Mulligan's Yard Read Online Free

hat. Was Mother about to have another of her vapours? And where was that dratted bottle of
smelling-salts? ‘He pays us to stable his horses,’ she said reasonably. ‘There isn’t enough room in the Grange stables. It’s jolly decent of him to allow us to ride
Cleo and George.’
    ‘Stupid names for horses,’ spat Louisa.
    Amy studied her mother. Thin to the point of emaciation, Louisa Burton-Massey was, Amy suspected, as tough as old rope. She had been accustomed from birth to having her own way, and she had
taken to poverty as a gourmet would relish tripe and onions. ‘Mother, Mr Mulligan spoke to me and—’
    ‘You are not to deal with him,’ Louisa snapped. ‘How many times must I tell you not to associate with that . . . creature?’
    Amy reeled in her temper and held it tightly. ‘He seldom speaks to anyone, as we all know to our cost. Had he been more forthcoming, his intentions might have been clearer. He wishes to
return the house to us.’
    ‘Really?’ screeched Louisa. ‘Really? After all we have gone through? Remember the pity, the pretended sadness and sympathy of our friends. Where are our friends now?
Disappeared, gone off to richer pickings. I absolutely refuse to be a victim of that man’s charity. How should we maintain the place? We have very little capital, no investments to speak
of—’
    ‘He has a business plan,’ said Amy quietly. ‘The income from the properties in town would help, then there’s the possibility of opening up the Grange.’
    ‘Opening it up? Like a stately home? It may be a splendid house by local standards, but it’s hardly the seat of an earl.’
    ‘I know, but—’
    ‘Amy,’ said Louisa, the name squeezed through tightened jaws. ‘We have our pride.’
    Amy dropped into a chair, dragged off her hat and placed it on a side table. ‘We could live in one part of the house and let the other rooms out as a sort of rest home. Well, more of a
health hydro, I mean.’
    Louisa Burton-Massey was suddenly bolt upright in her chair. ‘I see. So our grand Irish neighbour wishes to give back the house, the inn, the business premises in town – oh, how
terribly kind he is. And I am to share my home with the sick?’
    Amy glanced at the ceiling in the manner of one seeking assistance from the Almighty. ‘No, with people who need respite from their everyday lives. Wealthy people, Mother, who would enjoy
the countryside, the lake, the woods. We could have a swimming-pool, a Turkish bath, perhaps. There’d be horse-riding, a bit of putting for golfers, a beautician for the ladies, mud baths,
tennis in season, walking on the moors, a gymnasium and so forth.’
    ‘Over my dead body,’ muttered Louisa, with an air of finality.
    Amy slumped downward and placed her right foot on her left knee, sitting exactly as her father had used to sit. Knowing that this annoyed her mother, she sniffed and folded her arms
determinedly. She knew that her own behaviour was childish, knew also that her mother was acting like a two-year-old, all tantrums and cross looks.
    Louisa closed her eyes, saw him walking up the steps, watched her broken husband struggling to stay on his feet. In the year of Our Lord 1915, Alex Burton-Massey, an officer and a gentleman, had
returned prematurely from the war. From that September day, he had been a stranger to his family. What had he seen? What had turned him into that reckless fool? The leg had improved, as had a
shrapnel-shattered arm. But his mind, his brain . . .
    ‘Mother?’ Amy saw the tears as they began to drip down Louisa’s cheeks. There was no point in upsetting her any further, so Amy placed both feet on the floor, drawing them
slightly to one side in the manner of a lady. Not that anyone could look graceful in riding breeches, she supposed.
    The eyes flew open, crocodile tears drying miraculously. ‘Here you are, Amy, talking as if you agree with Mulligan about the future of your father’s family home . . . and to think