Mulligan's Yard (30 page)

‘I can do nothing,’ she concluded aloud. ‘I can’t say anyone is pregnant, not without proof. As for Eliza and my cretinous brother, it will be farewell and thank God. For
a while, at least.’

Mona struggled through the next few days, sometimes guilt-ridden and tearful, often deep in thought, occasionally walking all the way to Ida’s house, which was over a
mile away from Pendleton Grange. Although she did not quite realize it, Mona was in the process of making her first two friends – Kate Kenny and Ida Hewitt.

Then, in response to an invitation, Mona paid her first visit to Caldwell Farm. Moorhead picked her up in the trap, left her at the front door, giving her a chance to study the place before
knocking. Mona liked the look of this house. A lot plainer and smaller than the Grange, it looked used and a bit tired. Sturdy, weathered and surrounded by fields, Caldwell Farm was Mona’s
idea of heaven.

Amy opened the door. ‘Good to see you out and about,’ she said. ‘Here’s Elspeth. Elspeth, this is Miss Mona Walsh – I told you about her.’

‘Sorry to hear about your loss, Miss Walsh.’ Elspeth relieved Mona of her outer garments. ‘The coffee’s ready,’ she said, before bustling off towards the
kitchen.

As the two women entered the parlour, its chimney performed one of the belches for which it was fast becoming notorious. ‘Just like ours at home,’ declared Mona. ‘Open the door
and you get fumigated.’ This broke the ice, and they sat drinking coffee and chatting about general matters for ten full minutes.

‘So, how are you feeling now?’ asked Amy, once the ground felt steady enough.

Mona considered her reply. ‘Less like a murderer. The doctor told Mr Mulligan that our Tilly was a time-bomb just ticking away – she’d already lived a good bit longer than he
expected. Mind, if I hadn’t gone after Ida’s old house . . .’

‘A bit of advice,’ offered Amy, ‘as long as you don’t mind taking it from a younger person. Start looking forward. Peering over one’s shoulder all the time can
never be a good thing.’

‘Aye, well, I suppose I’ll feel different once the funeral’s over.’

Amy agreed. ‘You will feel a change, but the mourning takes a bit longer.’ She paused. ‘The great news is that you are trying to think about your future.’

‘I was doing that afore.’ Mona placed her cup and saucer on the winged table. ‘See, I’m past fifty. Me and our Tilly, we never knew anything apart from the laundry. It
was left to us by Mother and Dad, and we worked there all hours – after school, Saturdays, all through summer holidays. There’s got to be more than that in life.’

Amy watched while a variety of emotions visited the plain, colourless face. ‘I understand that Mr Mulligan has hired two women to run the laundry for the time being.’

‘That’s right. Now, see, there’s a good man if ever there was one. Nice-looking too, but his packaging’s wrong because he looks so stern.’ Mona sighed, shook her
head. ‘What he really is doesn’t show till you know him better. Now, take me. Inside all this blubber I’m still a young girl, Miss Burton-Massey.’

‘Amy.’

‘Amy. It’s a nice name, is that. Short, but pretty. Where was I up to?’

‘You were still young and Mr Mulligan was wrongly wrapped.’

Mona amazed herself by laughing. It wasn’t a giggle or a chuckle: a huge belly laugh broke out with no warning. ‘Eeh,’ she breathed, when the laughter calmed,
‘aren’t I awful? I should be crying.’

‘Not at all. Laughter is a form of medicine. Go back to what you were saying before.’ Unless Amy was very much mistaken, this lady’s laughter had been held back for too long,
possibly for a lifetime.

Mona eyed Amy Burton-Massey, wondered whether this young woman would take her seriously when all had been said. It was probably a daft idea, anyway, but why not hang for the full sheep?
‘Are you opening that there Cut Above shop? Made-to-measure fashions, isn’t it? I’ll still do all the pressing if you want me to.’

Amy nodded. ‘Once again, Mr Mulligan has stepped into the breach. He has found a clever designer who will work on Mother’s patterns, then on her own ideas. My sister, Eliza, will
possibly help, too. Why do you ask?’

Mona ordered herself to take the plunge. ‘Right, you just shut me up any time you like, Amy, only I’ve been thinking. Look at me. Go on, look at me good and proper. Not much to send
a letter home about, am I? Just an ordinary plain fat woman in an ordinary plain fat frock.’

Amy looked, said nothing.

‘There’s thousands of me. Not all fat women are poor, you know. So, I’m setting you a bit of a challenge. I love clothes, always have done. Me and our Tilly have usually made
our own, because there’s not much off-the-peg in our sizes. The challenge is this – try to make me look good. I don’t mean just a suit and blouse. Get a hairdresser in –
there’s room downstairs at the shop. Make my face up, find me a decent corset and some shoes that don’t make my little toes bend in under the rest. Take the ugly and make it . . . well
. . . better.’ After this long speech, Mona helped herself to a plain biscuit.

Amy sat back. ‘You’d never have mentioned this had Tilly been alive. Am I right? Did she hold you back?’

Mona, with a mouthful of crumbs, simply nodded.

The younger woman rose to her feet and paced about the room, finally settling near the window. A hairdressing salon? Makeup? What about manicures, facial treatments, a complete package?

‘You think I’m daft, don’t you? Our Tilly would have laughed at me. She always did that, ground me down one way or another.’ Mona paused for thought. ‘Not that I
want you feeling sorry for me, you understand. What I mean is, I’m not frightening. Most folk down town know me, I’m not unusual. There’s nothing to lose, love. If you can make me
look nice, if you can give me a job, I can get ordinary women with a few bob to feel at home in yon shop. You could advertise a specialist service for the lady with a more generous figure. And I
suggest you have an economy department, too. There’s girls out there who’d save up their pennies for a frock from A Cut Above. You could have them paying so much a week and all –
like a savings club. And remember, they don’t all want silk and jersey wool.’

Amy returned to her seat. She stared at Mona for several seconds, weighed up pros and cons, took in the grey, unremarkable hair, ran her eyes over skin that had been incarcerated for decades in
the damp air of a laundry. Mona was, indeed, a challenge. ‘Your hair will have to be done elsewhere,’ she said. ‘Jumping into hairdressing before we’ve even sold a single
outfit would be rather reckless. But . . .’ But Mona had a gentleness of manner, an attitude that might draw out the damped-down egos of plump women.

‘But what?’

‘But we might just give your brainwave a go, Mona. Yes, you can press clothes, but you can also sell them. Hmm, larger ladies – yes, yes.’ This woman had mental energy and
imagination; she was also possessed of the experience of running a successful business. Could she be a saleswoman? Probably. ‘We’ll talk again after the funeral,’ Amy promised,
‘and—’

The door opened and Camilla strode in. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I sneaked in the back way, got past Elspeth – am I interrupting?’

‘Not really,’ replied Amy. ‘This is Mona – Miss Mona Walsh.’

‘Hello.’ Camilla shook Mona’s hand until it almost threatened to drop off. ‘Caught a glimpse of you at Christmas – sorry to hear about your sister.’

‘Camilla will be catering for A Cut Above – snacks and so forth for our clients,’ Amy told Mona. ‘Not every day, of course, but when we have our open days.’ She
explained to Mona. ‘About once a month, we shall entertain our clientele in the parlour – the idea is to discuss trends and designs, allow the customer to have her say.’

‘Good show,’ cried Camilla. ‘So you’ll be opening up after all?’

‘Of course.’ She sent Camilla off to beg more coffee from Elspeth. ‘Stay for lunch,’ she asked Mona. ‘We can talk a little more about your ideas. I’m sure
Camilla won’t stay all afternoon.’

The three women shared one of Elspeth Moorhead’s famous Lancashire hotpots followed by the same county’s crumbly cheese with crackers. They chatted about the shop, though
Mona’s idea remained for the present a secret between Amy and Mona, then Camilla had them all laughing about her family. ‘Equality in the workplace?’ she squawked, in a fair
imitation of Helen Smythe’s rather wearing voice. ‘She pays our female staff less than half the wages of the men.’

They discussed this topic for half an hour, then Camilla rose to leave. As she climbed into the high seat of her van, she remembered her reason for coming here. A firm believer in fate, she
decided that Mona had been present for a reason. ‘Let it take its own course,’ she said to herself. ‘I arrived in several minds, anyway.’ And what might she have said? How
could she accuse Margot of being pregnant when she might just be off-colour? ‘Stay out of it, Smythe,’ she ordered herself. ‘Margot and Eliza are not your concern.’

While Amy was entertaining, Margot saddled Chloe, reined her tightly and set off through the fields, first building up to a canter, then driving the mare into a gallop. Life
had changed so drastically in recent months, first with Mother’s death, then with the arrival of this terrible, awesome problem. Normally, Margot would be more than ready for lunch, should
now be eating in the kitchen while Amy ate with her friends, but food was no longer a factor in Margot’s equation.

Willing her unwanted tenant to vacate the womb, she rode carelessly, brushing against branches at the edge of a field, urging the mare to take jumps that were high and difficult. As she turned
into one of the upper pastures, Margot became aware that she was being watched, then pursued.

Within seconds, the man was upon her. He came alongside, took the head of her mount, dragged Chloe to a halt. ‘What on earth are you trying to do?’ he asked breathlessly.

Margot attempted no reply.

‘Apart from anything else, you might have damaged my mare.’

‘And that would never do, would it, Mr Mulligan?’

He dismounted, then dragged her out of the saddle. ‘I realize that you are an adventurous horsewoman, but I never believed you to be reckless. You know your own limitations, and you know
Chloe’s.’ He ran a hand over the mare’s quivering neck. ‘I have sold items from your old house, Margot. Valuable paintings have gone under a hammer so that I might use my
expertise with horseflesh to enhance the fortunes of Pendleton Grange. The horses are the future of your family. Now, please look at me.’

She could not meet his eyes, could not have cared less about the survival of the Grange.

‘What is going on, Margot?’

‘Nothing.’

He placed a hand under her chin, turned her head until she faced him. ‘This is not nothing. This is a piece of sheer lunacy. Chloe does not jump well – you know that better than
anyone.’

‘Perhaps I forgot.’

She never forgot, not where horses were concerned. Had she not been female, this one might have made a champion jockey. ‘Amy is worried about you,’ he said.

‘Is she? I haven’t been aware of that. She’s too busy lunching with her friends to bother her head about me.’

‘Rubbish,’ he snapped, removing his hand from her chin.

As soon as he released his grip, she missed him. Rupert, that callow, selfish youth, was never going to be a man. Mulligan was a real man, the sort who would make a good husband. What chance had
she of securing anyone decent while this pregnancy continued?

‘Margot, your sisters are under the same roof as you, they are with you constantly, so they don’t see what the rest of us see. You look unwell.’ He left a pause, whch remained
unfilled. ‘What is the matter with you these days?’ He felt like a father chiding his daughter.

Had she felt able to talk at all, she might have confided in James Mulligan. He was the type of man who kept secrets well; even so, Margot did not know where to begin. Panic bubbled in her
throat. Soon, very soon, her problem would show of its own accord.

‘If you wish to talk to me, please be reassured that the information will go no further.’

Margot perked up momentarily. ‘You would protect me? Just as you protect your cellar? Now, there’s a thing. You take yourself off several times a day, or so rumour has it. Into a
cellar? When you have nothing to hide, Mr Mulligan, then you will be in a position to question and lecture others.’

‘Touché,’
he replied. ‘But I believe that your difficulty may be more pressing than mine.’

He had guessed, then. How many others had reached the same conclusion? she wondered. Eliza and Amy probably judge her to be out of sorts, still grieving, perhaps. But those who saw her just
occasionally might be achieving clearer and more accurate pictures. Something had to be done, and quickly. ‘I shall ride Chloe back now,’ she announced defiantly.

‘If you must.’ He helped her into the saddle, noticing that her agility was not as it had been. ‘I daresay the damage is already done,’ he said clearly, ‘and I
shall follow you.’

Margot gazed down on him. ‘Damage?’

‘To the horse,’ he replied. ‘Or . . . well, we shall see.’

She pulled tight on the rein, causing Chloe to veer away quickly. With her eyes misting over, Margot allowed the mare to choose the pace for both of them. It wasn’t fair, any of it. The
feelings she harboured for James Mulligan remained powerful – perhaps he was the man she loved after all. How was one supposed to separate infatuation from true love? Many women of
Margot’s age were married – how had they managed to choose, to know, to be absolutely certain? Was it a lottery?

Weary to the marrow, Margot Burton-Massey rubbed down her horse, found a dry blanket and some oats. She patted Chloe’s flank. ‘Thank you, girl,’ she whispered. ‘If that
hard ride hasn’t worked, it’s none of your doing.’

Eliza waited at the tram terminus. He was almost twenty minutes late, and she was beginning to wonder whether she needed him at all. She hated being beholden to a man like
Rupert Smythe, and she had been working hard to find a way of separating herself from him. Not completely, because even she was frightened by the thought of being lost and alone in the capital.
Nevertheless, he needed to learn his place in her scheme of things.