The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  Betty held on to Diddy’s arm. ‘Are you all right, girl?’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Diddy. ‘But I won’t be if these buggers don’t get back where they came from. Go on,’ she yelled. ‘Back to your big desks and your leather chairs.’ She nodded at Betty Craddock. ‘It’s all down to you,’ she told the woman. ‘And there’s only one of you.’

  Betty smiled. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But let’s face it, I’m a bloody big one, aren’t I?’

  Diddy watched the group as they walked away. She tried to see Scotland Road through their eyes, tried to imagine what they would think of her piece of Liverpool. It was a bit smelly, she supposed. There were children cavorting about on tram tracks, children climbing lampposts and racing about all over the place.

  She thought about Astleigh Fold, its quietness, its cleanliness. It was all right for a holiday, she thought, but she couldn’t live there. She needed the trams and the bagwash and the Mary Ellens. She could not bear to consider the prospect of life without Paddy’s Market and the street entertainers who crowded the area on Friday and Saturday nights. Even drunken brawls provided a degree of entertainment.

  The door of Bell’s flew open and Billy stepped onto the pavement.

  ‘They’re looking again,’ she told him, her eyes still fixed on the departing committee. ‘Bloody corporation, bloody welfare do-gooders.’

  ‘Diddy,’ he said.

  Something in his voice made her swing round quickly to face him. ‘Billy? What’s happened?’ She had seldom seen her Billy crying like this.

  ‘It’s Maureen,’ he managed.

  ‘What?’ She clapped a hand on her chest. ‘Billy? What’s happened – tell me!’

  ‘She spoke,’ he muttered. ‘Diddy, she spoke. Edith just told me on the phone. Our Maureen’s coming out of it.’

  Diddy gathered her thoughts quickly. Maureen had come partway out of her trance before, and Diddy had always hoped for a total recovery. ‘Get our Monica off the market, Billy. I’ll fetch somebody to look after Mrs Bell while Charlie and Monica run the shop. Jimmy and Tildy can stop at Bell’s, too. We’ll take little Shauna with us. Run down to Hanson’s for her.’ Dolly Hanson had been taking care of Shauna during Bridie’s absence. It was strange, mused Diddy, how well Bridie got on with her dead da’s bit of stuff.

  Diddy’s heart was all over the place. ‘We’re going to see our girl,’ she told her husband repeatedly as if trying to make herself believe the good news.

  Before leaving, Diddy went up to see Sam Bell’s Muth. The old woman was standing in the middle of her bedroom, hands reaching out as if twisting and turning some invisible handle. ‘What are you doing now?’ asked Diddy. ‘Florrie Moss is going to look after you for a couple of days while me and Billy go—’

  ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ yelled Muth. ‘I can’t hear you over all these bloody machines.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Diddy.

  ‘Piecing me ends,’ replied Muth. ‘Pass us that skip of tubes, will you?’

  Diddy found herself wheeling an invisible container across the bedroom. ‘Here you are, Muth.’ God forbid that Maureen would emerge from her silence like this, confused and agitated. ‘Florrie’ll do your dinner.’

  The old woman’s hands dropped to her side as she paid a brief visit to the present day. ‘No dumplings,’ she said. ‘I can’t be doing with Florrie Moss’s dumplings. Like bloody lead weights, they are.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ answered Diddy. ‘I’ve a pan of scouse ready, so our Jimmy can fetch that round.’ She watched for a while as the aged lady carried on doffing tubes and piecing cotton ends. ‘God forbid,’ Diddy pleaded as she descended the stairs. ‘Please God, forbid.’

  Brother Nicholas always felt uncomfortable in the presence of Martin Waring. This lay member of the community was knowledgeable – far too well-read for a man from a supposedly poor family, a man who had been driven by deprivation into a life of petty crime. Yet there was nothing on which Brother Nicholas could lay a finger. Waring was correct, hard-working and an eager student. ‘It’s as if you have always been a Catholic,’ he said.

  Martin sat bolt upright. He had not been a Catholic, had not even existed until recently. However, Martin had been on close terms with a baptized and confirmed member of the faith, but Liam had to stay out of things for now. Liam was not yet needed and Martin was forced to stand alone. ‘I have not been a Catholic,’ he replied. ‘But I have read many books about my chosen religion.’

  The senior brother wiped his brow. He had not felt so ill at ease for many years, not since a murder suspect had been arrested just outside the Tithebarn’s walls. His flesh almost crept beneath the unflinching gaze of this tall, dark-eyed personage. Perhaps the beard had added to the sinister appearance. The man’s hair was as black as jet, while the eyes seldom displayed emotion of any kind. ‘So, you will receive your baptism tomorrow. Will you keep your Christian name?’

  ‘Martin John,’ came the swift reply. ‘John for the apostle dearly loved by Jesus.’

  ‘I see. A very good choice.’ The monk shuffled some papers on his desk. ‘Will any of your family attend the service?’ He kept his tone light.

  ‘No, Brother.’

  ‘Oh. What a pity.’

  ‘Those who are alive are antagonistic towards Catholicism,’ said Martin. ‘In fact, I happen to have relatives who are members of an Orange Lodge. They would not be thrilled at the idea of my conversion.’

  ‘Quite.’ Brother Nicholas glanced at the clock, tried to appear nonchalant. ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘St Helens.’

  The reply was rather glib, thought Brother Nicholas. ‘I know St Helens,’ he said. ‘Which part?’

  ‘Eccleston.’ Martin’s mind shifted into a higher gear. ‘Latterly, that is. I lived with an aunt for a while.’

  ‘Near to the park?’

  ‘Quite close, yes.’

  Eccleston was not the poorest area in St Helens. So Martin Waring’s aunt must have been comfortably placed. ‘You stayed with her after your release from prison?’

  ‘Until I came here, yes. Her husband – my uncle – is a lodge member. I could not have remained in his house.’

  Brother Nicholas played for a second or two with the idea of research. Perhaps he should look into the Warings of St Helens. But the aunt might have been from the mother’s side, and names were always changed by marriage. He sighed. ‘There’s a task for you on Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I want you to accompany Brother Timothy to a school in Bolton. It’s Sacred Heart. We have been invited to talk to the older girls about our work here. You have a way with words, so perhaps you might like to listen to Brother Timothy. He likes company.’ He coughed. ‘In this case, I think he will be grateful for company. The headmistress is a Mother Ignatius. She has a reputation as a tartar, but she is open to new approaches within the syllabus.’

  Martin swallowed. The name Ignatius was touching a slightly sore spot in his mind. But he could not refuse. Although the term ‘abbot’ was not applied to Brother Nicholas, the man was the undisputed leader of the frères. ‘Gladly,’ Martin replied.

  Brother Nicholas nodded curtly. ‘You may return to your duties,’ he said.

  Martin escaped from the office and stood in the corridor. Liam knew Ignatius, he thought. But Ignatius did not know Martin, so everything would remain under control.

  Mother Ignatius swept along the corridor like a very small black ship in full sail. Girls from the sixth form stood quietly by the walls. They were accompanied by three postulants and two novices whose education was being completed while they waited to be received into the sisterhood.

  Cathy O’Brien, who had toothache and a passionate dislike for algebra, was seated outside Sister Josephine’s office. Sister Josephine was a jill of all trades. She served as bursar, school secretary, meals supervisor, welfare officer and troubleshooter. Because of her total faith in iodine, Sister Josphine enjoyed a reputation for grievous bodily harm. Girls had been known
to suffer in silence rather than take themselves off to Sister Josephine for first aid. Many opted to drop blood all over the homeward-bound tram rather than choosing to put themselves in the grip of Sister Josephine and her iodine. Toothache was all right, though. With toothache, you got a bit of cotton wool soaked in oil of cloves. As the good sister did not like to invade the mouths of pupils, girls were in trust to apply these dressings themselves.

  Mother Ignatius ground to a halt. ‘Why are you here, Caitlin?’ she asked.

  ‘Toothache, Mother.’

  ‘Since when?’

  Cathy raised her eyebrows and thought. ‘Since lunch-time, Mother.’

  ‘I see.’ The nun rattled her rosary, put Cathy in mind of one of those ghosts in A Christmas Carol. Marley. Marley had rattled his chains. ‘What are you missing?’ asked Mother.

  ‘Algebra,’ whispered Cathy.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Algebra, Mother.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mother Ignatius put her head on one side. ‘So. It’s algebra that gives you trouble, is it not?’ The algebra was probably the cause of the child’s toothache.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what, Caitlin?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ The trouble with nuns was that they always demanded their full title. Sometimes, they could be quite pleasant and friendly, lulling their charges into a sense of security that was usually false. Because as soon as a girl slipped into normal speech, she was dragged over the coals because of a missed ‘Mother’ or a forgotten ‘Sister’.

  ‘Do you really have toothache?’ asked the headmistress.

  ‘Yes, Mother. It’s a pre-molar coming through before the milk tooth has fallen out.’

  Mother Ignatius squashed a smile. Young Caitlin had been at Richard Spencer’s medical books again. ‘You will ask Miss Cookson for extra algebra homework. It is important that you keep up.’

  Cathy didn’t care about keeping up, since most of the girls in her class were two years her senior. She could always repeat a year. Mammy was rich now, because she had bred the Derby winner and—

  ‘Do not make the fatal error of becoming complacent,’ said Mother Ignatius. ‘It is so easy just to sit back and think that everything will come easily for the rest of your life. I have had clever little girls in my school before. They sometimes burn out as quickly as a firework. You must strive, extend yourself, reach for better and better results.’

  Cathy swallowed a sigh. ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘And don’t sit all hunchbacked. You’ll end up with a curvature of the spine.’

  Cathy had read about curvatures. According to Uncle Richard’s bone book, a curvature was more likely to be something a person had from birth. But she closed her mouth, straightened her shoulders and decided to shut up. Often, silence was preferable, as few of the nuns admired a clever-clogs whose knowledge went beyond the school curriculum.

  A sixth-former giggled and won one of Mother Ignatius’s steely glares. The headmistress looked along the rows of star pupils, fifty young women who were hoping for university places or a chance to go to teacher-training colleges. ‘The two gentlemen we expect will be coming from a monastery. Their order is called Les Frères de la Croix de St Pierre. Translate, please.’ She prodded her nearest victim.

  ‘The Brothers of St Peter’s Cross, Mother.’

  Mother Ignatius continued. ‘They work to help all those who have sinned. We have all sinned, have we not?’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ chorused the girls.

  ‘But some sinners offend the state as well as God. Stand still, Gloria Baker. You will never be awarded a place at Oxford if you carry on fidgeting. Now, where was I? Ah yes. Men who leave prison are often sad souls. Their families may have moved on or rejected them. So they need a place where they can sort out their future plans. The brothers provide such a place. Work like theirs is admirable.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘You will listen carefully and you will ask intelligent questions when the lecture is over.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Carry on into the hall. Sit still and wait. You may talk quietly amongst yourselves once you are seated.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’ The twin crocodiles set off at a sedate pace along the corridor.

  Mother Ignatius returned her attention to Cathy. ‘Do not avoid algebra,’ she said gravely. ‘Algebra is the basis of all logical thought.’

  Although Cathy disagreed, she smiled brightly. ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Mother Ignatius?’

  The nun turned to find two men in blue-grey habits making their way towards her. ‘Brother Timothy?’ she asked.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the plumper and shorter man. ‘This is Brother Martin, Mother. He is a lay member of our house.’

  Martin nodded curtly. He had chosen to wear the uniform of a monk for two reasons. Firstly, he wanted to be anonymous because of Liam. Secondly, he was supporting a brother on a mission to spread the word.

  Mother Ignatius swept an arm in the direction of the school hall. ‘Our sixth formers are waiting for you,’ she told the visitors.

  Brother Timothy smiled at Cathy. ‘Toothache?’ he asked.

  She nodded, kept a hand against her cheek.

  ‘This little one would be too young for our lecture, I suppose,’ chuckled Brother Timothy. ‘So Brother Martin and I must cope with your older girls.’

  Mother Ignatius rattled her beads again. ‘Caitlin O’Brien’s mother owns the winner of this year’s Derby,’ she told the monks.

  Martin blinked slowly. Liam knew Caitlin O’Brien. Those horses should have belonged to Liam’s father. And this was the daughter of the Irish whore. She, her sister and her mother had deprived Liam Bell and the Catholic Church of their rightful inheritance.

  ‘Shall we go?’ asked Timothy.

  Mother Ignatius remained at Cathy’s side for several minutes after the men had disappeared. Sister Beatrice was in charge now, and she would be introducing the frères to their audience. The headmistress fixed her eyes on a large statue of the Sacred Heart. The nightlight was burning low in its red glass container. She would change it in a moment.

  A door opened to reveal the large, cheery face of Sister Josephine. ‘Ah, Caitlin,’ beamed the happy woman, ‘toothache, is it? Come away in now till I find my oil of cloves.’

  The door closed.

  Mother Ignatius was not a fanciful person. Although the day was warm she shivered in her summer-weight habit. A glance at the thermometer reassured the chilled lady that the temperature was in the mid-seventies, yet she remained cold. In her mind’s eye, a pair of dark eyes glowed dully, almost malevolently, above a lush growth of beard.

  Mother glanced towards the hall where her sixth formers were currently in the company of the one who owned those eyes. Silly, she told herself inwardly. She was far too busy to be standing here shivering in the heat.

  She renewed the flame beneath the statue, then carried on with her duties. Having accused many of her pupils of day-dreaming, she was not allowing herself to be guilty of the same misdemeanour. But the pores on her arms remained open for much of the afternoon.

  Twenty

  Monica-usually-Nicky Costigan looked almost beautiful in her borrowed frock. With excitement staining the pale cheeks, she lived up to her five feet and two inches by walking proudly on this, her last hundred yards as a single girl. The small wedding procession made its way up Scotland Road towards the church, while bystanders placed their shopping on the pavement, clapped, cheered and whistled at the bridal party.

  Nicky, at eighteen, was about to embark upon a new life with Graham Pile, the love of her dreams. She progressed slowly towards the future, not because of reluctance, but so that all around would get the chance to ooh and aah over the wedding dress. Mam had drawn the line at allowing Mrs Bell to buy a new outfit for Nicky, but Mam hadn’t been able to prevent Edith Spencer from sending over a borrowed one from Bolton. The last girl to wear this lovely piece of silk was now a person of substan
ce who had married a foreman in a textile mill.

  Alice Makin narrowed her eyes and took a furtive swig from a medicine bottle. The medicine was a passable breed of gin that had been decanted into a container bearing the legend All Fours Cough Cure. Beside Alice stood Molly Barnes, the retired prostitute whose life was now devoted to the running of the Welcome House. A few of Molly’s girls lingered behind the two women. Molly turned to them. ‘See?’ she said. ‘You can get yourselves a proper man and a proper church wedding if you change your ways.’ She prodded a very tall girl. ‘Lily – what have you come as?’

  Lily shrugged. Knowing what to wear was one thing, but having nothing beyond working clothes was another problem altogether. She had rummaged through her sparse wardrobe, had come up with a pea-green blouse and a tight black skirt. Her make-up was toned down to include scarlet lips and a smaller than usual dab of rouge on each cheek. ‘I’ve got nothing else,’ she replied.

  Molly decided that Lily might fit in very well with a travelling circus troupe, though she said no more. Encouragement was the thing. She had to be positive, had to boost the morale of her lodgers and find them proper jobs.

  Alice Makin took another swig of disguised gin. ‘It’s Bells to the left and Bells to the right,’ she grumbled. ‘With a few Costigans in between.’ Alice’s business had suffered because of the Bells. Since Sam’s death, Mrs Bridie Bell had set herself up as a moneylender. The difference between Bridie and Alice was a matter of interest. ‘Ruined me, she has,’ mumbled the huge woman.

  Molly Barnes flicked an eye over her companion. ‘If you don’t stop this daytime drinking, you’ll be waking up dead,’ she commented, her tone not unkind. ‘Mrs Bell doesn’t go doubling their payments if they run short of cash,’ continued Molly. ‘And that’s why they all borrow off her instead.’

  ‘It’s the interest what keeps me alive,’ moaned Alice, her treble chin trembling with indignation. ‘She can afford to lend cheap, ’cos her old man left her a bloody fortune and she makes a packet with her stud farm.’