The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I know.’

  Flash sniffed back a tear. ‘Me and little Maureen Costigan used to entertain the queues. She had a lovely voice.’ He coughed. ‘They found the stole, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the mental hospital near St Helens.’

  Flash nodded, lit a cigarette. ‘He finished Maureen off, that bad bugger. She’s not the same, is she? I hear she’s back with her mam and dad, though. If I shut my eyes, I can see her now with her little dance frock and tap shoes. Everybody loved her. I think they got as much pleasure out of her as they got inside the Rotunda.’ He spat out a flake of tobacco. ‘They’ll not bother rebuilding,’ he said sadly. ‘Like everything else, it’ll just get left. Diddy Costigan’s right, you know. It’ll all look like this in twenty years.’

  Bridie agreed with him, though she made no reply. The area was devastated. There had been a mass burial at Anfield Cemetery just days earlier, some 500 people whose injuries had rendered them unrecognizable. Regardless of creed, the remains had been placed in one huge grave over which representatives of many faiths had prayed. Sometimes, it seemed hopeless.

  ‘You all right, queen?’ asked the old tramp.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She wasn’t. She was about to abandon the old neighbourhood to set up home with Anthony and the girls in Astleigh Fold. She felt like a traitor.

  Flash said goodbye, then trundled onward with his old cart. As Bridie watched him, she felt that he somehow embodied a way of life that was doomed to extinction. In a tidier Britain, there would be little room for eccentricities like his.

  As she surveyed the road, Bridie found herself smiling in spite of her sadness. Razor Sharpe’s shop was still standing, though the window had been boarded up. He had pinned a notice to the timber, ‘NO LECKY, NO GAS, NO WINDOWS. IF YOU WANT A HAIRCUT, BRING YOUR OWN CANDLE. IF YOU WANT A SHAVE, BRING BANDAGES. IODINE PROVIDED FREE OF CHARGE’. Dolly Hanson was still in business, though the upper storey no longer existed. A butcher displayed a poster of Hitler bending down. On the Fuhrer’s backside sat the words ‘BEST RUMP ON ORDER, DELIVERY PENDING’. No matter what was thrown at them, the Scottie Roaders remained unbowed.

  Bridie looked up at the barrage balloons pulling fruitlessly at their steel anchorage. They resembled huge, legless insects. In the side streets, some houses stood, others had been removed like bad teeth. There were craters and fire-hoses everywhere, and the air smelled dirty, tasted terrible.

  She reached the undertaker’s, saw a coffin lid propped casually next to the door. This piece bore the legend ADOLF HITLER crudely painted in runny whitewash. How on earth would the Germans have coped with people like these? They were un-put-downable, cheeky, resilient and very powerful.

  Lord Haw-Haw was doing his best, of course. He had been on the wireless again talking about Mary Blunn, a very famous little woman who sold fruit outside the cinemas. The ‘Gairmany calling’ messages were a source of great amusement to the locals. ‘Mary Ellens?’ they would say. ‘He’s the biggest bloody Mary of all, a right little mammy’s boy. Wait till we get hold of him. We’ll set Mary Blunn and all her mates on him – they’ll soon wipe the haw-haw out of him.’

  Bridie leaned against Razor Sharpe’s boarded-up window. Razor himself put in an appearance. ‘Want a tidy up, love?’ he asked, scissors waving in the air.

  Bridie grinned at him. Good old Razor carried on with his job in the shop, only to spend his nights running round with buckets of sand and water. Rumour had it that he kept a specially sharpened open razor in his back pocket, an item religiously honed to perfection in case he caught a Jerry. ‘I’ll peel his onions for him, all right,’ Razor was heard to boast when in his cups.

  ‘Bloody mess, eh?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Bridie.

  He stepped onto the pavement. ‘Listen, love. You get yourself gone out of here. It’s soft stopping here when there’s no need. Think of your girls. Think what you can do for all the children who’ve been shunted out of their homes.’

  Bridie turned to him and threw her arms around his neck. ‘I’ll miss you all, Razor,’ she told him. ‘Flash and the Mary Ellens and the market. It got hit again, I’m told. And there they all are again with their bits of wood and corrugated iron.’

  Razor blushed. He wasn’t used to holding a woman in broad daylight, especially a woman as pretty as this one. ‘They’ll not do us down, Bridie. They’re only a load of bloody foreigners.’

  She smiled at him, planted a kiss on his cheek, then carried on walking. He was right – she had to go. Shauna was already living in Anthony’s cottage. Edith was seeking a bigger house for Bridie so that all four of them could live together. Fortunately, Bridie could withstand the loss of her business, because the Cathshaw Stables provided the bulk of her not inconsiderable income.

  At last, she reached her ‘new’ shop. It had taken a bit of a blast, but it was steady enough. Diddy and Billy Costigan had refused to accept charity. The business would continue to be Bell’s, and the Costigans intended to take their weekly pay, no more than that. There were few antiques, as most had perished with Muth, but Billy had scraped together some bits and pieces for the window.

  Maureen emerged. ‘It’ll be mostly chandlery,’ she informed her boss. ‘And I’m helping on Paddy’s, too. Our Nicky’s busy down at Littlewood’s, so the stall will be my responsibility.’

  ‘Thanks for all you did for Muth’s funeral,’ said Bridie. ‘Anthony and I really appreciate your efforts.’

  Maureen picked up a broom and began to sweep the cluttered pavement. ‘I’ll stop at home till the war’s over,’ she told Bridie. ‘Then, I’m going to . . .’ Cathy knew. And Mam and Dad. But for the most part, Maureen kept her dream to herself.

  Bridie was pleased. Maureen was still a lovely young woman. Maureen had always intended to go into the theatre, and she would probably do quite well. ‘How’s your mother now?’ she asked.

  Maureen stopped sweeping. ‘Well, she’s accepted it. I mean, she couldn’t clobber Father Bell, could she? Because he isn’t who he was when he did it. And she’s pleased because I’m feeling better.’ She paused, looked hard at Bridie. ‘It’s no fault of yours or Anthony’s,’ she said. ‘Or Father Brennan’s. That po-faced policeman would never listen to anyone who wasn’t a Mason or an Orange Lodger. Still, at least he’s lost his job over it.’

  Bridie sighed heavily. When would the Catholic versus Protestant match be over? The game was well into extra time, had gone on for centuries. She wished with all her heart that the antagonism would cease. Still, the war had brought the factions together, though only when strictly necessary.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ said Maureen. ‘And I’ll miss Cathy, too.’ She grieved also for the countryside, for the smell of new-mown hay and the whinny of horses.

  ‘You can visit after the war,’ suggested Bridie.

  ‘We’ll see,’ replied Maureen. She picked up the broom and attacked the dust of war. ‘Yes, we’ll see.’

  She wore a bit of dyed silk that had been intended for a parachute. It occurred to Bridie that she might be depriving the occupant of some crippled plane a chance to jump out safely, but Edith reassured her. ‘It has a couple of flaws,’ she explained. ‘It will hold together for a wedding, but not for hundreds of feet.’ She arranged Bridie’s bouquet of roses and gypsy grass.

  Bridie gazed at herself in the mirror over Diddy’s mantelpiece. She had lived here for a couple of weeks, had sheltered in a Morrison under the stairs. Public shelters continued to be one of Bridie’s nightmares.

  Tildy, Maureen, Shauna and Cathy were bridesmaids, but Nicky had gone to work as usual. The noise from the gaggle of female attendants drifted down the stairs. Bridie remembered her last wedding, the one she had attended with great reluctance and two unhappy children. There had been an over-large wedding ring and an unknown groom.

  ‘That shade of blue suits you,’ declared Edith. The material had turned out a bit streaky, and the dye
would not survive washing, but the overall effect was pleasing. ‘I’m pleased that you and Anthony are to be legal at last,’ she said. Edith had tolerated the relationship eventually, though her discomfort had sometimes been obvious.

  Bridie grinned ruefully. ‘Sam knew, Edith. He left me to Anthony like a bequest.’ And Father Michael Brennan had almost lost his parish because of Bridie. He was an unusual priest, she thought, very human, very gentle and understanding.

  ‘And I’m glad you’re leaving this place,’ said Edith. ‘It is far too dangerous.’

  Bridie swivelled round and faced her companion. ‘That’s not why I’m going,’ she answered quietly. ‘I’m leaving because my husband lives elsewhere.’ There was a void in her heart, an emptiness created by the imminent loss of her dearest friends. ‘I love Scotland Road,’ she said firmly.

  Edith tightened her lips. Had it not been for the intervention of Lord Derby, many more would be dying in the raids. Whole families travelled each evening to Lord Derby’s estate. They slept in his property, then returned to their work and schools every morning.

  Bridie took something from her shopping bag and pushed it into a pocket. ‘I’m ready,’ she said. Anthony would be waiting at the church. This time, he would not be sitting with a crying Shauna, would not be watching his twin brother officiating at the altar.

  The bridesmaids, also in dyed silks, clattered down the stairway. Bridie looked at her beautiful daughters, thought about Cathy’s success at school, about Shauna’s undeniable courage. Tildy was grinning from ear to ear, while Maureen simply stood looking elegant and composed. ‘You are all lovely,’ said Bridie.

  Tildy stuck out her tongue. ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s get it over with. I’m expected at what’s left of the library in a couple of hours.’

  Diddy came in with Billy. She wore a typically dreadful hat, with the same murderous hatpin skewering the less than lovely creation to her tightly curled hair. She was going to miss Bridie. Holidays had been offered, yet it would never be the same. Bridie was part of the neighbourhood. Would she have stayed if the shop had survived the bombing? Yes, she would have remained until Sam’s mother’s death, Diddy answered herself.

  Bridie held out her arms and pulled Diddy close. ‘Don’t let them take it all away,’ she whispered. ‘After the war, they’ll start moving you out.’

  Diddy laughed grimly. ‘They’ll need a battering ram for my house, love. Come on, this is your happy day.’ She pulled away, straightened her collar. ‘Onward Christian soldiers,’ she cried. ‘Billy? Have you cleaned them shoes?’

  Bridie left the house and took the arm of Dr Richard Spencer. He was a splendid man, so much nicer than the one who had given her away last time. They stepped over holes in the pavement, avoided stretches of hose, picked their way carefully to the church.

  The organ played triumphantly. Bridie looked at the packed church, wondered where they had all come from. In the middle of a very cruel war, the folk of Scotland Road had made time for her and for Anthony. No matter what Liam had done, these people forgave unreservedly.

  She stood next to her lover, made her promises happily, then signed the register in the presence of Michael Brennan. Looking a bit wet around the eyes, the priest laughed and joked about how much he loved a happy ending.

  Outside, a few Brownie cameras took snaps, while Richard Spencer used his better camera to mark the occasion. Bridie kissed her husband, kissed her children and everyone else within reach, then walked back to Diddy’s on Anthony’s arm.

  ‘What is that in your pocket?’ asked Anthony. ‘Your mother’s rosary?’ He had noticed how his bride had kept plunging her hand into the pocket of her skirt.

  Bridie took out the item and showed it to Anthony. ‘It’s all we have left of Sam,’ she said.

  Anthony opened the lid, saw the bits of dried-up Virginia and a wedding band. ‘Oh, Bridie,’ he said, ‘how did I manage to get through life this far without you?’

  They dried their tears on a shared handkerchief, then strode on towards their wedding breakfast.

  1984

  Dr Caitlin O’Brien, a woman in her early sixties and of average height and build, rose from her desk and picked up a pile of books. She placed them in a carton with the photographs she had removed from the walls. Today, she would retire.

  How many years had she been at this hospital? She knew every crack in the walls, every corridor, every ward. Thirty, almost exactly, she told herself. Thirty years spent digging her way into the minds of others. Psychiatrists, she often told herself, were probably the sickest of all people, because they had chosen to spend their lives investigating human behaviour. There was a dent in her door where an agitated man had tried to smash a chair, and an odd section of glass had taken up residence in one of the windows. The original piece had been removed by an unhappy woman bent on suicide.

  Cait dragged a packet of Benson’s from her bottomless bag and rummaged for a lighter. Inhaling deeply, she pulled out all the photographs again and lined them up along her desk. The largest was a black-and-white print of the Costigan family, Billy, Diddy, Charlie, Nicky with her Graham Pile, Maureen and Tildy. Jimmy did not feature, because Jimmy had never returned after the war. This picture had been taken on a very special day, the day when the church bells had rung again after a long silence. The bells of Scotland Road had pealed, but Bell’s shop was no more.

  ‘You saw his grave,’ Cait whispered to Diddy. Diddy had been drunk to the point of unconsciousness when she had finally agreed to be poured onto the aeroplane. Of course, with two airborne journeys under her belt, Diddy had extolled very loudly the virtues of flying, though she had been no further than Blackpool since.

  Cait closed her eyes, pushed herself backwards in time to the fateful day when Diddy had moved to Kirkby. The house was boarded up like a fortress. Mammy and Anthony were there, trying to shout words of wisdom through a letterbox that no longer existed. Diggers and lorries were backed all the way down Scotland Road, the workforce standing by idly while waiting to demolish the street.

  ‘I’ll come out in a coffin,’ screamed Diddy from somewhere within the citadel.

  Tildy and Maureen stood on the pavement with Cait. Nicky and her Graham had emigrated to Canada, had taken Charlie with them. Shauna, too, was in Canada. She had married her Canadian sailor, had set up in business with Nicky and Graham. The cakes and pies from Pile’s English Bakeries were sold all over the New World.

  ‘Mam?’ shouted Tildy. She had left her children at home with their dad, a nice, quiet chap with a string of fish and chip shops. Tildy lived in Waterloo, had managed to avoid the exodus to Kirkby. ‘Mam? What about food?’

  ‘I’ve got a fridge full,’ came the snappy reply. ‘And a load of tinned stuff.’

  ‘It’ll run out,’ replied the ever sensible Tildy. ‘What happens when you run out?’ She glanced at her watch and frowned. Tildy was supposed to be ordering new stock at the Picton Library. ‘Mam? Do you want to starve?’

  No answer was forthcoming.

  Father Brennan arrived. ‘Bring yourselves out of that house this minute,’ he ordered. ‘Billy Costigan? Wasn’t enough harm done the day you marched on the council offices and got yourselves arrested? You’ll be in trouble again, Diddy,’ he continued. ‘You’ve made your point.’ Reporters and cameramen were arriving. ‘When you built your bonfire on the steps of the civic buildings, you expressed how you felt, right enough.’

  Cait tried again. ‘You can’t stay,’ she told her imprisoned friends. ‘The house comes down today.’

  ‘Then we come down with it,’ screamed Big Diddy.

  Cait turned to the priest. He was well into his eighties, yet he remained sprightly for a man so large. ‘What do we do?’ she asked helplessly.

  Michael Brennan grinned. ‘What did we ever do with them, Cathy?’ He always used Cait’s baby name when he saw her. ‘Wasn’t that the most glorious family you ever met?’ He sighed heavily. ‘Scotland Road was all about family. The
y survived because they had one another. If a child returned to an empty house, sure he had a dozen aunties and uncles who would give him shelter and a bite.’

  Cait bit her lip, thought about what was happening here. The houses were being destroyed along with a whole way of life. ‘Will they keep them together in Kirkby and Huyton?’ she asked.

  Father Brennan had a theory, but he kept it to himself. The words ‘divide and rule’ had sat at the forefront of his mind for several years. He had seen some of the earlier letters, had wondered over possible ambiguities. Some of the Scottie Roaders had been overjoyed to move away. Promises of bathrooms and inside toilets had been dangled like carrots before donkeys. There would be green fields, space, newly built council flats and houses. But many had moved to Kirkby in the mistaken belief that their old homes would be demolished and rebuilt.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes, Cathy?’

  ‘Will they keep the extended families together, within reach of one another?’

  ‘No. They’ll be put where they fit and they’ll fit where they’re put and to hell with what they might be wanting.’

  ‘God,’ breathed Cait.

  ‘I’ve said a word or two to Him myself,’ replied the priest. ‘We’ve women coming back here two and three times a week to shop. They stand where their houses used to be, and the sadness in their faces would break the hardest heart. They’ve few shops out there, you know. And a boy I met told me about his dad walking to work every day with the other dockers. The lad would stand at his window and watch a river of ants making its way homeward each evening. Those ants were working men travelling home after a day’s toil. Let’s hope they get some more buses soon.’

  Tildy was becoming upset. The bailiffs had arrived with large hammers and tin helmets. ‘Stand back,’ roared one of them. He swung his hammer while Tildy ran at him. She clouted him across his back with her shopping bag. ‘My mam’s nearly seventy,’ she roared at him. Cameras clicked. A BBC outside broadcast crew filmed the action.