Cathy sniffed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘And he pinched five loaves and two fishes to feed the poor.’
‘He did not steal,’ insisted Cathy.
Cozzer was adamant. ‘It says nothing in the Bible about Jesus paying for that bread and them fish. He just grabbed the stuff for the poor. And that’s what we’re doing.’
Defeated by Cozzer’s undoubtedly flawed logic, Cathy followed the Costigans into their life of crime.
Bridie opened the shop door, looked left into Penrhyn Street, right into Scotland Road, saw no sign of her older daughter. This was getting well beyond a joke. Her husband was out selling gifts while his mother sat in the kitchen waiting for a private word. Bridie turned, closed the door, glanced at Charlie. He was making out a ticket for a customer who was pledging blankets for the wherewithal to buy a Christmas dinner. This woman’s family would eat, then freeze to death, thought Bridie.
Charlie laboured on, a corner of his tongue peeping from the twisted mouth. While he wrote with one pen, two others followed suit, the trio being joined by a length of wood. This time-saving invention allowed for the simultaneous production of three copies – one for the customer, one for the records and a third to be stuck to the pawned item. ‘Can you manage?’ Bridie asked.
Charlie stopped writing, nodded at his boss’s new wife.
Bridie Bell dragged herself back to the kitchen. Shauna was leaning against Sam’s mother’s chair. ‘Sing it again,’ begged the child.
Theresa Bell delivered a reedy rendition of ‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ for the umpteenth time, then sent Shauna to help Charlie. ‘Well,’ she said to Bridie, ‘have you run out of excuses yet? This meeting’s been adjourned five times.’
Bridie sank onto the sofa. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
Old Theresa sucked her top teeth. ‘Horses,’ she said eventually. ‘All I know about horses is they fetch milk and coal and trouble.’ She sniffed meaningfully. ‘There’s more bookies’ runners round here than fleas. What do you want with horses?’
Bridie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
‘Can you ride?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Tell me all about horses, then.’
The younger woman opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She felt like a child on her first day at school, all awkward limbs and no brain power. This old dear would probably tell her son all she had heard while skulking on the stairs. And Cathy was still missing, too—
‘Cat got your tongue?’
They had no cat, though a dog had been promised to keep Cathy quiet. ‘The horses are at McKinnell’s stables,’ she managed at last. ‘A mare and a young stallion. He could be used for stud, because he’s got good papers. They’ve Arab blood, so they’ll make fine runners with the right training.’
Theresa leaned forward. ‘And who’s going to teach them? Were you planning on exercising them, up and down the bloody tram tracks?’
Deflated, Bridie snapped her mouth closed.
‘Good job you know me, then, isn’t it?’ Without pausing for an answer, she continued, ‘Our Edith,’ she said carefully, as if addressing an infant, ‘me sister’s girl – Sam’s cousin. She might be some use after all. Great big lanky thing with ideas above her station. Married a doctor, she did. Got a lot of land over towards Bolton. She’ll know somebody who knows somebody. I think they own some stables, if my memory serves me right.’
Completely at a loss, Bridie let the old woman drone on.
‘I’m a Boltonian meself,’ announced Theresa Bell proudly. ‘I found a good man, a Liverpool man, but he died young like all good folk seem to do. It was Cedric – my husband – who moved us here. A sea captain, he was, very handsome.’ The old face seemed to cloud over. ‘He drowned. Sam was only a lad at the time, and my sister – Edith’s mam – invited us to go and live with her. Oh aye, I’m not from round here, you know.’
Bridie had noticed the difference. Theresa’s speech was broad and flat, easier to understand than the Liverpool accent. Until today, Mrs Bell Senior hadn’t had much to say for herself, but now the words flowed like a burst dam.
‘I’m a Lancashire lass,’ grinned Theresa. ‘But when Cedric died, I stayed round here, took his bit of money and opened the shop. It was only a little place then, just enough to keep me and Sam. Course, our Sam had ideas. Bought two houses and knocked them together.’ She stretched the thin neck and nodded just once. ‘This is my business,’ she said softly. ‘Not his. I started it. I worked in it year in and year out. I brought the two kiddies up when their mam died, God rest her.’
Bridie waited while the old lady collected her thoughts.
‘She’ll be coming New Year’s Day.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Bridie wondered how Sam’s dead wife would manage to visit in a week’s time.
‘Not Maria. Our Edith. I’ve just told you, haven’t I? I had a sister. She’s dead now. And me sister had a daughter called Edith and they always come at New Year, Edith and Richard. Nice enough man, usually has his head in the clouds or in a book. Happen they can look after the horses. Oh, there’s some money under a loose floorboard next to my bed. Take it and welcome.’
Bridie held her breath. Why was Mrs Bell helping her?
‘He’s boring,’ pronounced Theresa.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sam. Your husband. He’s boring.’ With this damning pronouncement made, Theresa closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.
He was boring, thought Bridie. Every night, he sat in the same place and went through the same ritual. Ten small pieces of paper were always laid out on a wooden tray in front of him. Into these ten papers Sam Bell measured crumbs of tobacco which he flaked between his palms. When the cigarettes were rolled, he smoked one, then put the other nine in a tobacco tin for the following day.
On Mondays, Sam cut his toenails before going up for a bath. He was proud of his plumbed-in bath. It was in a small cubicle off his mother’s bedroom. On Tuesdays, he had his hair cut at Razor Sharpe’s. Eddie ‘Razor’ Sharpe trimmed a microscopic amount from the fading tonsure’s edge and gave Sam a proper open-blade shave and a hot towelling.
On Wednesdays Sam Bell did his accounts, then on Thursdays he deposited his takings in the bank at the corner of Dryden Street. He went to confession every Friday night, to the pub on Saturdays, to mass and benediction every Sunday.
‘Does he still do his toenails in here?’ asked Theresa.
Bridie jumped involuntarily. Did this old lady read minds? ‘Yes,’ she answered.
‘Always got on my nerves, did that.’
Bridie stared at her mother-in-law. The eyes remained closed, but the features were very much alive. ‘Why are you offering to help me?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Must be summat to do with being in me dotage.’ She opened one eye. ‘I’d nothing to get up for,’ she said. ‘After the General Strike, I couldn’t think of one single reason for falling out of bed. I was no use, you see. When I’d finished rearing Anthony, there was nothing more to be done.’
A few beats of time passed before Bridie plucked up enough courage to ask, ‘Didn’t you look after Liam as well?’ Surely the twins had been raised together?
The other eye opened. ‘I told you before, I raised both, though I’m taking no credit for the way Liam turned out.’ The word ‘credit’ was spat, as if it meant blame.
‘He’s a priest,’ murmured Bridie.
‘I know that.’
Bridie cleared her throat. ‘Aren’t you proud?’ Catholic families back home were delighted when a child opted for the holy life. ‘I’ve a cousin a nun, and her mother was thrilled fit to burst about it,’ she added lamely.
Theresa made a guttural sound deep in her throat, as if trying to shift a terrible taste. ‘There’s good folk and bad folk, good priests and bad priests. I’d rather not talk about him if you don’t mind. He got what he wanted, the bugger. He’s taken Anthony away from me. As f
or our Sam, he never did see sense. A dog collar’s a wonderful thing according to your husband.’
Bridie leaned forward, decided to opt for a change of subject. ‘Muth, I don’t want to deprive you of your little bit of money. It doesn’t seem fair.’
‘There’s nowt fair in this life, Bridie.’ She shifted in the chair, flinched when her knee clicked. ‘The horses mean something to you, love. I heard. I was listening on the stairs and, like I said afore, there’s not much wrong with my hearing. Let’s get your bloody horses back.’ She sniffed, took a handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘You fettle for me and I’ll fettle for you.’
‘Fettle?’
The old woman’s face stretched itself into a wide grin. ‘Help. Do for. Look after. You’ve got me out of bed. Your girls have given me something to laugh at.’ She noticed Bridie’s worried expression. ‘Has she gone off again?’
‘She has indeed.’
Theresa nodded. ‘She’s a rum one, is your Cathy. But then you’ve got to remember all she’s lost.’
‘Shauna’s lost everything, too.’
The small head snapped upward on its shrivelled stem. ‘That little one of yours is a tough nut, Bridie. She might be thin, but her head’s screwed on the right road. Anyway, she was young enough to get over her dad’s death. Cathy’s on the sensitive side. She wants love. She wants attention and things to take her mind off this big move you’ve made. That’s why she’s running about with Diddy Costigan’s tribe – there’s always a bit of adventure.’
Bridie didn’t like the idea of her daughter getting mixed up in Jimmy and Tildy Costigan’s style of adventure. ‘They steal.’
Theresa Bell chuckled. ‘Eeh, you want to talk to Elizabeth about that. According to her, it’s not stealing, it’s redistribution of resources. She reads, you know. Yes, she’s an angry woman, is Diddy Costigan.’
Bridie was about to ask a few questions, but a commotion in the shop made her rise to her feet and rush out of the room.
Charlie stood behind the counter, his face apparently frozen by the sight before his eyes. A policeman hung on to Jimmy Costigan, who, in turn, hung on to a very large and very dead turkey. ‘It’s for the poor,’ the lad yelled.
The policeman turned on his heel in response to Tildy. Tildy, who was tough for her age, was beating her fists against the constable’s back. ‘Leave our Cozzer alone,’ she screamed.
Behind Tildy, a tall, dark-skinned man lingered. Behind him, several more Lascar seamen were trying to crowd into Bell’s. Six or seven bowler hats were deposited on the counter. A fire-surround blocked the doorway, and a small congregation of passers-by was assembling on the pavement outside.
After a few seconds, Bridie realized that one of the Indians was carrying Cathy. ‘Johnny bring baby home,’ the man said, bowing courteously. ‘His Master’s Voice,’ he added, nodding towards a gramophone. ‘From Bell’s – not Libby’s Milk.’
Bridie knew she was going insane. A very strange-looking man dressed in far too many clothes was cradling Cathy in his arms, talking about tinned milk and pointing out a gramophone on the floor.
Cathy looked at her mother and burst into tears. ‘I did it wrong,’ she wailed. ‘I said Tildy had been knocked over, then I went to sleep.’
‘She fainted,’ said the policeman. ‘And while the butcher tried to revive her, this young man stole a turkey.’
‘For the poor,’ insisted Cozzer.
One of the seamen dragged Tildy away from the constable, got kicked for his pains.
Bridie pushed her way through the throng and took her daughter. She passed the policeman and spoke to Cozzer. ‘You will give that bird back now, Jimmy Costigan. Tildy – behave yourself.’ She carried Cathy to the kitchen and placed her on the sofa. ‘Don’t move,’ she muttered. ‘Stay here with Muth.’
Back in the shop, she separated Cozzer from his ill-gotten gains, then advised the policeman to take the Costigan children back home. When only the Lascars remained, Bridie thanked them, then watched in amazement as they struggled their way out of the shop with hats, gramophone, fire-surround, pots, pans and bundles of clothes.
‘Nice men,’ offered Charlie.
Bridie sank onto a stool. This was a crazy place. Nobody made sense and her daughter was turning out badly. She looked at Charlie, comforted herself with the thought that this poor boy was a small piece of normality in a very confused world. ‘Charlie,’ she said. ‘This is an end of it. I can take no more. We are going back to Ireland.’
Five
Sam Bell sat in his usual place next to the fire. On the table, slices of roast goose and beef were spread on platters covered in muslin, and the room sparkled with polish. In little more than a month, Bridie had changed the place into a real home. She was a worker, all right. She got on with her chores, helped in the shop, dealt very well with Muth and, best of all, she wasn’t a moaner. But, worst of all, she was intending to return to Ireland in order to protect Cathy from the Costigans’ bad ways. Sam was not a happy man. In spite of his firm resolution, he had developed a soft spot for his young Irish bride.
He lit the first of today’s cigarette allowance, drew the smoke deep into his lungs, then coughed explosively. Christmas Day. Couldn’t he allow himself the odd extra ciggy on this festive occasion? No. Moderation in all things had been Sam’s creed so far, and he was getting too old to alter the ways of a lifetime. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then carried on smoking. He would miss her. She was lovely to look at, pleasant to the customers and, most of all, she was good to her husband.
In a few minutes, he would take a walk to the Holy House. Every man in the Scotland Road area strolled along to a pub on Christmas morning for a pint and a gab with his mates. The excuse given for this ritual was that males were keeping out of the line of fire and ‘from under the wife’s feet’. Many sought to anaesthetize themselves beyond the knowledge that their seasonal fare would be egg and chips, while others drank out of habit, just as they did every other day of the year.
Anthony would be here soon. He was probably out in the streets at this very minute, would be watching for Sam’s exit from the house. Today, Anthony would visit Muth. Muth loved Anthony and Anthony loved Muth. The father of the Bell twins shook his head slowly. If only Anthony would make an effort. Liam was a bit on the sharp side, a sober-sided sort of chap, but he was a chosen man. Anthony had little or no patience with Liam, and Sam stood by his ordained son. A priest in the family was a status symbol, something to brag about. Sometimes, though, Sam missed Anthony. Sometimes, he wondered whether he had backed the wrong horse. No. Liam was a good man and Anthony should mend his ways and treat his twin with the respect a priest commanded.
The pawnbroker tapped away some ash and loose tobacco, tried to remember how life had been before Bridie. This was stupid, he told himself. He’d been a widower for years, yet he had grown accustomed so quickly to the comforts of this second marriage. As, indeed, had Muth. Until Bridie had arrived, Muth had stayed upstairs sulking all the time. As soon as Bridie returned to Ireland, Muth would, no doubt, go back to her life of self-imposed solitude, misery and constant whingeing. Living alone down here with his imprisoned mother upstairs held little appeal. The thought of this household struggling to survive without Bridie was not attractive. Sam had even cut down on his fishing expeditions in order to make a go of this new liaison. Up to now, the world had offered few diversions attractive enough to separate Sam from his hobby.
He took another drag of hand-rolled tobacco, looked at the tree Bridie had decorated so prettily. There were bits of tinsel, some baubles, strands of cotton wool snow, and a pretty crêpe-clad fairy with a silver star-topped wand and feathery wings, teetering uncertainly on the topmost branch. A proper Christmas at last. And she intended to go hell for leather back to Ireland after Christmas just because young Cathy had got herself involved on the fringe of a couple of very lightweight skirmishes.
Bridie entered from the scullery with two pans of peeled veg. She stirred the fire
in preparation for her cooking, opened the door of the range oven, assessed the time her potatoes would need to roast.
He cleared his throat. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘Upstairs,’ she replied, ‘playing in their room with their Christmas toys. The fire’s lit, so they’ll be warm enough.’
Sam threw his fag end into the grate. ‘You’re sure I shouldn’t go and get that dog? After all, I did make a promise. She’ll be expecting a dog, you know.’
‘There’ll be no need,’ she said. ‘We have a dog at my father’s house. I don’t want to be taking another across on the boat. The girls and the bags will be more than enough for me to manage without running after a dog.’ She hated the idea of returning to Da. But what was the alternative?
Sam Bell broke every rule in his book by lighting a second cigarette while the first was still curling its way towards death in the coals. He didn’t want to beg and plead, refused to demean himself by crawling to this woman or to any person of either sex, for that matter. Yet he needed her to stay. ‘We’re married,’ he said. ‘We should abide by our marriage vows.’
‘I know that. I also know that my daughter is misbehaving. She’s not used to being locked up inside. In Galway, children can have all the freedom they need without stealing and fainting all over the place while people thieve poultry.’
‘She won’t do it again,’ said Sam. ‘I’m sure she’ll settle down in time. Just give it a chance.’
Bridie turned and faced him fully. ‘I can’t take that risk, Sam.’
He nodded pensively for a moment. ‘And you hate living round here, don’t you?’
Her answer astounded both of them. ‘No, I don’t think so. The place isn’t great, what with all those terrible courts and people living so crowded and so poor.’ She lowered herself into a dining chair. ‘But it’s . . . it’s lively. You know, there’s always somebody to talk to. It’s never boring.’ Well, it was often rather boring in here with Sam, but boring was preferable to Da’s ranting. If only Cathy would behave.
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 10
