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Thirty year we’ve been running this laundry – ever since Mam died. He should
learn a few manners. Why, the gob on him’d curdle milk from forty paces, I’ll bet. Dairy farming? His cows’ll be giving nowt but cheese if he has owt to do with it.’ In
spite of the harsh words she spoke, Mona’s heart skipped a beat. Eeh, James Mulligan was a bonny-looking man, that was for sure.
    Both sisters swept a glance around the yard. The undertaker next door was always quiet, but that was the nature of his trade. Next to the funeral parlour and at right angles, the stonemason
carved out his trade. He laboured under strict instructions not to hammer after nine in the evening, so any rush jobs had to be done during the day, just a bit of polishing and quiet chiselling
after hours. Between the mason and the clock-maker, stables stood parallel with the rear of the Red Lion, then, after the turn, there was a night-watchman’s shed and Mulligan’s office.
A sweets and tobacco, a fabric shop and a grocer’s backed on to the yard, their main entrances on Deansgate, one to the left of the inn, two to the right. Those shopkeepers didn’t know
how lucky they were, because Mulligan could not oversee their ongoings.
    ‘Shall I get the leather and wipe the windows?’ asked Mona.
    ‘Not yet. Let the swine wait,’ replied Tilly. ‘Him and his car and his fancy clothes. He dresses like summat out of an old book. God knows where he got that hat, but I swear
it’s one of them they wear at the opera. I bet it goes flat so it’ll fit in a cupboard.’
    ‘It’s him wants flattening,’ declared Mona, though she didn’t know whether she meant it. But even his father had been easy in comparison with this bloke. Thomas Mulligan
had been too drunk most days to notice whether the yard buildings still had roofs and walls. Mr Mulligan Junior might be something of an oil painting, but he was a hard man.
    ‘He’ll get his comeuppance,’ Tilly remarked. ‘If there’s a God, yon feller’ll not thrive. Catholics? All that dressing up, bowing and scraping – the
service they call Mass is like a three-ring circus or a pantomime. And they know how to hang on to their money. Show me a rich Catholic and I’ll show you a miser. Oh, aye, he’ll not
prosper.’
    As if their movements had been choreographed, the sisters turned simultaneously and re-entered the wash-house, Tilly leading the way, as ever. A few poor souls lingered, folk who couldn’t
afford a morning session. Mornings were dearer and busier, and the Walshes managed to get an extra penny per sink from early birds. Some of the early washers used the dryers, too, whereas these
remnants of the local populace would carry or push wet bundles home, contents to be hung in kitchens overnight or saved for tomorrow, God and the continence of rain clouds willing.
    Mr Dobson from next door came in with a box of shrouds. These had been used to house bodies until families turned up with a suit or a dress. He pushed the plain white items across the counter.
‘He’s been on the rampage again,’ he said mournfully. ‘Could I be a bit more discreet with my coffins. That’s because I had three arrivals at once, and I left two
outside for five minutes.’
    Tilly and Mona shook their heads in sympathy.
    ‘Then, he started on about my horses. They’ve got to do it somewhere, haven’t they? I mean, I pick it up regular and put it in the manure bucket. There’s folk queuing up
to get their hands on my manure. Nowt but the best, my horses get. There’s a fair few prize-winning roses come out of the back ends of my beasts. There I am, seeing to the needs of the newly
departed, and all he can think about is keeping the yard clean and uncluttered.’
    Tilly picked up the shrouds and pushed them under the counter until morning. ‘Usual, Mr Dobson? Boil and a light starch?’
    ‘Aye.’ The undertaker fiddled with his watch fob.
    ‘I were just saying afore,’ volunteered Tilly, ‘I