margot to see a doctor. She won’t talk to me any more, silly girl. I think she may be anaemic.’
So Eliza did care. She cared, but was not prepared, not able to be involved. Amy stood up and placed her arms round Eliza’s shoulders. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’m not going just yet, and I shall be back to visit. Take care.’
Amy went downstairs to help Elspeth, whose old knees were giving trouble. As she peeled carrots, the oldest surviving Burton-Massey found herself worrying and wondering anew about the future.
There was something wrong with Margot, something wrong with Eliza. ‘I wonder what’s wrong with me?’ she said quietly.
Elspeth was preparing meat. ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘Well, nowt that the love of a good man wouldn’t cure.’
Amy glared at the housekeeper. ‘Shut up,’ she said, with mock severity. ‘Life’s complicated enough as it is.’
The banging and hammering from above was terrible. ‘It’ll be good,’ Diane told Joe. ‘Like sailors living on a ship – they sleep on shelves.
We’ll be in the same room again, ’cos Miss Walsh is having my room.’ She’d been invited to call Mona by her Christian name but, ever mindful of her own sinful past, Diane
did not want to sound too familiar. Auntie Mona? Not long ago the same woman had been one of Diane’s targets.
Ida was holding on to her head as if it might burst wide open at any minute. Upstairs, James Mulligan seemed to be knocking the house to bits. Still, it would be worth it, she told her doubting
soul. She’d have some decent company, and Mona would not be forced to go back to Bolton. Since the discovery of the girl in the kitchen of 13 John Street, Mona had not been keen on moving
into the house. As for the Walsh family home – she definitely did not want to return there, so both places would return to the landlord for re-letting.
Mona entered with a tray of tea things, plonked them on the table. ‘Why does he have to do it today?’ she asked. ‘He must be keen to get me out of Pendleton Grange.’
‘Well, he were going to London, only he’s not now. Must be short of summat to do. Tell you what, he’s easy suited. Give him a hammer and he’s like a pig in
muck.’
Mona sat. ‘London? What for?’
Ida glanced up at the ceiling, a pained expression distorting her features. ‘He’ll be through the floorboards in a minute. He’s not got what you might call the gentle touch,
has he?’ These words were all screamed at top note, as the cacophony from above was truly deafening.
Diane mouthed a message to her grandmother, got coats and scarves, took herself and her brother into the blessed peace of outdoors.
The two women sipped tea, dipped biscuits, warmed themselves by the fire. ‘London?’ Mona repeated.
‘No,’ replied Ida, ‘he’s only taking her as far as the station. He was going to drive her down today, but she said no. He’s putting her on a train in a few days, as
far as I know. So he’s decided to knock our house down instead of driving to London.’
‘Bit of a bombshell that must have been for Amy,’ said Mona.
‘Aye, it would be. Tell the truth, though, nowt’d surprise me from that Eliza one. She’s refused a lift because he’d be mithering her to come back, so she’ll have
decided to go by train.’ Ida sniffed. ‘She’s been packing for days, or so I’m told. Oh, let her go and be done. I don’t know why folk bother about her, ’cos
Amy’s worth ten of her.’
Mona refilled the cups, raised her eyes to heaven when the noise stopped. ‘It’s Margot I’m worried about.’
‘Aye. Her little face is pale, isn’t it?’
A voice from above called, ‘Mona? Can you ever come up and hold this piece? It’s not going on straight.’
Mona placed her cup in its saucer. ‘I’m putting you to a right lot of trouble, Ida.’
‘Nay.’ Ida shook her grey head. ‘The only trouble will be him upstairs. Go and see to him, Mona. If he makes them beds on a slope, our little Joe’ll be through the window
in his nightshirt before we can say knife. While you’re there, ask his lordship does he want a cuppa and has he not got a muffler for that blinking hammer.’
Ida settled in her chair, watched the grandchildren playing outside. They’d made many new friends and were even talking about changing schools. Aye, this was a grand life and no mistake.
Every weekday, Ida went to help at the big house. She got wages, vegetables, bits of bread and meat. Kate Kenny was forever miscalculating – ‘See, I’ve made too much again. Carry
it home, or it’ll go in the swill.’
As for him, the Catholic, the Irish swine, he was the finest gentleman Ida had ever come across. It all went to show that prejudice was a waste of energy. Everyone was different, everyone had
good and bad points. She grinned. Kate Kenny had his bad points on a list in her head. She was always teasing him, laughing at him, making fun of him. And he took it so well.
The only trouble was that this life could come to an end when James Mulligan returned to Ireland. No, surely Amy would let them stay in the tied cottage? Ida could not imagine being back in John
Street, lying in her bed, knowing in her heart of hearts that their Diane was stealing just to feed the family.
She noticed him then. He was walking up the other side of the lane, away from his brother’s shop. Even from this distance, Ida could tell that he was talking to himself under his breath.
How she had used to admire him, the giver of parcels to the poor, champion of the underdog, forever in the local press for his acts of charity. Mona had wiped him out yesterday, had called him all
the names under the sun. Ida’s heart lurched. He was approaching the children.