He clipped the floor with a hoof.
Slowly, carefully, she opened the door and drew him outside. As he came alongside a fixed mounting block, she began to hum and stroke his side. For a split second, the horse tensed, then he relaxed as Bridie broke into song. The singing had no verbal pattern or rhyme, but the rhythm was steady. ‘I shall climb on your back and ride you,’ she sang.
When the ground was almost seventeen hands below her, Bridie gripped Silver’s mane and waited to be thrown forward. For Bridie, riding was first, not second nature. It was a simple business involving a good seat, a sense of balance and firm use of hands and legs. ‘Walk now,’ she sang.
He walked.
The gypsy woman appeared in the doorway, her mouth hanging open. ‘Mother of Jesus,’ she breathed to herself. ‘That one’s lively.’
Bridie grinned. ‘He’s nearly broken,’ she informed the spectator. ‘He only needs to relearn his manners.’
Silver circled the caravan like a docile nag.
When the horse was safely back in his stable, Bridie approached the woman. ‘Is your husband in?’
‘No. He’s out on business. Can I help you?’ Admiration for the fearless rider showed in her tone. If this lady could manage the grey stallion, she should be fit enough for the devil himself on judgement day.
Bridie dug the ‘new’ wedding ring out of her pocket, then hesitated for just a second before pulling Eugene’s ring from her right hand. Eugene would have approved, she told herself firmly. ‘I’ve my mother’s gold locket as well,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring it tomorrow. There’s not enough for the two horses, but the value should feed them for a while. All you have to do is tell me when someone tries to buy the mare and the stallion. Come to Bell’s. Speak only to me about this.’
The gypsy picked at her teeth with a shaved match. ‘You his new wife?’
‘I am. Please say nothing to him or to anyone else.’
The woman nodded, slipped the rings into a pocket and looked over Bridie’s shoulder. ‘Hello, Mr Murphy. Did you come to see the horses one last time?’
Bridie swung round. ‘Da,’ she muttered.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Introducing myself.’ Bridie straightened her spine. ‘I’ve just put Cathy into the school.’
Thomas Murphy grunted. ‘I’m away now,’ he told his daughter.
She made no reply.
‘I’ll see you when I bring over more stock.’
Bridie inclined her head, then turned her back on her father. ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ she told the woman in the doorway.
Rosa McKinnell, whose instinct for horses and folk was strong, removed the match from between a gap in her upper incisors. There was no love lost between these two people, she realized instantly. And were she to take sides, she would definitely come down on the side of the new Mrs Bell.
Bridie walked out of the yard and towards Scotland Road. Silver. Had it not seemed like an insult to the animal, she might have considered renaming him.
She entered the shop, saw Shauna playing with a box of toy bricks. Yes. Thirty Pieces of Silver would have been a suitable tide. But she loved the horse too much to burden him. Now, all she had to do was find some money. To buy the two horses, she would need more than thirty pieces. A great deal more.
Four
By Christmas Eve, Bridie had quietly organized her new household. Curtains were clean, starched and pressed; furniture had been polished to within a hair’s breadth of its veneer and all the cupboards were in good order. She had stocked up the meatsafe and food cupboards, had bought and wrapped gifts, had made a Christmas pudding and two dozen fancy cakes.
Her biggest worry was Cathy. Although the child had settled at school, she was beginning to run amok with Jimmy ‘Cozzer’ Costigan and his sister, Tildy-Anne. There was a wildness in Cathy, a freedom of spirit that had arrived with years of living on the edge of a quiet Galway town. And now, that selfsame foolhardiness was playing out its little dramas among trams, motor vans and the frenzied bustle that seemed to typify Scotland Road in Liverpool.
Three spattered miscreants stood unabashed in a row near Sam Bell’s spanking clean kitchen dresser. Jimmy Costigan’s socks lay in corrugated waves atop filthy boots, while his sister’s hair was sticking out around her head like the bristling quills of a disturbed porcupine.
‘Well?’ asked Bridie.
Tildy scratched her tatty head. ‘We was doing nothing wrong.’
‘Were doing nothing wrong,’ corrected Bridie.
‘That’s what I said. We never done nothing.’ Tildy beamed optimistically at Cathy’s mum. She was a bit on the posh side, was the new Mrs Bell, always Brasso-ing and Zebo-ing and tidying up. But in spite of being as fidgety as Diddy Costigan, Bridie Bell was a good, decent sort of person who would never hit a child. Tildy thought up another case for the defence. ‘Everybody does it,’ she added, as if placing the final cherry on a well-decorated Christmas cake.
‘I see.’ Bridie nodded thoughtfully. ‘So this nothing you haven’t done is not being done by everybody else as well. That makes grand sense, Tildy.’ She turned her attention towards her own daughter. ‘I will not have you risking life and limb for a handful of molasses.’ Bridie awarded Cozzer a withering look. ‘And, as for involving my daughter in that disgraceful toss-gambling school – you should be ashamed, Jimmy.’
Cozzer hung his head for a split second, then bounced back, just as he always did. ‘We were only dowsying,’ he explained. ‘We never joined in or nothing like that.’
Bridie nodded. Even after such a brief period of residence, she had learned snippets of the language. ‘I don’t care what you call it, Jimmy Costigan. Dowsying or dozying – it’s all the same to me. You were keeping watch while men played illegal gambling games. Is that the truth, Tildy?’
Tildy nodded her reluctant assent.
‘And I suppose you stayed there until all the fighting and arresting was over?’
Tildy shook her head. ‘No. We ran off. We seen the bobbies coming and we legged it out of there.’
Bridie raised her eyes to heaven as if seeking guidance. ‘You’ll all end up in Rose Hill with a million questions to answer. Is that what you want, Caitlin O’Brien? Would you like to spend a night in the station bridewell alongside the snoring drunks and the howling thieves?’
‘No, Mammy.’ Cathy’s voice was tailored to suit the situation.
‘You don’t fool me, any of you,’ declared Bridie. ‘It’s no use saying sorry if you don’t mean it.’
Cathy crossed her fingers behind her back and prayed that Mammy wouldn’t find out about anything else.
‘Then, of course, there was that desperate business with the rags.’
Cathy’s fingers uncrossed themselves while her heart sank.
‘Under a month we are in England, and you are well on your way to real trouble,’ said Bridie.
‘Everybody does it,’ repeated Tildy. ‘They’re just old clothes what didn’t get sold. Nobody wants them. Somebody comes the next day and takes them away and—’
‘And weighs them in.’ Bridie’s voice remained even and soft. ‘The poor man has an arrangement with the stall-keepers. He shifts the rubbish and he keeps the few pennies for his pains. But you went and took the things. You decided to weigh them in and you carried them to . . . to where, Tildy?’
‘William Moult Street,’ replied Tildy.
‘And from the rag yard in William Moult Street, you took the wages of a man with a family to keep.’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘Cathy – upstairs. You two get back to your mother. Tell her I’ll be round later to discuss the matter.’
Tildy and Cozzer got out while the going was good. There were a few more things on the list, so they ran hell for leather towards home, each hoping that nothing else would come up on the prosecution agenda of the case.
Cathy stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I want to explain,’ she said.
&nbs
p; Bridie saw herself as a reasonable woman. ‘I’m waiting,’ she said.
Cathy inhaled deeply. ‘It’s all for the Nolans,’ she told her mother in hushed tones. ‘There’s Johnny, Denis, Martha, Alice, Pauline, Sidney, Bernadette, Eileen, Luke, Brenda, Stuart and Matt. Oh, and the mammy and daddy, too. The daddy drinks all the money, so the Costigans . . . help.’
‘By stealing?’ So that was why the parish priest had chided the Costigans about their charity work.
Cathy shrugged. ‘Sometimes. And sometimes by upending.’
Bridie sank into a chair. ‘Up-ending?’ she asked resignedly.
Cathy was proud of her much improved knowledge. ‘Mr Costigan and some other men up-end Mr Nolan to shake the money out of his pockets before he drinks it all. Then they give that money to Mrs Nolan for the rent and food.’ She paused, thought about it. ‘Mind, I suppose he must have spent some of it already, because he has to be drunk to be up-ended.’
Bridie shook her head. ‘Upstairs with you, Caitlin.’
‘Please, Mammy—’
‘Upstairs. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. There’s no excuse for stealing.’ But as she listened to her daughter’s hesitant ascent of the stairway, Bridie had to agree, albeit inwardly, that thievery was sometimes forgivable, even essential.
She kept an eye on Shauna, who was having her afternoon nap on the sofa. There was a dual morality among the Scotland Road people. Catholic to the last, they were fervent Christians who would hand their last penny into the ever gaping maw of the church. Yet they had to eat.
Bridie stirred the fire gently so as not to disturb the child. Almost every day, produce was stolen by young ones. They took from shops, market stalls, pavement vendors. She had been told that one boy, towards the end of the previous summer, had almost drowned in a container of rotten fruit behind a market, had been swallowed up by a mouldering sea of discarded plums and cherries. To eat, they risked their very lives. To eat, they stole. After which sin they would attend confession, only to reoffend on their way home from church.
Bridie smiled ruefully. The poor box would be rich in years to come, because the priest, before giving absolution, would be forced to ask his penitent about repayment. As the ability to make restitution would be non-existent, the parishioner would be ordered to put the value of each stolen article into the poor box at the earliest opportunity. The poor box remained empty. Should any of today’s miscreants ever make his fortune, the poverty would be wiped out of the Scotland Road area in one fell swoop.
Cathy would probably turn out rampageous, then. The child had an excellent brain and a strong sense of fair play. God would scarcely figure in Cathy’s calculations when it came to the bare necessities of life. If Caitlin O’Brien saw hunger, she would feed it. ‘She’s like me exactly,’ Bridie whispered to the flames. ‘And she’s very like my mammy, too.’
Shauna opened her eyes. ‘Cathy naughty again?’ she asked.
Bridie looked at her baby. For one who was not thriving, she seemed very alert. ‘Go back to sleep.’ Would Shauna be like Cathy? Would Shauna risk her health to ride on the back of a cart for a bit of raw sugar? The mother nodded to herself. To appease her own hunger, Shauna might take a chance. But would she do that for a family of twelve whose father was a drunk? In spite of her show of defiance, there remained in Cathy a degree of selflessness that was not yet apparent in Shauna’s makeup.
Sam put his head round the door. ‘Five minutes then, Bridie?’
She nodded, watched him disappear. This time, he would not be going fishing. Sam would fare very well today, because it was Christmas Eve. He would take all the unredeemed pledges into the pubs and round the markets, would sell many pieces to those who had forgotten to buy gifts. Worse than that, he would probably accept down payments and charge a high rate of interest to those who might well continue to owe for presents by the middle of next June.
Bridie stared into the fire. It wasn’t a bad life, she supposed. Apart from worrying about Cathy, she had few troubles. At first, she had been afraid of sharing a bed with Sam, but even that no longer frightened her. On Saturday nights, he went for a couple of beers, came upstairs and fumbled about apologetically for a few minutes. By keeping her mind on other things, Bridie managed to survive the man’s clumsy attempts at love-making. He spent his spare hours fishing, always came back with a terrible cough, would not consider seeing the doctor. According to Diddy Costigan, Sam Bell had not visited a doctor in twenty-odd years.
She stabbed at the coals, stirred them to life with the brass-headed poker. Eugene. She missed him as much as ever. This would be her first Christmas without him. At the age of twenty-seven, she had been relegated to the ranks of middle-age, was fastened to a man whose life was more than half over. Eugene had been a thoughtful man who had loved her, body and her soul. Now, there was no love at all. Sam drank a little, breathed over her for a few moments, then rolled away and slept till morning. Bridie endured his behaviour just as she coped with housework, shopkeeping and caring for his mother . . .
She glanced up at the ceiling, wondered what old Theresa would do next. Well, it was time to enter the fray again. She crept from the room and made her way upstairs. Before going into the shop, she must check Sam’s mother. There had been tantrums, arguments and tears, but Bridie was doing her best to stick to her guns and change Theresa’s way of life.
Bridie opened Theresa’s door. ‘Nice to see you out of bed, Muth.’
The old lady turned rather rapidly for one in a supposed state of senile decay. ‘Don’t you “Muth” me, Bridie Bell. I’m no mother to you.’
The younger woman nodded and smiled. She had taken to leaving Theresa Bell’s food on a tray by the door. Nothing had been said on the subject, but the food was disappearing each time. So, for a bed-ridden invalid, this old girl had a markedly good appetite and the ability to walk, pick up a tray and carry it to her bed. ‘Will we get you dressed and bring you down?’ asked Bridie.
‘What the hell for?’ Theresa sank onto the bed, this dramatic movement accompanied by a heavy sigh.
‘For a change.’
Theresa fixed her beady eyes on Bridie’s face. In spite of better judgement, she found herself liking Sam’s new wife. She was clean, easy on the eye and a damned good cook into the bargain. Also, she had brought children into the house, had brought movement back to this place of decay. ‘When I want to come down, I’ll come. I don’t need you carrying me round like a sack of spuds.’ As ever, she spoke in flat Lancashire tones.
Bridie agreed. ‘Sam wants you up and about again,’ she said. In truth, Sam, still looking for the easy life, preferred to listen to his wife in this instance. ‘Bridie says you need to move about,’ he had begun to tell his mother. ‘It’ll do you good.’
‘You’ll bloody kill me between you,’ the old lady screamed energetically.
But Bridie was not fooled, not worried. Theresa was eating well, was embroidering pretty squares of cloth, was arguing, had fire in her eyes. She approached the bed. ‘If you can manage, I want you downstairs. You can sit with Shauna while I help in the shop. Sam’s out, so Charlie’s on his own. This is a very busy time, as you are well aware. Now, shall I dress you?’
‘Bugger off.’
Smiling to herself, Bridie took this advice and carried the tray back to the kitchen.
‘Mammy?’
Bridie lifted her head and looked at Cathy. The child must have followed her down the stairs. Cathy seemed so pathetic and downtrodden with her shoulders stooped and her hands hanging limply by her sides. ‘I thought you were supposed to stay upstairs for a while?’
‘Please, Mammy. It’s Christmas. Let me go just outside on the pavement. I’ll be good, I promise.’
Cathy had been deprived of so much. The child had been dragged from her home, had been insulted repeatedly by her grandfather, had lost her daddy, her farm, her animals. ‘All right. Just for a little while, now.’
When Cathy had left, Bridie gave Shauna so
me toys, then went through to the shop, saw Sam making his way outside with a couple of cases. She greeted Charlie Costigan, flicked a feather duster over some books, straightened a row of ornaments. She actually liked the shop, had taken to spending the odd happy hour talking to Charlie and to customers. Charlie, once she had got to know him, was an angel. He had gentle, knowing eyes, a deep, booming laugh and a good rapport with customers. Bridie spoke to him. ‘Go and get yourself a bite to eat, Charlie. We’ll be open well past midnight, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He loped out in the direction of home. There would be scouse in a pan, bread in the cupboard. Charlie and his siblings were among the luckier inhabitants of Scotland Road.
Bridie placed herself in the centre of the shop. There were four counters set in a square with two flaps for access. Below the counters, deep shelves held pledges, as did the floor-to-ceiling storage areas on the two window-less walls. The Penrhyn Street window displayed some new stock – buckets, mops, pans, brushes. During recent years, Sam Bell had expanded into chandlery. The Scotland Road display was made up of items judged to be antique – old mirrors, statues, brass and steel fire-irons, tea sets. These articles were usually sold to ‘foreigners’, people from Waterloo, Crosby and Seaforth Sands.
The bell clanged. Diddy Costigan ambled in. ‘I’ve put your goose in the bakehouse,’ she announced. ‘And I’ve made you a couple of bunloaves.’ She grinned at Bridie. ‘I know the kids have been carrying on, love. Can we talk about it when the festivities are over? We can’t cope with cooking and toss schools as well, you know. So shall I brew up?’
Bridie nodded. A cup of tea would be most welcome, but first, she wanted to talk to Diddy about something momentous, something other than Cathy’s behaviour. She inhaled deeply. ‘Diddy?’
The large woman paused on her way to the living quarters. ‘That’s me.’
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 8
