Mulligan's Yard (31 page)

A tram pulled in and disgorged its load. The driver changed ends, all the while glancing at the beautiful woman who stood so still and straight near the wall. ‘Are you all right,
miss?’ he called.

She inclined her head.

Frozen out by the chill in her eyes, the man made no further enquiries, choosing instead to read his newspaper until the time came to clatter his way back into Bolton.

Eliza’s measures had consisted of a two-pronged advance. First, she had got hold of Rupert’s London address. This had been easy, because the idea was that he would go first,
accompanied, of course, by his mother, then Eliza would follow some days later. Second, she had acquired what she considered to be her share of Mother’s jewellery, and had disposed of the
same in Manchester, thereby increasing her savings significantly.

She smiled to herself. She would be living in the same house as Rupert, but not in the same flat. After corresponding with the landlady, Eliza would shortly be the tenant of an attic room with
some kitchen facilities and the use of a bathroom on a shared basis.

He arrived at last, a silly scarf streaming from his throat as he braved the elements, his car hood pinned back, his face reddened by an icy wind. ‘Jump in,’ he called.

The tram driver looked at the pair of young toffs. Off on a jaunt, he shouldn’t wonder, driving through the countryside at breakneck speeds when gradely folk were doing a day’s
work.

Rupert was unusually quiet. Eliza wondered about that for a second or two, then busied herself by tying a scarf over her hair. She had no intention of being seen out and about while resembling a
badly constructed scarecrow.

‘Eliza?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve decided to go down before the New Year.’

‘Why?’

Why? Because his sister, who packed the punch of a prize fighter, was on his tail. Because Eliza’s sister, who was at least doing him the courtesy of keeping her distance, might be
pregnant with his child. ‘Oh, I’ve had enough of everyone,’ he said airily.

She knew exactly what he meant.

‘Just want to see the bright lights as soon as poss,’ he concluded.

Eliza looked into a small mirror to check that her makeup was surviving the ravages of Rupert’s driving. ‘I may go myself later this week,’ she said casually.

His gloved hands tightened on the wheel. ‘But my mother will be there. I’ve promised to take her to a show. Father will spend the holidays playing golf, while Camilla – well,
who knows or cares what she gets up to? Catering, I expect.’

‘And your mother must not catch a glimpse of me. Is that the case?’

‘Sorry, but yes. She’ll be paying our rent and—’

‘No, she won’t.’

‘Of course she will. I could not afford a flat on the salary I’ve been offered.’

‘I’ll pay my own rent, Rupert.’

‘Eventually, yes, you shall.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said clearly. ‘I’ve found a room of my own in the same house. Naturally, I shall lie low whenever your mother is within forty paces. Shouldn’t like to
be responsible for upsetting the old girl.’ She glanced at him. ‘It’s just as well that this is winter, Rupert. You’d be catching flies.’

He closed his mouth with a snap, slammed on the brakes.

‘Take me back to the terminus,’ she asked.

‘But I thought we were going for lunch?’

‘No. I think I’ll just go home and pack. I know I shan’t be travelling for a while, but it’s best to be prepared.’

The tram driver watched as the little car slewed to a halt across the road. As he prepared to begin his journey townward, he saw the young woman crossing while the man drove off in a great
hurry. Toffs. He had no time for them.

The funeral of Miss Mathilda Walsh took place on New Year’s Eve, 1921, at the crematorium. This compromise had been decided upon by Seth Dobson, who, on learning of
Mona’s sudden antipathy towards Peter Wilkinson, reached the conclusion that the Temple of Eternal Light was not a suitable venue. Because of Tilly’s weight and the size of her coffin,
extra bearers were brought in for the occasion, and the cortège assembled outside Tilly and Mona’s house at nine thirty.

Mona had done nothing about the arrangements. Having stayed since Christmas at Pendleton Grange, she had been content to leave all dealings to the undertaker, who, to give fair credit, had made
a fine job. The hearse shone, as did the two black horses whose job it was to pull Tilly from her home, across Bolton and to the crematorium. The coffin was made from the best materials, while Seth
reassured Mona that Tilly was not in a shroud, but was dressed in her best grey skirt and the new Christmas blouse.

Seth spent some time with the bereaved sister, holding her hand in a comforting way, telling her that people got distressed at this distressing time, and not to distress herself about getting .
. . upset. Mona heard little, saw next to nothing. She was sure of only two things: that she would get through today, and that she would not set foot in any buildings connected to her past.

Taking into account the fact that Tilly and Mona had collected few friends on their conjoined journey through life, the funeral attracted quite a crowd at all points along the route. Neighbours,
who had found the sisters aloof, now declared that the Walsh family had been quiet, decent, and had caused no trouble in the neighbourhood. They had quarrelled occasionally, yes, but who
didn’t? And at least there had been no fighting in the street.

In town, especially near Mulligan’s Yard, people lined the pavements, some with bags of washing in their hands or in prams. Men removed their hats, women lowered their heads, and Mona
wished with all her heart that the whole thing could be over and done with. She was cold, tired, and there was nothing she could do for poor Tilly now.

The main party arrived at the crematorium, the living entering the building before the dead, as was the norm. Seth Dobson hung about in the doorway, hoping against hope that no distress would
arise out of Mona’s changed attitude towards the celebrant, one Guardian Peter Wilkinson, who seemed not to have bothered to turn up thus far.

Mona had many supporters on this sad day. Ida came, though the children, judged too young to attend, had stayed with neighbours. James Mulligan acted as chauffeur to Ida, Amy and Eliza, while
Margot was a passenger in Camilla Smythe’s van. James got the distinct impression that the two younger Burton-Masseys had been press-ganged by Amy into coming. Bringing up the rear of this
party, the stalwart Moorheads travelled in the trap.

Already inside the chapel, a representative from every business in the yard and several from Deansgate waited for Tilly. It was when she saw these people that Mona had to bite down hard on her
lip. Some folk were nice, after all. There was also a strong contingent from the Methodist chapel to which the Walshes had belonged before the arrival from Texas of a flame carried in the hold of a
ship. Mona breathed a little sigh at the sight of the Methodists. That august body, combined with the presence of one dedicated Catholic man, would surely be sufficient to drive the contaminating
presence of Peter Wilkinson back to the gates of hell.

The guardian arrived eventually, his presence announced by the clatter of a bicycle in the porch. Some turned round in their seats to watch as he smoothed strands of hair to fill in the gaps.
Halfway up the central aisle, he remembered the bicycle clips and was forced to stop in order to remove them from his person.

After such an undignified entrance, Peter Wilkinson was much disturbed to find himself facing a dozen Methodists, the beautiful Burton-Masseys and, worst of all, the man he considered to be the
greatest enemy of all. James Mulligan. What was he doing here? Weren’t Romans forbidden to attend services in churches other than their own? It was plain that Mr Mulligan was a law unto
himself.

The coffin, borne by eight men, made its slow and stately way up the aisle. When it rested on a trestle, two girls in white appeared from a corner room. One bore a lighted candle, the other a
book. Wilkinson placed the Light on Tilly’s coffin, took the book and began to read from it.

He started with a collection of verses culled from various testaments, each piece lifted out of context to support the Eternal Light’s message. While he spoke, the white-clad girls stood
motionless, one at each side of Tilly’s coffin. The original Light was praised for providing the dawn of creation, much was made of the Whitsuntide tongues of flame, then last, but never
least, the burning bush of Moses was dragged into the arena.

Wilkinson managed to meet the unamused eye of James Mulligan. ‘“Hear and fear all ye who walk a path on which the Light shineth not, for ye shall not be admitted to paradise on the
day of judgement. Come forth into warmth and joy, and ye shall be redeemed.”’

Unfortunately, a latecomer arrived just as the guardian was getting into his stride. The resulting draught travelled through the room, blowing out the Light on Tilly’s coffin. Wilkinson
turned to one of the girls to ask that a second source of Light be carried in. Plainly, the girls had neglected to store a flame, and the guardian went into an immediate flap.

James turned to look at Mona, who sat by his side. Her face was contorted by an emotion he would not have cared to define.

‘Er . . .’ Peter Wilkinson searched for words. ‘We shall have to adjourn while I go and fetch a flame.’

Seth Dobson stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘only there’s another service in half an hour. We’ll have to get a move on as it is, what with you turning
up so late.’

‘But the furnace must be fed by the Light,’ babbled Peter Wilkinson. ‘We must have a piece of the Eternal Fire so that Miss Walsh’s soul can enter the kingdom.’

A strangled noise pushed its way out through Mona’s tightly clenched teeth. At first, it sounded as if she might be choking, but, as her mouth opened, gales of laughter ripped through the
saddened air. A neighbour crossed the chapel. ‘It’s the hystericals,’ she declared authoritatively. ‘She gets them. Summat to do with her being on the high-strung
side.’

Mona rocked back and forth in her pew. ‘Lead – lead kindly light,’ she howled. ‘It’s stupid, it’s all stupid.’ She pointed to Wilkinson. ‘As for
him,’ she paused to swallow a giggle, ‘he’s – the daftest thing, the most – most horrible man—’ She jumped to her feet, the sobs of laughter diminishing.
‘God sent that draught,’ she declared. ‘God snuffed you out, you miserable, nasty piece of work.’

‘Mona.’ James pulled at her coat. ‘Come on, now, this is a funeral. Let the service finish.’

‘Without the Light?’ she screamed. ‘Without the Light, there can be no service, no cremation, no nothing.’ She pushed past James and into the centre aisle. ‘There
can be no virgins sent off to Texas into God alone knows what, not without the Light.’ She turned. ‘Mr Mulligan?’

‘Yes?’

‘You know how you were saying that anyone can do a baptism if there’s no clergy around? Ordinary folk who aren’t priests?’

James nodded. This was turning into a French farce.

‘Well, can somebody do this for my sister?’ She glared venomously at the guardian. ‘Like, if someone dies and there’s no pastor, can an ordinary person pray over
them?’

James made no reply.

‘I’ll do it myself,’ she declared, turning to the guardian. ‘I’d advise you to pick up your bicycle clips, your holy book, your virgins, and leave while the
going’s good.’

Wilkinson backed away. In spite of the loss of a couple of stones, Mona Walsh remained a figure to be feared. He wished he had never come; he wished that he had not been disgraced in front of
Mulligan and within sight of three beautiful angels. They would be mocking him. Mona Walsh was mocking him now.

She stood next to her sister’s coffin, sent the two virgins packing. ‘I want to talk to you about my sister,’ she advised the congregation. ‘Now, I know she came over
hard, but she wasn’t, not really. See, we knew no life excepting the wash-house. When you do nowt but work, something happens, like a wall being built round you. In our case, you can see the
wall, pounds and pounds of it, because nothing much is expected of a fat woman.’

James relaxed perceptively. She was not as out of order as he had feared.

‘Tilly minded me. We minded one another, come to think. When she got sidetracked into that daft religion, I went with her and pretended to believe. Well, to be honest, I tried my hardest
to believe. Now, if our Tilly died convinced that the Light shone on her path to Heaven, she will be saved. It’s believing that counts, not what you believe in.’

Ida snuffled into her handkerchief. Her heart bled for Mona Walsh, who was merely stating her own faith, or the lack of it.

Mona addressed the coffin. ‘Tilly, you are a good, Godfearing woman raised in the Methodist ways. We’re all going to pray now, ask God to open His arms for your soul. There’s a
lot of Christians here, and they’re all on our side, so their prayers will be very powerful. God bless.’

Tilly was pushed towards the furnace while all present prayed for her salvation. Many wept, because Mona’s heartfelt tribute was far more touching than a sermon from a trained man. Her
simple words reached the heart of everyone in the room, with the exception of Guardian Wilkinson, that was.

The insurance-man-cum-guardian picked up his book and stalked out of the crematorium, the two girls in white hot on his heels. Having reached the porch, he realized that he had forgotten his
bicycle clips, so he sent one of the girls to retrieve them. Hatred burned hot in his heart, loud in his head. He had been made into a figure of fun, and his desire for revenge was strong.

Inside, Mona made her way towards the door, her hand in the crook of James Mulligan’s arm. It was over; she had got through it in one piece. She shook the hands of everyone present, had a
word with those who wanted to talk.

When various vehicles lined up to carry people back to their homes, Mona opted to travel in Camilla’s van, while Margot, with whom Camilla had wanted a word after the funeral, got into the
trap with the Moorheads. Seth expressed his gratitude to Miss Smythe, as she had released a driver who had been booked to carry the sole family mourner back to Pendleton.