The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Beati omnes qui timen . . .’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Bridie mouthed to God and to her dead husband. ‘I need to get away. He will hit our children. Eugene, your family hates my Church.’

  The priest saw the bride’s lips moving. So she knew how to pray? Did she know how to get money out of an old fool? Ah surely not. Dad’s will was made . . .

  Liam Bell had cold eyes, Bridie decided. That was the difference. His brother had the same colouring, the same build, yet these two were north and south poles apart.

  At last, she was forced to look upon her bridegroom. He was slight, with thinning hair and a frayed edge to his collar. When all responses had been made, a ring was produced. The priest leaned forward. ‘You must take off your other ring first,’ he whispered, the quiet words seasoned with mockery.

  Bridie glanced into the cleric’s unfeeling eyes, then down at her hand. Eugene’s ring still circled her finger. It had been there for over seven years. Well, she’d removed it when her hands had swollen towards the end of her second pregnancy, but apart from that . . . She spoke silently to the man she had loved for eight years, the man whose memory remained sacred. ‘It’s for the girls,’ she told him. ‘It’s for Cathy and Shauna, not for me.’

  ‘You can’t wear two,’ warned Father Liam Bell.

  She lowered her eyes once more, took off Eugene’s wedding band and placed it on the ring finger of her right hand. Did nuns wear their bride of Christ rings on their right hands? she wondered. Or was it married women from other countries who—? Something made her look up sharply. The priest had folded his arms. Disapproval crackled in the starch of his alb, in the set of his chin. Clearly, he was not amused by the fact that the bold Irish upstart seemed unwilling to cast aside this one small symbol of an earlier union. Bridie’s face was heating up again.

  Sam Bell placed the badge of ownership on his new wife’s hand, then they both knelt at the altar rail while Father Liam prayed over them. He prayed endlessly, first in Latin, then in English. Bridie’s knees were aching; wasn’t this meant to be a low-key wedding because of the time of year? It should be over by now, surely? After being tossed about on the wayward Irish Sea for half the day, Bridie was miserable, cold and weary. Shauna was adding her own touch to the proceedings by singing ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’, and a few giggles had begun to spread like influenza throughout the sparsely occupied pews.

  The priest paused. ‘Would you take that child outside, please?’ he asked eventually.

  No movement followed this request.

  Bridie raised her eyes, saw that the priest in charge of this unhappy service had fixed his nasty eyes on someone on her left. That someone was his brother, the man who was caring for her children. There was hatred and . . . something else in Liam’s expression. Was it jealousy? Was the expression sprinkled with a pinch of reluctant admiration? Whatever, it almost exploded in the air like lightning, yet Anthony plainly intended to remain exactly where he was.

  The hand of God’s intermediary raised itself. ‘Dominus vobiscum,’ he said softly.

  ‘Et cum spiritu tuo,’ responded the solitary altar boy.

  With painful slowness, the priest removed his stole, kissed the embroidered cross and folded the length of silk. Without stopping to dismiss the churchgoers, he left the altar and strode away into the sacristy.

  Sam Bell touched the shoulder of his young bride. ‘We have to go and sign now . . . er . . . Bridie.’

  Meek as a lamb, she followed where her husband led. Two other people joined them. One was the best man; the other was a large, round-faced female with a big nose and a terrible hat.

  ‘Where’s your Liam gone?’ asked the bulky woman.

  ‘God knows,’ answered Sam. ‘You know what he’s like, Diddy. Always on the move, that one.’

  Bridie, who preferred not to dwell too closely on her husband’s face, spoke to the female witness. ‘I’m Bridie O’Bri – I mean Bell, of course.’

  ‘Elizabeth Costigan. Big Diddy, they call me. It was our Charlie who christened me—’

  ‘I’ve met him,’ said Bridie, anxious to make an ally in this strange city. ‘In the shop.’

  Diddy beamed. ‘They say he’s an idiot, but we know better – don’t we, Billy?’

  Billy nodded his agreement.

  ‘If we were all as thick as our Charlie, we’d be experts. Anyway, Diddy was what he called me, and Diddy’s been me handle ever since. Hasn’t it, Billy?’

  Billy nodded again.

  Sam rattled the coins in his pocket. ‘We should be signing the certificate. If our Liam’s gone on one of his rambles, what shall we do?’

  ‘We’ll do just fine, so we will,’ boomed a new voice. A short, almost spherical figure thrust itself into the room. ‘Michael Brennan,’ he announced.

  Bridie found herself smiling properly for the first time in ages. Father Michael Brennan was as Irish as she was. His clerical collar hung loose like a fairground hoop circling a prize, and he was not much taller than Bridie. ‘Good evening, Father,’ she said. He had a speck of gravy on his chin, as if he had risen in haste from his supper. Quick, dark-blue eyes twinkled above fat, red cheeks, and he was struggling to fasten the belt around his protruding middle.

  ‘Hello, Father Brennan,’ said Big Diddy Costigan. ‘Where’s Father Liam dashed off to? Is he in a sulk because Anthony didn’t take the baby outside?’

  Father Brennan shrugged. ‘He’ll be rushing about trying to get back to Blackburn,’ he said.

  ‘Away from his brother, more like,’ Big Diddy stage-whispered in Bridie’s ear. ‘Wants his own way. Always did. Holy Orders didn’t improve him and—’

  ‘Elizabeth?’ Father Brennan beamed upon one of the more troublesome among his parishioners. ‘Charitable thoughts, my dear. Remember to have charitable thoughts.’

  Diddy winked at her old friend and adversary. ‘My charity goes where it’s needed, Father.’

  The priest laughed. ‘And sure we’ve heard about that, too. You and Billy will be in hot water if you don’t watch out.’ He opened the registration book, got Sam and Bridie to sign, helped Billy Costigan to clean a blot of ink from the table. ‘Well, that’s you all done and dusted,’ announced Father Brennan. ‘You can away now to all the shenanigans.’

  Mr and Mrs Costigan pushed the bride and groom towards the door. ‘Go on, then,’ she urged. ‘Down the aisle and off to our house. We’ve a fiddler booked and some ale to shift.’

  On her way out of the church, Bridie Bell saw little, because her eyes became wet when she heard Shauna’s reed-like voice delivering ‘Danny Boy’ to the amused gathering. Mammy used to sing that. Mammy, whose hair had been prematurely grey, whose hands had reddened from scrubbing, had hung on to her sweet, girlish singing voice—

  ‘Mrs Bell? Mrs Bell?’

  Bridie stopped, stared blankly at yet another new face. ‘Yes?’

  The man smiled, pushed something into her hand. ‘Your wedding ring,’ he said apologetically. ‘It fell off.’

  She nodded and took the band of gold from him. All in all, this marriage was off to a bad start.

  The do had been arranged by no less a person than Big Diddy Costigan herself. In the very room where Sam Bell had been tortured into readiness for the service, table and dresser were swathed in white sheeting and spread with food, plates, assorted cutlery and a dozen pint glasses on loan from the Holy House.

  ‘Our Maureen and our Monica’s got this lot ready,’ beamed Big Diddy. ‘And there’s a barrel in the back kitchen – neighbours chipped in for that.’

  Our Maureen stood talking to Monica. Bridie recognized the latter as Nicky, the one who had helped earlier, and she sent a quick, grateful smile to the girl. But our Maureen was a different kettle of fish altogether. Never in her life had Bridie come across a person of such startling beauty. Ravenblack hair was folded in deep waves around a perfect, heart-shaped face. A creamy complexion did more than justice to eyes that sparkled like twin sapphires. Dark eyebrows, u
nnecessarily long, thick lashes and a pretty mouth completed the breathtaking picture. Maureen posed and pouted, was clearly aware of her appearance.

  Big Diddy nudged the bride. ‘We don’t know where she came from, our Maureen. She’s only thirteen, but she’s like a film-star.’ She removed her hatpin, threw the unbecoming headgear under the dresser-cum-sideboard. ‘That hat needs a decent burial,’ she remarked. ‘I’ve had it fifteen years.’

  ‘Hello, Maureen,’ said Bridie. ‘Good to see you again, Monica.’ She pitied Maureen’s plain sister. Although she was clearly the older of the two, she looked so vulnerable with her pale-grey eyes, nondescript hair and wide-spaced teeth.

  Nicky straightened her shoulders. ‘There’s only me ma calls me Monica. I usually get called Nicky. Graham’ll be coming, I think. We’ve been walking out, me and him. I’m fifteen now, see. So I can walk out.’ She glanced sideways at Maureen, jerked a thumb in her direction. ‘Our Maureen gets plagued with being nice-looking. But she’s only thirteen. Anyway, she’s saving herself for the stage, aren’t you? She’s Fairy Mary’s star turn.’ The ‘Fairy Mary’ came out as ‘Furry Mury’.

  Before Bridie could elicit an explanation, she was whisked away by the hostess. ‘This is me husband,’ pronounced the large lady. ‘You can meet him proper now, not like in church. Best man in more ways than one, my Billy.’

  Billy stuck out his chest, grinned broadly, then crushed Bridie’s fingers between hard, calloused hands. ‘Welcome to Scottie,’ he boomed. ‘We’ve not much to offer, but you just enjoy yourself.’ He released the bride’s aching digits and swept his arm across the room. ‘Sit down and grab something before our Charlie comes home. He eats like a carthorse, you know.’

  Bridie placed herself in a corner next to the fire and studied the ongoings. Charlie gangled in, mumbled a word or two into Sam Bell’s ear, handed over a bunch of keys. The pawnbroker nodded before digging out a few coins as wages. Bridie took the opportunity to study her husband while he was unaware of her scrutiny. The groom was a man of moderate size, about five feet and six inches in height, with fading hair that threatened to become a monk’s tonsure within the foreseeable future. Despite his slender frame, he owned a little paunch, an area of slackness that protruded slightly now that his waistcoat was unbuttoned.

  She shifted her attention to Anthony Bell. He had entered by a rear door, was still in the company of Bridie’s daughters. Shauna was laughing. ‘Pigeons, Mammy,’ she shouted. ‘In the yard.’

  Cathy came to stand by her mother. ‘Anthony showed us the birds. They’re in cages, but they fly miles and run races and always come home.’ The child was smiling, but Bridie could see that the tears were just a fraction of an inch away. Cathy would take a bit of time to settle, that was certain.

  Bridie’s eyes felt as if they were filled with grit. More than anything, she wanted to sleep. Food did not interest her at all, yet she wished not to offend her hosts, so she toyed with what Big Diddy had told her was a wet nelly, discovered the ample plateful to be a delicious concoction of cake and treacle.

  More people arrived. There was Tildy whom Bridie had already seen near the landing stage, then the boy called Cozzer, some of his friends, a drunken fiddler in a battered hat. Fortunately, the inept violinist broke a string and was forced to stop torturing the battle-scarred instrument. Father Brennan, his collar straightened, joined the throng for a nip of Irish and a couple of salmon-paste sandwiches. Bridie’s eyes would not stay open . . .

  Someone was tapping on her shoulder. ‘Bridie?’ the voice said.

  She opened her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I must have fallen asleep for a moment or two.’

  ‘An hour, you mean.’

  Bridie heard a smile in the words. ‘I am so sorry,’ she repeated lamely.

  Anthony Bell lowered himself into a squatting position. ‘I took the little girls to my father’s house. They settled down quite quickly. Tildy stayed with them. I think she crowbarred herself into bed with your little one.’ This lovely young woman was easy to talk to. Would Dad appreciate her, look after her? His heart skipped a beat. She was beyond lovely; she was beautiful.

  Bridie gazed round the room. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

  Anthony shrugged. ‘In the Holy House, I expect. That’s the pub next to the church. Big Diddy has gone off to round them all up.’ He could have kicked his dad. Bridie and the children had travelled all this way, yet the groom was off in the company of others. Her eyes were so blue, so wide . . .

  ‘My father?’ She hadn’t had sight or sound of Thomas Murphy since the wedding.

  ‘At the stables,’ he told her. ‘In Newsham Street, opposite St Aloysius’s school. I think he has some animals there.’ He swallowed, turned his head. Did she know that her father had a lady friend on Scotland Road, that he had been sleeping with Dolly Hanson for many years? The owner of Hanson’s news, sweets and tobacco was head over heels in love with Thomas Murphy. Rumour had it that she confessed her sin every time Murphy returned to Ireland, only to reoffend the minute the man set foot on English soil.

  Bridie pulled herself upright, wondered fleetingly where her bridegroom had gone. ‘Tell me about the Costigans,’ she begged when her head cleared. Big Diddy could well turn out to be a friend in this strange new city. And, in spite of her weariness, Bridie had been touched by the warmth of the Costigan household.

  ‘Do you have a week?’ Anthony stood up and placed himself in front of the fire. He could scarcely bear to look at her. Sam Bell was such a cold fish. And that, thought Anthony, was a suitable metaphor to apply to a man who sat for hours dangling a line into rivers and streams.

  ‘They seem to be good people,’ said Bridie expectantly.

  Anthony nodded. ‘The Costigan story goes on and on, something new every day – usually a drama or a crisis. Diddy is really Elizabeth. Billy’s a docker. They’ve five children. Charlie’s the oldest – he’s seventeen—’

  ‘God bless him, poor soul.’

  He looked at her now. ‘Don’t pity him. His body is twisted and his speech is slow, but the brain’s a good one. Then there’s Monica. I think she’ll be fifteen. She’s often called Mouth Organ, but she answers to Nicky and she’s a good girl—’

  ‘Mouth organ?’

  Anthony laughed. ‘’Ar Monica,’ he said. ‘Diddy gave all her daughters a name beginning with M – there’s Monica, Maureen and Mathilda-Anne. Maureen’s the only one who hung on to her name. She’s the beauty. Tildy’s ten and Jimmy – Cozzer – is nine. I could go on for ever about the Costigans, but you must be very tired after your journey.’

  ‘A good family,’ said Bridie. ‘They treated me so well.’ Anthony glanced over his shoulder at the mantel clock. He had to get away. He could not imagine this poor girl being happy in the company of a dried-up pawnbroker. She wanted fields, hills, freedom. ‘I must be going soon,’ he said at last. ‘I’m up with the lark in the morning.’

  She rose to her feet, smoothed the crumpled jacket. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she told him. ‘As long as my girls are safe, I’ll just stay here till . . . your father comes back.’ She waited for a reply, received none. ‘Do you live over the shop on Scotland Road, too?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve a house here in Dryden Street.’

  The clock grumbled, spat eleven times.

  Was he married? she wondered. He had come alone to the church, had mentioned no wife. ‘Do you work, Anthony?’

  He nodded. ‘I teach.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bridie paused in the hope of further explanation, was disappointed again. He seemed such a pleasant man, so much nicer than his brother. ‘Well, you go off and get your beauty sleep, then.’

  The door flew inward. ‘It’s like trying to scrape barnacles off the bottom of a boat,’ Diddy Costigan announced by way of greeting. ‘They’re all round the stables looking at Sam’s new horses. Every one of my lot except Tildy’s sitting down in the gypsies’ parlour drinking cocoa. As for Billy and Sam and yo
ur dad,’ she waved a hand in Bridie’s direction, ‘the three of them’s up to their eyes in hay and horse droppings.’

  ‘I didn’t know my father had an interest in horses,’ replied Anthony. As far as he knew, Sam Bell’s single and very passionless passion was for angling.

  ‘Well, he has now,’ snapped Diddy. ‘A very big interest and it’s all over his shoes. Fine bloody bridegroom he turned out to be. Sorry.’ She took a deep breath, shook her head. ‘It’s not your fault, lad. Go home and have a rest. I’ll see to Bridie.’

  Anthony made his goodbyes and left the house.

  ‘Right.’ Big Diddy eased herself into a fireside chair. ‘Sam said he’d come for you soon and walk you home. God, I can’t wait to get these corsets off and have a good scratch. I hope you know what you’re taking on, girl. Me shoes are killing me.’ She kicked away the offending articles. ‘Some start you’ve had, eh? Your ring falls off before you get out of church, then the bridegroom buggers off to see the gypsies. And I’m telling you now in case you haven’t heard – his mother’s a tartar.’

  Bridie said nothing.

  ‘Did he write to you? He said he would.’

  ‘I had a letter, yes.’

  Diddy’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘One? One bloody letter? Was Theresa Bell mentioned?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or his sons?’

  ‘No.’

  Diddy frowned. ‘Still, I suppose your dad put you in the picture. I mean, Sam’s a lot older than you, and his mother’s nearly as old as God.’ For several seconds, she stared hard at the visitor. ‘You weren’t told any of it, were you, love? You’ve married a man you don’t even know.’

  Bridie shook her head in dismay.

  With the air of a conspirator, Big Diddy looked over her shoulder as if reassuring herself about the room’s emptiness, then dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking of, girl? I mean, Scottie Road’s all right and I wouldn’t let anybody say different, but you’ve left the countryside for this? For him?’