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he did. See, Tilly, he were a gentleman through and through. He knew how to treat folk, how to get the best out of them. Very kind, he were, when you think back. Just
used to let us get on with it, no messing.’ Gentler in nature than her sister, Mona strove to keep up with Tilly, to be as tough as Tilly, who did not believe in being pleasant, humorous or
even overly civil. ‘Women in business has to be tough,’ was Tilly’s motto. ‘We give no quarter, Mona. Remember that – no quarter.’
    Tilly grunted with the effort of taking two steps sideways to allow a customer to reach the door. ‘We got a lovely chicken at Christmas, plum puddings made by his staff. And what have we
got now?’
    ‘An Irish lummox,’ replied Mona, parrot fashion.
    They stood together in the wash-house doorway, twin remnants of Victoriana, white blouses, black floor-length skirts, hair cordoned off severely with the aid of pins and grips.
    ‘Well, we’ll not be safe now.’ Mona pulled the grey shawl across cooling shoulders. ‘And he’s bringing the blinking thing right into the yard, and all. Some poor
devil’ll get run over. I don’t hold with these fancy ideas. What’s wrong with a horse and cart, eh? Or a bloody tram, come to that. At least a tram stays on its rails. You know
where it’s going and you know where it’s been.’ Mona was genuinely disturbed by the arrival of their landlord’s car. She had seen cars about, of course, but she had not
expected to have a motor vehicle parked so close to the laundry. ‘What if it blows up?’ she asked darkly. ‘We’d all be killed.’
    They stared at the black Austin. All shiny and new, it was sitting outside the inn’s stables. Chrome headlights, little windscreen wipers, spare tyre housed at the back, sweeping
mudguards, lined running-boards beneath the doors.
    ‘Frightens the horses, too,’ complained Tilly. There weren’t as many horses as there had been in the Walsh sisters’ youth, but those in the Red Lion’s stables were
in for nervous breakdowns what with all the honking and belching of exhaust.
    ‘Eeh, but times is changing,’ Tilly continued. ‘I can’t keep up at all. Wind-up gramophones, electric irons, refrigerators. There’s washing-machines as well, you
know. I mean, they’re not the sort of stuff everybody can afford, but I reckon our days is numbered. And there he is with his motor car.’ She tutted. ‘Makes you think, eh? All
this lot – and more – won after a poker game on a single cut of the pack. I mean, he should have give it all back, that Thomas Mulligan, because it weren’t fair.’
    Mona shook her head. ‘Too much of a gentleman, he were, our Mr Burton-Massey. Man of his word, you see. They say a gentleman’s word is his bond, Tilly. King of hearts, Burton-Massey
had in his hand. And that drunken bugger come through with an ace.’
    ‘From up his sleeve, I shouldn’t wonder.’
    ‘Aye, we could put money on that.’ Mona looked across at Mulligan’s office. He presided over the yard most days, his watchful eye making mental notes of comings, goings, who
kept the place tidy, who left a mess. He ran his own business, too, something to do with Irish racehorses and breeds of cattle he wanted to introduce. ‘Miserable sod,’ declared Mona,
before placing a pinch of snuff on the back of a hand. She inhaled, sneezed, passed the snuffbox to her sister who went through the same ritual.
    ‘Well, if he says one more word to me, I’ll punch his face for him,’ declared Tilly, once her sinuses settled. ‘Clean me windows? What’s the point of cleaning
windows every day when they just mist over with all the steam? I mean, he never speaks, then when he does open his ignorant Irish gob, it’s just to gripe and complain.’ She pointed to
Mulligan’s window. ‘Look, he’s stood there now watching us. Flaming cheek.’
    Mona glanced across the yard. ‘As long as he gets his rent, why the hell should he care what we do?