Mulligan's Yard (7 page)

‘What are you saying?’ The blushing cheeks clashed very badly with Mary’s deep red hair.

‘Nowt I wouldn’t say to him, that’s for sure.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

Years of living in a crowd had taught Sally how to fight her own corner. Too slender for physical battle, she used words and used them very well. ‘Just so as we’ll know how
we’re fixed,’ she whispered, her face almost touching her companion’s, ‘I’ll answer yes to that question. We none of us understand him, ’cos he’s cleverer
than most. He pays well and he doesn’t moan. Now, you take one more thing from this house and I’ll tell him. Better still, I’ll tell Mrs Kenny, and she’ll have you out of
Pendleton before you can say knife or steal a knife. So it’s up to you, Mary.’

At the mention of the housekeeper’s name, Mary took a step backwards. Mrs Kenny was the fierce guardian of the master’s interests. She had followed him over from Ireland, had taken
the place of a woman who refused to work for any more Irishmen after the somewhat inglorious and untidy death of Mulligan Senior. ‘Watch your step,’ she muttered, burnished curls
bouncing free of her maid’s cap.

‘I’ll not need to,’ Sally replied.

‘Oh, yes? I’d not be too cocky if I were you, Little Orphan Sally. I’m not afeared of you.’

‘Then,’ said Sally, her tone low and controlled, ‘you’re even dafter than I thought.’

Mary opened her mouth, but no words emerged. Sally was a bit like him, Mary decided. Silent but deadly, and with an inner strength that poked its head out just occasionally, as if to check on
the weather outside. Two of a kind, then. It might be best just to get away before real storm clouds gathered in the small bedroom. Nevertheless, Mary had to have the last words. ‘I’ve
two big brothers,’ she warned. ‘Watch your step.’

Alone at last and feeling more than one kind of pain, Sally got back into her bed. It seemed that Mary had not heeded her own advice, was not watching her own step, because Sally heard her
tumbling down several stairs. Still, never mind. If Mary needed hospital, the master would take her in his car.

Mary rubbed a grazed shin, then made her way to the ground floor. In a kitchen bigger than most houses, Kate Kenny was throwing together a batch of soda bread. She looked up,
stopped punishing the dough and glared at the maid. ‘And where’ve you been these last weeks?’ Sarcasm was Kate Kenny’s forte. ‘I was wondering did you go to
Blackpool?’

Mary had the answer ready. ‘I had to go upstairs, Mrs Kenny. It’s one of my rag-and-pin days.’

Kate Kenny put her head on one side. The street-wise madam was not exactly the housekeeper’s idea of a decent parlourmaid. Why, the young orphan with the bad foot had more decency than
this supposedly more settled article of humanity. ‘If you have your monthly ailment on you, just say that this is your time of the month. No need to go into details about the implements
involved. Vulgarity has no place in this house, certainly not in my kitchen.’

‘Right, Mrs Kenny. Sorry, Mrs Kenny.’

Kate heard the boldness, the audacity. ‘Get that parlour polished. God help you should Mr Mulligan ever open up the rest of this house, because I’ve seen more shape in a potato cake
than in yourself. Would it hurt to get a bit of a move on? I’ve known snails go faster. Go on, get on with the work you’re paid for.’

Mary took her time gathering up the tools of her trade. She found beeswax and cloths, wandered about looking for a bowl, filling it with soapy water, letting the tap run slowly.

Kate shaped her bread. One of these days, she would shape that young woman’s backside, really she would.

Mary ambled off, her footsteps echoing in the large, under-used house. She reached a vast, museum-like hallway, heard the doorbell. Sighing, she placed her small burdens on a table, then
answered the door.

It was Amy Burton-Massey, the eldest of three girls whose father had allowed Pendleton Grange to slip into Mulligan hands. It must have felt funny, Mary thought, to ring the bell for admission
to a house that was rightfully the Burton-Masseys’ property. ‘Come in, miss,’ she said sweetly. ‘Did you want to see Mr Mulligan?’

‘Yes, please.’ Amy stepped into her childhood home. Unlike her mother, Amy carried very little baggage from the past. She accepted all that had happened, felt only the merest twinge
of sadness whenever she strayed on to the old homestead. Life went on. It went up, down, sideways, backwards, and humanity had been designed to cope with all its twists and turns. Except for Louisa
Burton-Massey, that was.

Summoned by the maid, James Mulligan came out of his study to greet Amy. He held her arm and led her beyond the reach of the chatterbox maid’s ears, taking her into the study and closing
the door firmly. ‘Miss Burton-Massey,’ he said, once she was settled in a chair. ‘So nice to see you.’

‘Amy,’ she replied, before getting on with business. ‘I’m afraid Mother doesn’t want to play. I tried to explain about the hydro, but she wouldn’t listen. I
think it’s pride. Also, she would consider her territory thoroughly invaded if you opened up the house as a business. I’m so sorry.’

He placed elbows on the desk, steepled long, brown fingers and rested his chin on the apex. ‘I do not intend to remain here, Miss Burton-Massey – I beg your pardon – Amy. My
home is elsewhere.’

She awaited further explanation, received none.

He stared at a point above her head, went into one of his quiet stretches of time. ‘I have given myself two years to get this place up and running,’ he said, after a sizeable pause.
‘There is potential here, but there is also much to be done. I should need a manager, of course, someone who could be trusted.’

It was almost impossible to discuss anything thoroughly with this man, Amy decided. His mind worked in its own mysterious way, taking a path that did not necessarily run parallel with anyone
else’s road through life. She wondered what he did with his time. Apart from his horses, cows and a few hours each day in town, he seemed to have no hobby, no interests. There was a handful
of books on the shelves, some papers stacked neatly on his desk, a letter tray, a letter opener, pens, inks, blotters. The room was all but intellectually sterile.

‘If I were to offer you the position, or if you were to become a working partner, your mother would not be pleased. You see, I wanted her to take the partnership so that we might all
benefit from Pendleton Grange. Clearly, your mother is not thinking positively about the future.’

Immediately, Amy was on the defensive. Whatever her own opinion of Louisa, she would not allow anyone else to criticize her. ‘My mother is a hurt woman, Mr Mulligan.’ She could not
quite manage to call him James, not just yet. One would certainly not address him as Jim, or Jimmy. ‘Our father committed suicide.’

He nodded. ‘A heavy burden for a widow.’

‘It was not her fault. They adored each other.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Mulligan. I know that you did not intend any harm. It’s just that Eliza, Margot and I are all Mother has. We must look after her and protect her.’

He allowed a slight smile of encouragement to occupy his features for a split second. ‘I shall put my cards on the table, as we—’

‘Perhaps that metaphor is misplaced,’ she said wryly. ‘Since playing-cards were the cause of our changing fortunes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not at all.’ She watched him. He seemed so ill-at-ease, so unused to the vagaries of everyday life. Yet he was intelligent – that much was plain. Perhaps the rumour that he
had been raised in a remote part of Ireland was based in truth, then. He was clearly not fond of company, would rather have been alone. The books would be in the library, she decided obliquely. She
remembered Father reading stories aloud in there—

‘Miss Burton-Massey?’

‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Miles away is often the best place to be,’ he answered.

Emboldened by his slightly friendlier tone, she asked, ‘What is your real job?’

‘I teach,’ he replied, after a tiny pause.

‘In Ireland?’

‘Yes.’ He fiddled with a paperclip. ‘Of course, I had to come over to sort out my father’s affairs. It was only after his death that I heard about this house and all that
property in Bolton. As far as I was concerned, he was still living hand to mouth and . . . well . . . drinking when he could get the price of whiskey or beer. I had no idea.’

It was her turn to smile encouragingly.

‘I wish your mother would just take the place away from me. I don’t want it, you see. But I’m not prepared to let it stand empty and wither away to nothing. I tried the
partnership idea, but she scotched that straight away. So, unless you, or you and your sisters, will help me, I am at something of a loss.’

Amy knew that whatever she chose to do, the decision would not be easy. But she also realized that she wanted work, responsibility, a niche in the world. ‘There’s a lot of thinking
to be done,’ she told him. ‘I shall be plain. We have very little money. We are living on interest only, as Mother dare not touch her capital. Therefore, Margot, Eliza and I must each
make a living.’

‘And your mother dislikes me, wants nothing to do with me.’

‘She dislikes what happened between my father and yours.’

He shook his head very slowly. ‘No, Miss . . . Amy. I am not easy with strangers. I don’t seem to have the knack of communicating easily. Few people take to me.’

‘Yet you teach? Surely communication is important in that sphere?’

‘I am good with children.’

‘Ah.’ Perhaps he needed to be older than his companions, needed to be bigger, stronger and in charge. Yet in this man, there was a deep seam of something or other. Was it certainty?
Was it arrogance? He was definitely beautiful. Not merely handsome, but carved to perfection, every line correct, every feature balanced and well proportioned. Amy wriggled in her chair. Assessing
a man’s physical attributes was not a comfortable occupation.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asked. ‘Tea, coffee?’

She declined. ‘I think you underestimate yourself, James.’ She tried the name for size, saw that he did not mind, did not flinch. ‘I have the feeling that you could make an
excellent businessman.’

He raised a shoulder. ‘I have to go home. Two years is all I have allowed to sort out the Grange.’

Amy decided to wade right into deep water. ‘Sell it, then,’ she challenged. ‘If you don’t want it, get rid of it.’

James Mulligan rose and walked to the window. ‘Have you any idea of the damage an alcoholic gambler can do in a matter of months?’

‘Well,’ she answered thoughtfully, ‘my own father drank a great amount after returning from the war.’

‘Then there was the gambling,’ he added. ‘My father . . .’ His voice petered away, then revived itself. ‘My father died a horrible death in this very house, Amy.
Both our fathers endured great torment.’ He turned and faced her. ‘His liver bled, poured away out of him. He was, or so I’m told, the colour of old, dirty vellum and his pain was
intense, to say the least of it. However, before he got to that stage, he mortgaged this place just for gambling stakes.’

‘I see.’ She didn’t really comprehend how anyone could spend so much on gambling, but she wanted him to continue the tale. James Mulligan had a habit of drying up and shutting
down.

His face wore a strange expression now, as if it had snapped closed. His eyes were cold, his lips stiff as he spoke. ‘You sell it,’ he said.

‘It isn’t mine to sell.’

‘But it will be. I have left it to you and yours, and you must not tell your mother. This is your future, not mine. I am merely trying to give back all that was yours, including the paying
off of the mortgage.’

Amy almost bridled, was suddenly aware of how her mother felt. Yes, this was charity. ‘I would rather honour my father’s gambling debt.’

His lip curled. ‘Legend has it that Mr Burton-Massey held a king, while my father had an ace. Out of fifty-two cards, Thomas Mulligan picked the one with the highest value. It’s
unbeatable, Amy. It wipes out all the other aces, certainly makes mincemeat of the king of hearts.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘That my dad was an alcoholic, a cheat, a fraud, a card-sharp. There wasn’t a gambling den in Dublin would let him in. He got beaten up for cheating so many times that his nose was
spread all over his face. So I’d say there is probably nothing to honour. He cheated you, stole from you.’

Amy stood up. ‘She won’t listen to any of it, James. It’s down to me and you.’

‘I know.’

‘And you think that we could repay the mortgage by opening a hydro?’

‘It’s just an idea.’

She pondered for a moment. ‘When you die, the place reverts to me and my sisters?’

‘That’s the crack. Sorry, an Irish turn of phrase there.’

Amy picked up her gloves. ‘May you outlive my mother, then. Because she won’t set foot in here again, I’m sure.’

‘I am a mere boy of twenty-nine,’ he said, before walking across the room and opening the door for her. When they reached the hall, both stopped as the bell sounded.

Mary Whitworth opened the door.

As if to make mockery of Amy’s final statement, Louisa Burton-Massey marched into Pendleton Grange. Followed by her second daughter, she crossed the mosaic floor, tossed her gloves on to a
side table, nodded at her host. ‘Mr Mulligan,’ she said firmly, ‘I should like to have a word with you.’

Margot, watching from behind a hedge while her mother and one of her sisters entered Pendleton Grange, was rather less astonished when, within seconds, Amy walked out through
the same door. Mother and Eliza visiting James Mulligan? Amy was a different matter: Amy would have been engaged in some practicality or other, perhaps business connected with the horses or the
leasing of Caldwell’s acreage. But Mother? Mother actually entering the lion’s den after saying that she would never see Pendleton Grange again as long as she lived?

Margot chewed at a blade of grass, her eyes fixed on the house. Amy dashed off homeward. The youngest of the Burton-Masseys remained where she was, hidden from sight, her sole companions a
riding hat and a pair of binoculars.