The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  She folded her arms as if trying to hold on to her resolution. ‘I can’t have them wild, Sam. It’s not even the fault of Jimmy and Tildy-Anne. They do what they do because it’s necessary while the Nolans starve. But Cathy’s not used to this sort of life and I want her to be honest. We never had a lot of money to spare at home, but we wanted for nothing. In Galway, she would not be tempted into all this stealing and making up of tales. You see, if my daughter turns out wrong, then I will be to blame for it.’

  Sam had never been one for the women, yet he recognized that Bridie was one in a million. He’d listened to all the dirty talk over the years, had heard tales delivered by seamen who pretended to have a girl in every port. But Sam Bell was not a lecher by nature. However, this one was a catch. Many men in the neighbourhood were jealous of a man with such a pretty bride. She was lovely to look at, she had a stable temperament, good housekeeping skills and, above all, she was marvellous with customers. ‘Don’t go,’ he managed.

  Surprised beyond measure, Bridie stared steadily at the man she had married. There was no harm in him. He had never hurt her or the girls, had always handed over adequate household funds, was even-tempered and . . . and, yes, infuriatingly predictable and set in his ways. She felt a measure of pity for him, yet she could make no promises.

  ‘Please,’ he said eventually, ‘give it a bit longer.’ What would people say if she went off after such a short time? Would they mock him, accuse him of being too old and worn out for a woman of Bridie’s tender years?

  She looked down at her folded arms. ‘Marriage is binding, I know that. But I’ve a duty to my daughters as well as to my husband.’

  ‘Hang on for another week, then,’ he said. ‘Just till New Year. I’ll talk to Diddy and Billy, see what we can sort out.’ And he intended to acquire that dog, too. He needed an arsenal with which to defend himself.

  ‘All right,’ said Bridie. ‘I’ll wait a few more days, then.’ She picked up a fork, polished it on her apron.

  Sam stood up, threw away his second cigarette and made for the door. Had he been less sure of himself, he might have fancied that he felt love for this young woman. But no. Sam Bell had his head screwed on too tightly for that. Far too tightly . . .

  Anthony Bell waited until his father had disappeared into the pub. He blew warmth into his hands, then bent to pick up his parcels. She would like the pearls. He had spent more money on that single gift than all the others put together. He walked, paused, thought about what he was doing, why he was doing it. Perhaps he should swap the labels about and give the pearls to Grandmuth.

  He greeted some familiar faces, made his way to Bell’s and knocked. This was ridiculous. How would Bridie explain away the pearls? Dad knew his stuff, could recognize good jewellery at twenty paces. And was this pity that Anthony felt for Bridie? Was he just feeling sorry for a poor woman who had been dragged from her home and deposited here?

  When Bridie opened the shop door, he noticed the bloom in her cheeks, colour borrowed from the kitchen where she would no doubt be preparing the festive meal. He shuffled inside, deposited his packages on the counter. ‘Cold,’ he muttered. ‘If my hands weren’t fastened on at the wrists, they’d snap off.’

  ‘The kitchen’s hot,’ she told him. ‘Come away in till I make you a nice cup of tea.’

  Instead of following her immediately, Anthony transposed two labels and ignored the regret in his breast. Grandmuth was going to be happy about the necklace. But Grandmuth’s skin was too old and slack for the wearing of these, the least forgiving of gems. Pearls wanted satin skin and bright eyes. They needed a bare young throat rather than a winter cardigan to show them off. Bridie had perfect skin, lovely hair, beautiful clear eyes. The visitor bit his lip. He was balancing on the brink of a precipice, yet he could not save himself. Was love at first sight real? Was it? Scotland Road on a cold November night, two children clinging to their mammy, a cold-hearted priest in a chilly church . . . He must stop this, he really must.

  Bridie basted her potatoes, took a tray of soda bread from the top shelf of the fireside oven. ‘Did you have your breakfast?’ she asked. ‘I’ve butter and jam and this new batch just made. It’ll be great when it cools off a bit.’

  ‘Er . . . yes, I have eaten. Thank you.’ Anthony felt like a fourteen-year-old boy who lusted after the girl next door. No, no, it was worse than that. It was horrible. His father had taken a bride and he, Anthony Patrick Bell, wanted her. He had wanted her ever since that moment when he had met her out in the street just before the wedding. He had dreamed of her, had thought about her when he should have been doing his job. He had lingered at a window and watched her taming a wild horse with her gentleness and her quiet, unobtrusive confidence.

  ‘Do you take sugar?’

  His cheeks burned. He knew his catechism, knew, understood and obeyed the rules of the church. Consanguinity, affinity and spiritual relationship – those were the qualities that precluded liaisons between the sexes. Even if Dad died, Anthony could never live with the woman of his dreams. He pulled himself together. ‘Just a drop of milk, thank you.’ She had eyes he wanted to drown in. She had a waist he might have spanned with his fingers. She had . . . she had a cup of tea in her hand and he must take it, now.

  Bridie put her head on one side. ‘Are you coming down with something?’

  He was lovesick. He was a lovelorn loon and no, he didn’t want Dad to die, even if his death would release this lovely woman. ‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘It’s the change in temperature, I suppose. Icy outside, very warm in here.’

  ‘Oh, keep still a moment,’ she ordered. She stood behind him and peeled off his heavy overcoat. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now, you’ll feel the benefit when you go out.’

  Anthony had not intended to go to his father’s wedding. He and Sam had found little common ground in recent years. But Anthony had met Thomas Murphy on the road, and the man had assumed, naturally, that Sam Bell’s son would be attending the service. Then, Anthony had seen her.

  ‘Did you not hear me?’

  Startled, he shook some tea into his saucer. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. Her father was a rat, he mused. Thomas Murphy had been carrying on with Dolly Hanson for ever and a day—

  ‘It’ll be a chill,’ she repeated. Was he deaf? She placed a hand on his forehead, found his skin hot. ‘Let’s hope it’s not the influenza. You should perhaps stay here with me and your father till I see how you are.’ The devilment had gone out of his eyes. She had noticed that little bit of naughtiness, the tell-tale glistening of the irises in a poker-straight face. This was a joker, not a man of misery. ‘Wait for your da,’ she said again.

  He swallowed. ‘My father and I don’t get on.’

  ‘And I don’t get on with people not getting on,’ she said, her tone firm. ‘Mind, I might not be staying anyway, so you’ll be able to carry on with your little quarrels, won’t you? Yes, when you’re left to yourselves, Muth can stay upstairs and you, your father and your brother can fight like infant boys all the way to kingdom come. I hope St Peter will be pleased to see you.’ She bustled off to find a clean saucer.

  Little quarrels? He shivered, took a sip of tea, refused to think about his brother and his stupid, blinkered father. Suddenly, the words she had spoken registered. She was going. He took the clean saucer from her, found difficulty in meeting her eyes. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the scullery for—’

  ‘No. You said something about leaving.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bridie sat down. ‘It’s Cathy,’ she told him. ‘She’s away all the while in the company of Jimmy and Tildy-Anne. The last scrape they got into spread as far as the police and a lot of Indians with fireplaces and hats and gramophones.’

  ‘Lascars,’ he said, fighting a weary smile. ‘Yes, I heard about that.’ He fingered the cup, forced himself to look at her. There was a pinch of white powder on her nose – flour, probably. It was a short nose, but not snub. He wanted to wipe the blemish from a face he found perf
ect. ‘She’s a brilliant student,’ he remarked. ‘She’ll do well here. The time for young women to succeed has finally arrived. Our teachers at St Aloysius’s are thrilled to have her at the school. She is so well-read, so capable. The fact is that she will make more of herself here than she would in Ireland.’ He felt so awkward, heard his own stilted words, might have been a lecturer delivering a sermon or something very dull, like inorganic chemistry.

  Bridie processed the information. ‘Ireland is not as backward as you seem to think,’ she informed him. ‘We do have schools and universities, you know. It’s not all potato fields, cattle and poteen brewing in the stables.’

  Anthony’s cheeks were burning again. ‘But there’s more scope here.’

  She nodded pensively. ‘Aye, and there’s more people, too. All crammed up together with no air to breathe, all pushed into a crowded classroom and sharing one arithmetic book between two. Did you see those courts? Have you looked at the living conditions in this area? Animals have better shelter.’

  ‘Of course I’ve seen the poverty,’ he answered. ‘Many of my pupils come from very poor homes.’

  Bridie shook her head. ‘It’s terrible,’ she said. ‘And I know why Diddy’s children break the law and the commandments. I understand. But it’s all a matter of what a person wants from life.’

  He swallowed drily, took a gulp of tea to oil his throat. ‘Cathy must be given the opportunity to find out what she wants, Bridie. Let her study here and—’

  ‘It’s their mother who keeps them safe,’ she declared, absolute certainty in her words. ‘While they’re little, parents decide. Perhaps in ten years Cathy may come back. For now, I’m in charge of my children.’

  He remained where he was after she returned to the scullery. Bridie wasn’t a bit like Val. Val had been dark-haired and tall, almost willowy. She, too, had been a teacher after training at some dreadful convent in Southampton. When he closed his eyes, he could see and hear her still. ‘We couldn’t talk after nine o’clock, we had to wear a uniform and all our letters were censored.’ Val had taken a strong dislike to all things Catholic after her two years of prison with the nuns. ‘Ladies from hell’, she had called them.

  ‘Are you all right in there?’ shouted Bridie.

  ‘Yes.’ So Val had decided to teach at a nondenominational school in Liverpool. That had caused a few ructions among the die-hard Catholics.

  ‘I’ve a little gift for you.’

  Anthony took the proffered package, opened it and found a diary, some pencils and a drawing. ‘Shauna did the picture and Cathy bought the pencils,’ she said. ‘The diary is from me and Sam. It has a real leather cover.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He gave her the scarf. Grandmuth would love the pearls, he told himself again.

  Bridie draped his gift round her throat. ‘Just the thing,’ she told him. ‘It goes with my eyes.’

  It did. Val’s eyes had been brown. Anthony had identified the body, because her parents had been too distraught. On this Christmas day, he would go and eat with the family of his dead fiancée. The courts had charged the wrong man, had found the wrong man guilty, had hanged him.

  Bridie laid some cutlery on the table. This poor young man was very sad, she thought. He was perspiring and he looked quite ill. There had been no jokes, no laughter. Beneath the tanned skin there lurked a pallor, though twin spots of feverish colour brightened his cheeks.

  Anthony picked up the rest of the parcels and announced his intention to visit his grandmother and Bridie’s daughters. He climbed the stairs, tapped at Grandmuth’s door.

  ‘Come in,’ she ordered.

  For a split second, he hesitated. Christmases came and went, and he still remained at loggerheads with his twin and his father. Years ended and began, yet nothing changed. Whatever happened, they had still hanged the wrong man. And Anthony Bell was condemned to live with that knowledge embedded into his mind. Determinedly, he blotted out a mental picture of Val, only to have it replaced by the image of a small blonde woman with flour on her nose.

  He ground his teeth for a second or two. Love at first sight? He had loved Val at first sight, after knocking apples from her shopping basket at the fruit market. They had bent to retrieve the Cox Orange Pippins, had both seen stars when their skulls had met. Val. No, no, this was Christmas Day. He must not dwell on the past, must forbid himself to remember the sight of Val’s broken body.

  ‘What are you doing standing there like a bloody statue?’

  He blinked, saw that his grandmother had opened her door.

  ‘I’ve been waiting,’ she snapped.

  ‘Sorry.’ He followed her into the room, sat next to her on the bed. ‘I got you pearls,’ he said.

  ‘Hmmph.’ Theresa Bell folded her arms. ‘What’s up with you? You look as if you’ve lost half a crown and found a bent tanner.’ She loved this grandson. Even though weeks went by between meetings, she knew him like the back of her own hand.

  ‘Here.’ He handed her the gift.

  Theresa opened it, grinned broadly, then sat still while Anthony fastened the necklace for her. ‘They’re lovely,’ she told him.

  He unwrapped an anthology of poetry, thanked his grandmother, asked how she was.

  ‘Yon bloody Bridie’s got me moving,’ she said. ‘Kept leaving me plate just inside the door, made me get out of bed to get the food.’ She sniffed. ‘I like her. I like her kiddies, too. They make a bit of noise, but the house is back to life.’ Anthony might have had children if Val had lived. Theresa could have been a great-grandmother several times over. The idea of a non-Catholic wedding hadn’t worried Theresa. And then . . . and then the lass had gone and got herself murdered.

  ‘You know she’s thinking of going back to Ireland?’ asked Anthony. ‘Bridie, I mean.’

  Theresa scowled. ‘Aye. I hope she stays here, though.’ She watched him from the corner of her eye, saw how strained he looked. ‘Is that job getting you down, lad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  He shrugged. Grandmuth was a caution. She had the Scotland Road knack of hitting the nail on the head, and the inland Lancashire tendency to run at a small tack with a lump hammer. Diplomacy had never been Theresa Bell’s catchword. She spoke the truth and shamed the devil, expected everyone else to be as blunt as she was. ‘I’m all right,’ he said.

  ‘And I’m a monkey’s grandma,’ she replied smartly. ‘Is it Val?’ Anthony’s girl had died in December, so Christmas had not been a favourite time of his for some years.

  ‘It might be that,’ he said pensively. ‘I’m due at their house for my dinner.’

  Theresa inclined her head. If she lived to be a hundred and five, she would never forget that dreadful day. ‘It should be getting easier now, lad. You should be looking for somebody else. No use carrying a torch for a girl who can’t see it, eh?’ She tapped his knee with a bony hand. ‘Find a nice lass and settle down, Anthony. I shall get no great-grandchildren from the queer feller, you know.’

  Anthony sighed, made no reply.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she ordered. ‘If you’ve brought presents for the little ones, you’ll find them playing in their room.’ She watched the slope of his shoulders as he left, noticed how heavy his footfalls seemed. If only he would shape up and pull his life back together. Val wouldn’t have wanted this for him.

  Theresa stared through her window and back down the years. Bonny lads, they had been. Even at the start, when they had been weeks old, Liam had commanded the attention. He had cried all night and all day, had fed voraciously, had seemed to dominate the situation right from the beginning.

  The old woman fingered her new pearls. By the time the twins had started to walk, Liam’s assumed supremacy had become evident. Anthony had been clouted, knocked down, bitten and bruised. Anthony’s toys were always broken or spoilt or lost. Liam had stolen from the shop, from his grandmother’s purse, from Anthony’s little box of pennies.

  Theresa had learned to hope that Liam
would improve in time. But he was still an arrogant and unpleasant man. ‘Damn you, priest,’ she snarled under her breath. ‘One day, Father Bell. One day, some bugger’ll come along and mess up your playpen. And I can’t wait for it to happen.’

  Cathy loved Anthony. She admired him, enjoyed his company, respected him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. He had brought her a huge box of paints and a story book. For Shauna, he had chosen a doll and a collection of nursery rhymes with colourful pictures. Anthony talked to Cathy and Shauna as if they were adults. He didn’t tailor his language to suit the young; he used proper words at normal speed.

  Anthony squatted down and helped the younger girl to build a tower of bricks.

  ‘Sir?’

  He looked across at Cathy and smiled. ‘Anthony when we’re not at school,’ he reminded her.

  ‘I might forget,’ Cathy said. ‘I might call you Anthony at school.’ She perched on the edge of her bed. ‘That’s if we stay in Liverpool.’

  He rose and warmed his hands at a small fire that danced in the iron grate in a corner of the bedroom. Perhaps Bridie was right, when she said he was coming down with a chill, because he felt cold, then hot. ‘Do you want to go back to Ireland?’ he asked.

  Cathy thought about the question for a few seconds. She hugged the memory of Ballinasloe, often had dreams that she was running with Bob through fields and streams. But now, she had so many friends. At any time of day, she could go round to the Costigan house and chat with those who happened to be at home. There were always plenty of children outside, and they were all good fun. She enjoyed the company of Tildy, had even taken a liking to the school. ‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to do what Mammy decides.’

  He nodded.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said sadly. ‘Because of helping Tildy and Cozzer to get stuff for the Nolans. Cozzer says Jesus is on their side, you see. Jesus knows the Nolans are hungry, so it’s not a sin to take things as long as they’re for the poor. But in confession, Father Brennan gave me three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and said I haven’t to steal any more. I told Father Brennan about Jesus taking the loaves and fishes and never paying for them, but Father Brennan said that was different. He was laughing, too. I didn’t know priests could laugh during confession. He called me a caution. Anyway, I put some money in the St Vincent de Paul box.’