Mulligan's Yard (49 page)

Three men left the ranks and walked to the steps. Diane stood to one side and allowed them to pick up the heavy lid. Between them, they carried the item to the middle of the room. A woman
gasped, placed a hand to her mouth. Another wept quietly, while two old couples left the temple quietly, heads bowed.

Diane approached the pivotal point of so many lives. Standing by the flame, she raised her hand and placed it on her heart. Mr Mulligan had told her what to say. ‘We all believe in
God,’ she said solemnly, ‘and in His Light in Heaven. This is no longer a holy light, so we will extinguish it.’ She’d had a bit of trouble with ‘extinguish’ and
was glad when it came out all in one piece. During practice, the word had seemed to catch on her teeth, falling into fragments before hitting the air.

The men, aided by Diane, placed the lid on top of the Light’s metal bowl. A corporate gasp emerged from onlookers, while small puffs of smoke leaked to announce the struggle as fire sought
oxygen. ‘Leave it to cool,’ Diane suggested. ‘Then pour water on it just to make sure.’

Blindly, she left by the front entrance, Sally in hot pursuit.

‘Diane?’

‘I’m not skriking.’ Fiercely, Diane rubbed at her nose.

‘Aw, love.’ Sally put her arms around trembling shoulders. ‘We did right,’ she said. ‘Well, you did.’

‘It felt . . . it felt like I was . . . killing them, Sally.’

‘You were saving them.’

The unlikely saviour sobbed.

‘It weren’t right, Di. None of it. You are the first right thing to happen in there.’

‘I know, I know, but it still hurts in my stomach. They’re so poor and lonely, some lonelier than others.’

‘They were paying with daughters and granddaughters.’ Sally dabbed at Diane’s wet cheeks. ‘There were nothing free, Di. They’d have started shipping them out to
Texas for breeding – thank God none of them’s already gone. You did right, love. For the rest of your life, you’ll know you did right.’

The girl who had done right walked with her supporter through the streets of Bolton, tears drying as she feasted her eyes on familiar sights. Lumbering trams overtook lumbering horses, market
folk shouted about their wares, women with turbaned heads gossiped on corners. The dummy outside Bowes clothiers sported new overalls; two of John Willie’s men carried a sideboard out of the
shop. ‘I love Bolton,’ Diane announced.

‘Better than Pendleton?’ asked Sally.

‘No, different.’

‘I know what you mean.’ Sally breathed in smoke-tainted air, caught the scent of fish and chips, coffee newly ground, a whiff of smoky bacon. ‘It’s like an exciting
story, then a peaceful one.’

Diane laughed out loud. ‘There’s been nowt peaceful up at Pendleton just lately.’ Then her laugh faded. ‘It’s been terrible, Sally. And he did it all. Guardian
Wilkinson did murder.’

‘Aye, he did.’ Sally looked over her shoulder. ‘There’s our tram.’

Diane’s mischief surfaced once more. ‘Nay, Sally. We report to Mr Mulligan, get him to buy us some dinner, then we hang about till he’s going home.’ The chin rose in mock
defiance. ‘We are going to travel in style again, Sal. I think we’ve earned it.’

By ten o’clock in the morning, the sun was already in a threatening mood. A flawless sky seemed to shrink away from such violence, paling as if in fear of it, while
clouds simply took the day off, refusing to put in an appearance in the face of strong opposition.

Ida Hewitt blew a strand of hair from her face. ‘We shall all cook,’ she declared. ‘Come three this afternoon, we’ll be like a few hundred Sunday joints, roasted, basted
and ready for gravy.’ She mopped her brow with a handkerchief. ‘Never mind,’ she added, ‘soon be Christmas.’

Kate Kenny laughed. ‘You know poor Elspeth’s doing fortunes in that little tent? Well, she used gravy browning to make herself look a bit more exotic. The browning has all trickled
down on to her blouse, so she’s decided to wash her hands – and her face – of the whole business. She’s doing the fortunes, only she’s going to be herself and
she’s taken her vest off.’

Ida did not approve of vestlessness. ‘Catch her death,’ she muttered, waving at Amy who was moving two ponies to a shaded pen. ‘There’s not many women looks good in
jodhpurs, but Amy manages to.’

Kate’s eyes slid across to where James stood, his own gaze fixed firmly on Amy. Things had got no better for him. He was passionately in love and there was not a thing could be done to
alter that fact. Kate turned away and offered up a quick prayer. Nothing was impossible, she informed her Maker. God had to help James now, because he was beyond the reach of his aunt’s
guiding hand.

‘You all right?’ asked Ida, as she arranged a row of baby clothes.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not.’

‘Then I’m not, so. Come on, I’ve all the jams and pickles to arrange on my own stall.’

The grounds of Pendleton Grange were beautifully prepared, grass manicured, hedges trimmed, flowers burgeoning in the beds. To the left of the house, a single-storey building housed a brand new
swimming pool; tennis courts, still virginal, awaited the arrival of villagers from Pendleton and Pendleton Clough. ‘They’ll ruin all his gardens,’ moaned Ida.

Kate said nothing. The place was so happy today, bunting stretched across the lawns, stalls selling everything from cakes to white elephants, a greasy pole placed above the pond, animals
awaiting judgement by a local vet, a place where photographs would be taken, adults dashing about laying a treasure trail for the younger element.

Camilla Smythe’s van crawled up the drive. The friendship between her and the two remaining Burton-Masseys had been too deep to perish; Camilla knew now that Eliza had been suffering from
a brain tumour, so she had forgiven the murdered girl for whatever she might have done in London seven months earlier. Helen Smythe, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish altogether . .
.

Amy, having deposited her ponies, went to help Camilla unload the van in preparation for the setting up of a tea and sandwich stall. James Mulligan, shirtsleeves rolled, struggled to maintain
order among prize-seeking cows, pigs and sheep. The local vet was currently carrying water to another area where domestic animals endured a last-minute grooming from keen owners.

‘It’s going to be lovely, so it is,’ sighed Kate, ‘and any profits straight to the orphanage, just as it should be.’

Ida laid out a set of embroidered traycloths. ‘Why won’t he get married?’ she asked, out of the blue. ‘Is it just because of that bad-tempered dad of his?’

‘That’s for him to know and us to wonder about,’ answered Kate, rather quickly.

‘Sorry.’ muttered Ida, ‘don’t like stepping on folk’s toes.’

Kate inhaled deeply. ‘Nothing to be sorry for, but. He’s all I have left and he’s a sore worry to me, has me desperate.’

Ida pondered for a few seconds. ‘She must be able to see it, Kate. You’d have to be six feet under not to notice what’s going on. Not that I mean . . . well . . . that
there’s something . . .’

‘I know, I know.’ Kate watched the band as its members spilled from a charabanc, caught sight of a few colourfully dressed children who were preparing to dance. ‘You’re
right, Ida. He loves her right through to the bone. Amy must be aware, for his heart is dripping down his sleeve.’

‘Happen she’s too busy with her shop – did you see the write-up in the paper? Gone from strength to strength, she has.’

Kate was of the opinion that James was receiving signals from Amy, messages that were clear but unspoken. ‘No, it’s not that at all, Ida. She’s had a lot of changes and a deal
of suffering to cope with. The shop is her distraction. Her love for my nephew is buried beneath grief and suffering, yet it’s there.’

Ida nodded her agreement. ‘She won’t sit near him.’

‘I know.’

‘And they don’t have them long conflabs what they used to have.’

‘I know.’

‘Even bought her own van so as she doesn’t have to come home with him.’

‘I know.’

They knew. Yet there was little or nothing they could do with that knowledge. With the hydro almost finished, it would soon be time for James to return to Ireland. The two old ladies, versed in
life, hopeful for the future, were unable to perform miracles. They prepared their stalls, all the time glancing up to watch Amy and James avoiding each other.

Mona, who was to help Camilla with teas, sandwiches and cool drinks, dropped by to visit her friends. ‘Right, not long now, girls. We open at eleven,’ she said. ‘Are you two
ready? Because if you are, come and give me and Camilla a hand covering everything up, keep flies off.’

Kate froze. They were walking towards each other. Then James veered to the left, Amy to the right, and they all but collided. Say something, Kate urged within her mind. The great galloping fool
needed to speak to Amy, had to speak to her. Go on, she almost shouted. Go on, get it done with.

‘Kate?’ Mona was puzzled.

‘We’ll be there in a minute,’ replied Kate at last.

Mona marched off towards the tea tables.

‘They’re talking,’ whispered Ida.

‘Yes,’ answered Kate. ‘For a minute, they’re talking.’

Amy looked up at him, dazzled by rays of sun that jumped over his shoulder and into her eyes. She manoeuvred herself into a less painful position. ‘Going well,’ she
said lamely.

‘Nearly ready,’ he replied.

Amy glanced down at her stained clothing. ‘No point in me getting changed as I am in charge of pony rides.’

He looked past her, trying not to breathe in her scent, her essence. ‘Perhaps I should help with – with the gate,’ he managed, ‘you know, the tickets of
admission.’

She cleared her throat. ‘Yes. But aren’t you the boss of that motley crew?’ Amy waved a hand in the direction of prize heifers and sows. ‘Some of them look rather
splendid,’ she added, after a pause.

‘Amy?’

Her throat was suddenly dry. ‘That’s a rather fine-looking Aberdeen Angus over there.’

‘Amy?’

‘What?’

‘Oh, God.’ He drew a hand through tangled black hair. ‘I want to . . . I have to talk to you.’

Amy felt her fists curling, suppressed a shiver that snaked up her spine. Here stood a man who had become her friend, who was no longer a friend. Nothing had happened: there had been no quarrel,
no disagreement. ‘Why?’ The single syllable emerged high, as if dropping from the lips of a child.

‘Things,’ he replied quietly. ‘Things I need to say.’

‘Er . . . about the hydro?’ she asked.

‘Among other topics, yes.’

She stepped further away, knowing that she was running inside, trying to escape from the sheer confusion of – of what? Why was she bewildered? ‘Are you going back to Ireland?’
When seconds had passed without an answer, she finally looked him in the eye. What was going on in that fine brain? And what was happening inside herself? Her heart skipped, causing her to inhale
sharply. No. Oh, no. He must not return to Ireland. He must not . . . leave her.

‘Amy?’

Unable to speak, she nodded.

‘This isn’t the time or the place,’ he said, ‘and it’s going to be so hot. Would you meet me tonight by the lake? Surely the heat will disperse by
midnight?’

She inclined her head again. ‘Midnight,’ she promised. And her heart was lighter.

Diane was in the thick of it again. Having discovered that adults were malleable, she had gone into the business of sorting them out. She had solved a problem between
quarrelling neighbours in Pendleton by suggesting that the trimming of a hedge was a small price to pay. ‘If you cut that down, she’ll get more sun in her garden.’ It had worked.
Like a detective, she made notes, plotted solutions, got herself into all kinds of scrapes. ‘Diane,’ her grandmother had said, ‘what are you up to at all?’

‘Training,’ the child had replied darkly.

‘What for?’

‘The police.’

Ida’s answer to that had been a glance at the ceiling followed by a few words of concern for the constabulary. It looked as if their Diane had set her sights on becoming the first ever
female chief inspector. ‘God love them,’ Ida had been heard to mutter, ‘because they don’t deserve what’s coming their way.’

At the summer fair, Diane was on the gate with Sally. Neither had paid, so each was expected to contribute her time and effort to the proceedings by being helpful. The younger girl, in
possession of a new florin, decided to hang on to her money: she would help Sally with the hoop-la, and she would have a good look at all the free stuff. She could drink water, which cost nothing,
then the band and the dancing were available for everyone at no extra cost. ‘Two bob,’ she kept muttering. ‘I’ve got two bob, Sal.’

Sally had little to say. It was too hot, there were people trying to sneak in without paying, and she had had enough last time. The last time to which she referred inwardly was the episode at
the police station. Now Diane was on what she called a special mission. Sally, the older by more than three years, had been dragged into the mire once more.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Diane said, several times. ‘It just wants doing, Sal.’

‘But why does it have to be us?’

Diane took a ticket from Stephen Wilkinson. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ she advised, awarding him a brilliant smile. His brother might be awaiting trial for murder, but the village postmaster
was a fine, decent soul.

‘Diane?’ pleaded Sally.

‘What?’

‘I mean . . . what I mean, Di, is that we shouldn’t be interfering. Things like this have a road of sorting themselves out. It’s not like an ordinary problem. This is love, so
they have to fall in love on their own or fall out on their own.’

‘Rubbish.’ Diane held her defiant head so high that it almost tilted backwards. ‘Listen,’ she said, with forced patience and after collecting a few more tickets,
‘they’re daft. They get their heads that full of stuff like work and things as they can’t see what’s in front of them. Mr Mulligan loves Amy and she loves him. I’ve
heard it all at home, me gran and Mona. See, the old folk won’t do anything about it, so it has to be us again. We have a chance of growing up with a bit of sense because we’ve started
young.’