The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  Cathy struggled into her clothes. She had often heard people saying that Galway was on the chilly side of Ireland, but this place was surely the coldest in the world. ‘I don’t like Liverpool,’ she grumbled.

  ‘That’s all right,’ answered Tildy. ‘Liverpool might not like you. Me mam’s always saying that. They say funny things, don’t they?’

  On that score, Cathy was forced to agree. She nodded swiftly, then rubbed her numbed fingers together.

  They crept out onto the dark landing. Tildy, who seemed accustomed to the place, took a box of matches from a small table and lit a gas lamp. ‘There’s the new electric downstairs,’ she informed her companion. Tildy pointed out the doors on the opposite wall. ‘Old Mrs Bell’s in there,’ she whispered. ‘You have to go through her room for a bath. There’s a real bath with taps. I stop with old Mrs Bell sometimes when Mr Bell goes off fishing.’ She sniffed. ‘Me mam says fishermen are the most boring people in the whole world. He is a bit boring.’

  Cathy, who was trying hard not to be even more scared, spoke up. ‘Your mammy says a lot of things.’

  ‘Well, she’s always right. Me dad says she’s always right.’

  ‘My mammy’s clever too.’

  ‘Good,’ beamed Tildy. ‘They’ll be fit for one another, then.’ She pointed out Mr Bell’s room, which was next to his mother’s, then gave her attention to another pair of doors alongside the room in which Shauna still slept. ‘Used to be two houses. That’s why there’s a lot of rooms. Me mam says Mr Bell’s minted. Anyway, that’s a storeroom and that’s another storeroom.’

  ‘What’s minted?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘Got a lot of money. No rent book. He bought this place outright. He’s got millions of stuff, millions and millions. There’s these bedrooms packed to the ceiling, things in the roof,’ she pointed to a trapdoor above her head, ‘a storeroom in the back yard, one next to the kitchen and another under the stairs. Some people pawn things, and some people sell them to Mr Bell.’

  ‘What’s pawn?’

  Tildy sighed in the face of such stupidity. ‘On a Monday when there’s no money, you take stuff to the pawnshop – clothes and boots and wedding rings. Then, on a Friday when you get paid, you redeem the things. Don’t ask me what redeem is – it’s a word for getting your clothes back.’

  Cathy pondered for a moment. This girl was very, very quick-mouthed. It might be best not to mention that the nuns at home talked about redeeming souls by the grace of the Holy Ghost. It was all very bewildering, but she did not wish to appear stupid, so she bit back a comment about the pledging of an individual’s inner spirit.

  They creaked their way downstairs and into the shop. Tildy had been right – the shop did have electric light. Cathy wondered briefly about this miracle, spent a few seconds clicking the power on and off. Then, finding herself in an Aladdin’s cave, she followed Tildy round Sam Bell’s kingdom. There were bicycles and bicycle lamps that worked when the pedals turned. There was a wigwam, a box of lead soldiers, a set of drums and a box of football rattles.

  ‘This is the music department,’ Tildy pointed to a dusty corner. ‘That’s a cornet, trumpet, mandolin, guitar, zither.’ She stabbed a bitten, black-rimmed fingernail at the exhibits. ‘He’d have pianos, only they won’t come through the door. He had bagpipes once and our Cozzer borrowed them. Sounded like a load of cats getting tortured.’

  Cathy wandered about looking at rugs, tin baths, bedsteads, chamber pots, butter dishes, hair clippers, gramophones, stock pots and fish kettles. At the front of the shop there was a huge window filled with all kinds of booty from sewing machines to cricket bats.

  Tildy joined Cathy at the window. ‘That’s Scotland Road out there.’ There was a kind of pride in her tone. ‘The other window on the side looks out at Penrhyn Street. He keeps smaller things on show there, and new buckets and all that. The stuff with tickets stuck on,’ she swept a hand around the shelf-filled walls, ‘they’re all pledges and they’re kept away from the rest. Nobody can buy them while there’s a ticket stuck on. But when your ticket runs out, he can sell your pledge.’

  Cathy nodded thoughtfully. ‘If you have no money when the Friday comes.’

  Tildy grinned. At last, her attempt to educate Cathy seemed to be paying off. ‘The dockers’ll be walking past in a minute. They work on the ships, loading and unloading. Me dad’s a docker. It’s Friday, so this shop’ll be busy tonight when people start picking their pledges up. They’ll want their best suits and shoes for mass on Sunday. Mr Mellor’s teeth’ll be under the counter somewhere. He only has teeth at weekends.’

  Cathy’s stomach rolled cavernously as she thought about the poor, toothless Mr Mellor. ‘I’m starving,’ she decided. ‘The boat made me feel so sick, I thought I’d never be hungry again. But I am.’ As if underlining her words, Cathy’s stomach rolled again magnificently.

  Tildy knew all about hunger, though she had seldom appreciated it first hand. ‘Come round to ours,’ she said. ‘Me mam’ll have the porridge ready.’

  The younger girl hesitated. ‘What about Mammy? She won’t know where I’ve gone.’

  ‘Don’t be worrying. Your mam’ll still be in bed.’

  ‘Where? There was no bed for her in our room.’ At Granda’s, Mammy had shared a room with her daughters.

  ‘With Mr Bell, of course. Married people stay in the same room. Did you not know that?’

  Cathy shrugged, blushed, hated her own ignorance. ‘I know, I know. I’d just forgotten, that’s all.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Tildy was the eternal optimist. ‘You’ll get used to it, girl. Come on, let’s go for some breakfast.’

  Bridie was beside herself. During the night, she had made her way upstairs, had managed to get about by lighting her path with a candle. The girls and Tildy Costigan had been fast asleep, so she had returned to the comfortless sofa to rest her travel-wearied bones. And now, at seven o’clock in the morning, one of her daughters seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

  Shauna moaned in her mother’s arms. ‘Want Cathy. Where she gone?’

  Bridie tutted, threw open a door, peered into a room filled with bulky shapes. The next bedroom was the same – piled high with junk, no sign of occupation. ‘Are you hiding in there?’ she asked fruitlessly. Then, in a room opposite the one assigned to Cathy and Shauna, Bridie finally found humanity of a kind. ‘Who’s there?’ croaked a rusty voice.

  Bridie hesitated, placed Shauna on her feet and advanced, the candle held before her like a very frail defence. ‘I’m Bridie,’ she said. ‘And Cathy’s gone missing, so I’m—’

  ‘Hold the light up. Let’s have a look at you.’ The tone was imperious, and the accent announced a person whose origins were not hereabouts. ‘So you’re the new wife. Hmmph. Not much flesh on you. Will you be able to lift me? I need turning a few times so I won’t have bedsores. It gets uncomfortable being stuck in bed all the while.’

  Bridie couldn’t have cared less about anything – including this rude old woman’s various disorders. ‘Look, can we talk about that later? My daughter is missing.’ She pondered for a second. ‘And there’s another one gone, too, one called Tildy.’

  Theresa Bell sucked briefly on her few remaining teeth. ‘Go to Dryden Street after,’ she advised. ‘That’s where they’ll be, in Elizabeth Costigan’s house. But first, I’ll have my cup of tea, two sugars and no milk.’

  Bridie stood her ground. ‘I must find Cathy first,’ she insisted.

  ‘Then wake Sam,’ snapped the old woman. ‘He’s always got my breakfast up to now, so once more won’t hurt.’ She sniffed. ‘He’s not a lot of use to me, but he makes a good brew.’

  Bridie turned, dragged her younger child back to the landing. There was only one door left. She knew he was behind it, because she had peeped in there a few hours ago when looking for the girls’ room. ‘Wait here for Mammy,’ she told Shauna. After taking a deep breath, she approached the door.

  He was awake and seated on the edge of hi
s double bed. The remaining hair stuck out round his head like a slipped halo. ‘Morning,’ he mumbled. ‘Have you seen to Muth?’ He sneezed, coughed, fumbled with a handkerchief.

  ‘Who? Oh, yes – I mean no. I’ve seen her, but I’ve done nothing for her because I’m worried about Cathy.’

  Sam, too, was worried about Cathy. Last night, Thomas Murphy had painted a graphic picture of the older girl’s carryings-on at the landing stage. Sam avoided trouble whenever possible. The feud between his sons was yet to be settled, but Sam had placed himself alongside the righteous. Oh yes, he had invested his faith in Liam, an ordained priest. Anthony would mellow in time, he felt sure. But Sam didn’t fancy another cartload of mischief from his bride’s offspring. ‘What’s Cathy done?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s disappeared.’

  He yawned. ‘She’ll be getting her breakfast round at the Costigan house. Tildy’s probably with her, so she’ll come to no harm, you can be sure of that.’

  Bridie swallowed. No harm? At just gone seven in the morning, Scotland Road was lively. The drumming of feet along the pavement was almost continuous, might have belonged to a battalion of shabbily drilled soldiers. ‘This is a busy place for a country child,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to find her.’

  He shrugged. ‘Children don’t disappear round here. They go off for hours, but they come back. I hope Cathy’s not trying to be difficult. Running this place is hard enough without—’

  ‘I shall look after my girls, Mr Bell, just as I always have.’

  He dropped his head pensively. ‘You’ll have to call me Sam. And you can sleep in here from now on.’

  Bridie’s flesh crawled.

  ‘There’s no fire in here,’ he added. ‘The only rooms with chimneys are Muth’s and your daughters’.’ He stared at her sleepily. ‘I’m a reasonable man, Bridie. You help me and I’ll help you. That sounds fair, doesn’t it? At least the nights should be warmer if we share a bed. It is a very cold winter.’ He perked up slightly. ‘Still, once the weather warms up and you’ve got used to the shop, I’ll be able to go fishing.’

  Unable to lay her tongue across a suitable response, Bridie dashed from the room and picked up her younger child. ‘Come on,’ she managed eventually. ‘We’ll go and find your sister.’

  She ran along the pavement, the blanket-wrapped Shauna clutched to her chest. Men bearing small tin lunchboxes and billycans pounded towards her, and she almost collided with a woman who carried a huge pannier of fruit. Shops were already opening, their doors hanging inwards, customers popping in for the day’s allocation of tobacco, milk and bread. Prams filled with washing rolled along like a wagon train, while early tramcars filled with human cargo clattered past on iron rails. For Bridie, this place was the ultimate nightmare.

  At the corner of Dryden Street, she paused for breath. He wanted her to share a bed with him. He wanted his rights as a husband. Hadn’t he said in the letter that he would not trouble her? Oh, she would think later, after Cathy was safely home. She marched up the street, nodded at people who seemed vaguely familiar. If she didn’t sleep with him, he might have the marriage annulled. And would that be an altogether bad thing? she wondered.

  All the houses looked the same, and she couldn’t remember which one she had visited the night before. She knocked on a door from behind which the sounds of human occupation could be heard. Annulment would mean returning to Da. Da would gloat endlessly about such failure.

  The door opened. ‘What do you want?’ The speaker was pale and thin. An even paler baby mewled in the woman’s arms.

  ‘I’m looking for the Costigans,’ said Bridie.

  ‘Four houses up.’ The door slammed.

  Bridie covered the rest of the distance in a few strides.

  ‘Come in,’ smiled Big Diddy. She led Bridie through the small parlour and into the kitchen. Billy and Charlie were at the table finishing their breakfasts. Maureen preened at the mirror while Nicky struggled into a coat. ‘It’s cold round at Paddy’s,’ she told Bridie by way of explanation. ‘Is he up?’

  Bridie’s eyes were fixed on Cathy. ‘Why did you go without telling me? Don’t you understand that we’re in a strange place and that I would be worrying?’

  Cathy ladled golden syrup onto her porridge. She was seated near the fire, was using the box-shaped wire fireguard as a table. ‘Sorry, missus,’ said Tildy. She was at the other side of the range. ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘Is he?’ repeated Nicky.

  ‘I beg your pardon. Were you talking to me?’ asked Bridie.

  ‘Oh, never mind.’ Nicky flounced out of the room.

  Diddy descended on Bridie and prised Shauna out of her grasp. ‘Sit down,’ she begged. ‘Have a cup of tea and a bite to eat.’ She gave the three-year-old a shive of bread and jam. Shauna sat on the floor and watched Tildy shovelling porridge.

  Bridie dropped into a chair. ‘I won’t have her running wild,’ she told her hostess. ‘At home, she never strayed far, and we knew everybody. Here, it’s different. Cathy will have to learn to take care in these parts.’

  Big Diddy nodded sagely. ‘She’ll learn all right. I’ve told you, they grow up quick round here.’ When the tea was poured, Diddy kissed her departing husband, then dragged Maureen away from the mirror. ‘If you carry on like this, you’ll need laughing gas while we peel you off that bloody dresser. And the job’ll be gone. Remember, no cheek and no batting the eyelashes. You’re there to serve Dolly Hanson’s customers, not to make eyes at anything in trousers.’

  Charlie wiped his mouth on a corner of the tablecloth, belched and stood up.

  ‘That’s right, love,’ said his mother. ‘You go and help Mr Bell.’

  Charlie shuffled out, almost colliding with the door while grinning at Bridie.

  ‘He likes you,’ announced Diddy. ‘He’s special, our Charlie. There’s a lot more to him than what you see. Deep, he is.’ She pushed a pint pot of tea at her guest, then ladled out enough porridge to feed a small nation. ‘Put yourself outside of that,’ she ordered. ‘It’ll line your ribs right through Christmas.’

  Bridie tasted the porridge, found it delicious and said so. ‘Do all your children work?’ she asked between mouthfuls.

  Diddy parted the digits of her right hand, counted off with the left index finger. ‘Charlie’s me eldest – he’s seventeen and he works nearly full time for Sam. Our Monica – she’s very hard-working. Only fifteen, but she runs a stall on Paddy’s, sells things from junkshops including Bell’s.’

  Bridie waited, watched the large woman’s frown.

  ‘I worry about our Maureen. Thirteen going on thirty, she is. This is her last year at school. She does a couple of hours in a morning for Dolly Hanson, then a couple more hours after school. She’s getting dancing lessons at Mary Turner’s.’

  ‘Fairy Mary’s?’ asked Bridie.

  Diddy nodded. ‘You’re catching on, girl.’ She sat down opposite Bridie. ‘There’s always a crowd of lads chasing our Maureen, like flies round a jam pot.’ She shook her head. ‘There’ll be trouble with her sooner or later.’

  ‘Try not to worry.’

  Big Diddy smiled at her newfound friend. ‘Funny. I’m talking to you like I’ve always known you. Must be your face. It’s very open.’ She took a slurp of tea. ‘Tildy-Anne’s ten. She’s another hard worker.’ Diddy beamed at her daughter. ‘Reminds me of meself at her age. Then Jimmy’s the youngest. He’s nine and everybody knows him as Cozzer. A good lad. But he’s always losing his boots. Takes them off down the landing stage, pretends to be poorer than he really is. Says people feel sorry for him and give him work. He’s a bloody character.’

  Bridie admitted defeat and laid down her spoon. ‘It’s wonderful stuff, Diddy, but my stomach’s full.’ She eyed Tildy and Cathy. ‘Wouldn’t you like to take another look at Mr Costigan’s pigeons?’

  Big Diddy pointed to a carton on the dresser. ‘You can feed them for me.’ She waited until the girls had gone out with Shauna hot on their heels. ‘He
’s a lovely feller, my Billy, but the pigeons get me down. Still, men have to have an interest, like. If they’ve got interests, they don’t get into mischief down the pub.’

  Bridie took a sip of tea strong enough to take the breath away. ‘Sam’s interest is fishing, I’m told.’

  Diddy stirred a fourth spoonful of sugar into her own measure of the bitter brew. ‘He just sits there,’ she said. ‘With a long pole and a hook and a little bucket full of maggots. Breeds the buggers in his meatsafe, so watch your food, ’cos they have been known to travel.’ She blew into the blue-and-white striped mug. ‘I don’t know what he gets out of it, Bridie. Reels them in, measures them, chucks them back most of the time.’

  ‘You don’t like him,’ said Bridie.

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s not a man you love or hate. He’s just there.’

  ‘Like maggots are just there?’

  Big Diddy shrugged. ‘Not as bad as maggots, not as good as angels. He’s there like a lamp-post is there. Has his uses, but you don’t really look at him.’

  Bridie nodded thoughtfully. ‘His mother?’

  Diddy almost choked on her tea. ‘Now, that one’s a bloody star turn, all right. Went to bed during the General Strike, hasn’t hardly moved since.’ She giggled, sounded girlish. ‘Well, let’s put that another way. Theresa Bell thinks we think she’s failing. But she’s up and down them stairs like sh— . . . like sugar off a shiny shovel when she feels like it. I mean, she’s stood at that bedroom window for hours watching the world go by. It’s as if . . . oh, I don’t know what I mean.’