Mulligan's Yard (2 page)

Immobilized by this final piece of information, the man waited for further news.

‘Rickets,’ offered Diane. ‘Our Joe caught rickets.’

‘And your grandmother?’

‘She went poorly when Dad got killed. Mrs Atherton next door told me my gran lost all heart after Dad died and . . . and . . .’

‘And what?’

She took a deep breath. ‘And after Mam went no good. She used to be no good in Bolton, but now she’s no good somewhere else. Gran lives in the kitchen. Mr Atherton brought her bed
down when she lost her heart.’ Why was she telling him all this? The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, all for a measly two bob?

He gave her the coin. Something was stirring in the region of his stomach, a feeling he recalled from childhood. But remembered hunger was one thing; hunger contained now within this small scrap
of flesh and bone was more urgent. ‘Diane?’

‘What?’

‘How do you get by?’ He noticed that the blue eyes were old, too knowledgeable for a person of such tender years.

‘We get some off the welfare – Gran calls it parish pennies. Then the Temple folk send stuff on a Friday – bread and a bit of meat, like. Our Joe cleans fireplaces and does a
bit of step-stoning for old folk, then I . . . well, I get what I can.’

‘Stealing?’

Lying to such a person was strangely difficult. ‘I look round the market at closing time. There’s fruit and that on the floor, stuff nobody wants, gone a bit off, some of it. Leaves
fall off cabbages. If you get enough leaves, you can cook them as if they’re a real cabbage. I run errands and do bits of jobs.’

At last, he placed her. This was one of several who had been standing outside when Freddie Williams had lost over two pounds of sausage, a shank of ham and three rabbits. There had been a small
gang, a member of which had fallen next to a tram outside the butchery. While much screaming and wailing had ensued, two ragamuffins had nipped into the unsupervised shop and relieved Freddie of a
substantial amount of merchandise.

She squirmed under his steady gaze. ‘We have to eat,’ she said. ‘For some of us, it’s . . . well, it’s steal or die.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you one of them Catholics?’ she asked, seeking a change of subject. His eyes were boring into her, cutting through, seeing her as she really was.

‘I am.’

Catholicism was one of Gran’s pet hates. Catholics bred like mice, according to Ida Hewitt. When they weren’t having babies, they went round sinning as often as they liked, because
they could get away with murder. All they had to do was tell the priest, give him a few coppers, then they could just go and do whatever they wanted all over again. Mr Wilkinson said Catholics had
never seen the Light and would not see the Light in a million years. They worshipped what he called icons and plaster statues, then drank themselves stupid as soon as they got paid. Their children
were always dying, because there were too many of them, and their fathers spent food money on Satan’s liquor.

‘What’s on your mind?’ the man enquired now.

‘Eh? Oh, I were just thinking, like, about sins.’ Her sins could never be forgiven until she could look into the Light and see the Almighty. She was a terrible sinner, too.
‘Can a priest really get rid of your sins? Like if you pinched some things or killed somebody, would it not matter to a Mick?’

He shook his head. ‘Not quite as easy as all that, Diane. If we steal, we have to return the property before being forgiven. As for murder, well, there is no forgiveness for that until the
murderer gives himself up to the police.’

Diane’s eyes were huge. ‘But I thought, well, I—’

‘A lot of people think, child. My religion is not the easy option.’

‘Neither is mine,’ she breathed. Her religion was becoming a pain in the neck, because she could never get away from it. There was thanksgiving for the Light every Wednesday,
celebration of the Light on Sundays, bearing of the Light on Fridays, beautification of the temple on a rota basis, then the bringing of the Light to 13 John Street whenever Mr Wilkinson felt like
it. The beautification was the worst, since it involved brooms, shovels, mops and a lot of polishing. ‘Have you heard of the Light?’

He had. ‘Are you one of the Temple?’

She nodded. ‘I’m a loud-it-ary.’

‘Laudatory,’ he corrected.

‘That’s what I said. I have to get cleansed soon. Then I might get made up to a bearer. Mind, you have to have a white frock. I don’t think I’ll be able to get
one.’ She didn’t really want to be a bearer, anyway. Bearers got taken under Mr Wilkinson’s wing. It was something to do with some foolish virgins in the Bible, and Mr Wilkinson
made sure that his virgins didn’t go daft like the ones in his Great Book.

The man reached out and touched her cheek. ‘Well, Diane Hewitt of thirteen John Street, I’d better away and carry on with my business.’

Diane shook herself out of the reverie. ‘What is your business?’ she asked unexpectedly.

‘This inn, the yard, a couple of farms, some shops, cottages – shall I go on?’

She jumped up. ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I suppose I must be.’

‘The gambler.’ There was an accusatory edge to her words.

‘No. My father was the gambler.’

She swallowed hard. According to Mr Wilkinson, gambling was the greatest sin, and Catholics gambled all the time. They were forever having raffles and games of lotto, grand Christmas draws,
Easter draws, tombolas, shove-ha’penny stalls, guess your weight, how many raisins in a cake. ‘Gambling’s bad,’ she mumbled.

‘Perhaps.’

‘And my gran says your dad would have put money on a dead horse.’

‘True. It was his weakness.’

She considered that, deciding that she had done nearly enough thinking for one day. But her mental machinery seemed to have stuck in gear. ‘Is a weakness the same as a sin?’

‘Sometimes. Not always, though. A weakness has to be fought against, but occasionally it can overcome a person.’ This young girl was of a cerebral disposition and, in spite of her
reputation for thievery, Diane Hewitt displayed a strong sense of morality. ‘Be off now,’ he said.

She remained where she was. This was Mulligan. Mulligan was a miserable chap who would not get off his horse to save a blind man. He was tough on his tenants, never had a kind word for anybody,
was not the sort to stop and give two shillings to a dirty, ill-dressed, nail-biting girl. ‘Everybody hates you,’ she advised him, her tone conversational.

‘I know.’

‘You’ve no friends.’

He laughed. ‘Is that a fact, now?’

She nodded. ‘So why are you being nice to me?’ This was no Mr Wilkinson. She shivered suddenly. Some of the white-clad virgin bearers of the Light looked a bit shaky when emerging
from the inner sanctum. Mr Wilkinson took them in there one at a time to cleanse them, and he often looked sweaty and afraid when he came out. The chief guardian of the Light was oily, but there
was no grease attached to this tall, dark man. So if Mr Wilkinson, who was supposed to be good, was not really good, and if James Mulligan, who was bad, was good, then—

‘Diane?’

‘Eh?’

‘Give your brain a rest.’ He patted her head and strode into the inn.

Diane tossed the coin, caught it deftly. Fish and chips all round soon. It had been an interesting sort of day. She’d almost forgotten about the wash-house, but she would give it some
thought later on. Whistling in a fashion that would not have suited a bearer, she made off in the direction of food. Dismissing thoughts of Light versus Catholicism, she went about the business of
filling Hewitt bellies.

As soon as she entered her house, Diane sensed the presence of the guardian. From the midst of a hundred household smells, she caught his sickly odour. It came, she thought,
from the stuff he layered on his hair, a kind of gluey application that enabled him to wind thin strands back and forth across a fast-balding pate. Well, bugger him, she thought irreverently. Here
she stood, fish and chips three times with salt, vinegar and batter-scraps all wrapped in newspaper, and the guardian had to choose today to bring the Light to Gran.

She entered the kitchen, walked past the end of Ida Hewitt’s bed, then placed her bundle in the oven. She stoked the fire, added a bit of nutty slack from the bucket, sat in Dad’s
rocker.

‘Diane,’ said the guardian, ‘come into the Light with us. Praise the Lord.’

She stared blankly at him. He had set a couple of night lights on a low table by the bed. These he had lit from a glass-sided lantern which, earlier on, would have taken its life from the
everlasting source in the temple. Mr Wilkinson was not just the Guardian of the Light, he was also an insurance man. He had two homes – one in Noble Street, with his sister, one in Pendleton,
a village north of Bolton. Diane wished he would stay in Pendleton with his brother, then he wouldn’t keep turning up here. She suspected that he moved about from one place to the other
because no-one wanted him, not even his family.

‘Aren’t thou going to pray with us?’ he asked.

Diane was not in the mood for prayer. It was hard enough pretending to be a proper laudator three times a week. On top of all her attendances at temple, there was this business to contend with,
Guardian Wilkinson on a mission to bring the Word and the Light to Gran at least once a week. What was it all about, anyway? Praising the Lord and telling herself that the Lord would provide? She
was the one doing the providing, the stealing—

‘Did you hear Mr Wilkinson?’ asked Gran.

‘Yes.’ Fish and chips were never the same if you left them in the oven. The fish went soggy, while chips stuck to the paper and tasted musty.

Mr Wilkinson carried on chanting, thanking God for some burning bush that had appeared in the middle of a place called Texas in America. Diane fixed her eyes on him. He was short and round, and
his belly hung over his trousers. He had little eyes like currants stuck in grey, uncooked pastry, while his hands moved a lot, stumpy fingers clinging to each other, then stretching out in front
of him, above his head, at each side of his bloated body. He was, Diane thought, just about the ugliest person ever created.

‘Pray,’ mouthed Gran.

No, she wasn’t going to pray.

The visitor glanced at the child. ‘Praise and glory,’ he said, the words forced between crooked, gappy teeth.

‘Fish and chips,’ muttered Diane, her stomach rumbling in agreement. Why had Gran joined this daft lot? she wondered. Just before losing heart, Ida had thrown herself into the Temple
of Light, had screamed for her dead son, had taken comfort from a man who looked like something off the fair, one of the freaks in those green tents round the edges and away from the rides. A
gnome, he was. He should have been an exhibit like the Fat Lady, the Smallest Woman in the World, the Two-Headed Baby.

He finished praying. ‘How was school?’ he asked.

‘All right.’

‘Hast thou learned thy Bible verses?’

‘No.’

He tutted. ‘She needs to spend more time with the Good Book, Mrs Hewitt.’

Ida looked at her granddaughter, so thin, so pale and tired. ‘If only I could shape meself,’ she moaned.

‘Thou shalt,’ said Peter Wilkinson. ‘Just lie there and look into the Light.’ He pointed towards the tiny candles. ‘The Almighty is in there, Mrs Hewitt. Seek and
ye shall find. When you’ve found Him, you’ll be out of that bed in two shakes.’ He pulled on an overcoat and picked up his lantern. ‘Learn the verses,’ he reminded
Diane.

Diane waited until he had left the house, then she called her brother. Joe always ran upstairs when the guardian visited. She took the meal from the oven, then blew out the night lights.

‘Diane,’ cried Ida.

Diane shrugged. ‘No use setting the house on fire, Gran.’

‘But . . . but that was the Light.’

‘And this’, replied the ten-year-old, ‘is food.’ She dished out the portions, making sure that little Joe got plenty of fish. She didn’t really want to upset Gran,
but sometimes, after a hard day, Diane got a bit fed up with her grandmother. It was as if Gran was the younger of the two females in the house, because Diane had all to do and all to worry about.
It wasn’t right.

‘Where did you get money for fish and chips?’ asked Ida, her mouth full of cod.

‘I did some errands for the doctor.’ Lies and more lies.

‘Nice,’ said Ida.

‘Lovely,’ grinned Joe.

It was all for him, Diane told herself firmly. For him, she would look after Gran, because there had to be a grownup with them. If anything happened to Gran, the two children would go into the
orphanage. For Joe, she would steal, make do and mend. For herself, well, there were several things she wanted. And a white frock for cleansing was not on the list.

The food was too much for little Joe. He studied his leavings while they cooled, wished with all his heart that he could stoke up against an uncertain tomorrow. Force-feeding himself was not a
good idea, since an overloaded stomach often led him down the yard where all would be lost in the lavatory shed.

Diane understood. ‘One day, Joe,’ she whispered.

‘One day what?’ asked the woman in the bed.

But Diane said no more. One day, there would be a glass bowl on a table, apples, oranges, pears for Joe to pick at. He wouldn’t need to wait for mealtimes, because the food would be there
all the time. White tablecloths, silver cutlery, thin cups and saucers. A garden, a dog, blue skies, sunshine. One day, she told herself. One day, life would begin.

18 March 1921

Took the Light to Mrs Hewitt. She still cannot get out of her bed. The child is so thin, her soul darkened by sin, yet still untouched, since she has not reached the
age of reason and she knows no better. Time will heal. Praise the Lord.

Through the latch hole in the back gate, I saw the girl dragging a zinc bath, struggling as she took it inside the house. The copper must have boiled, because I saw Diane carrying water to
the bath tub, a heavy jug in those frail little hands. The grandmother was hideous when unclothed, her flesh loosened by bedrest.

Then the child took her turn, lowering herself into water already sullied by Ida Hewitt. Her bones are thin and sharp, easy to bend, easy to break. Concave belly, no body hair, no secrets to
hide.