The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  For Maureen Buckels

  Contents

  May 1941

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  1984

  May 1941

  She passed the church of St Aloysius Gonzaga and moved north along Scotland Road, heart beating like a sledgehammer, feet weighted by fear, her whole body slowed as if she had entered a nightmare.

  This was no dream, though. This was not the work of the eventide goblins whose task seemed to be to trigger a tormented mind into further terrors. Liverpool was burning. Cables from a barrage balloon had claimed an already crippled and falling Heinkel, had sent it crashing and roaring into the Mersey. Other invaders were taking advantage of the doomed craft’s colourful death throes. Using light provided by the exploded bomber, a huge force homed in on the port of Liverpool and vomited weighty loads onto cranes, ships, trains and buildings. While the bombers did the biggest damage, cheeky fighters dived to strafe the biggest port in England. Tonight, Liverpool might die. To the woman’s left, the docklands breathed fire into a heaving sky, long tongues of orange flame whose exhalations plumed before disappearing into dense, oily smoke.

  She stopped to ease a stitch in her side, raised her eyes, saw the parachute. At its base, a landmine floated almost gracefully towards the ground. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll give him up, I will, I will. Let my innocent daughter survive this night, then I’ll see him no more.’ How many times had she promised God and herself that she would put an end to her relationship? The Almighty had probably covered His ears against all Bridie Bell’s lies.

  Bombs crashed into warehouses; incendiaries landed on roofs and in the middle of the road. Somewhere, a gas main exploded and shook the foundations of every structure in the neighbourhood. Beneath her feet, the ground trembled, sending its ague right through to her soul. She wept, not only for herself and for her endangered child. She cried also for the city she had hated and grown to love, for the community in whose robust heart she had been sheltered for more than ten years.

  The parachute mine landed in a side street, blew wide open and threw her against a wall. The draught created by its blast stretched the skin of her face until she felt it would surely burst at any second. Heat seared her lungs, forbade her to breathe. Was this to be her punishment, then? Oh yes, yes, she would go gladly into the next world if only Shauna could survive. Aunt Edith might relent, might take pity on a motherless child. But Aunt Edith disliked Shauna with a passion and . . . and . . .

  Tainted air invaded her chest at last, and she coughed until the contents of her stomach were evacuated. She was going to live. The only other punishment that fitted her crime was . . . no! The good Lord would surely leave Shauna off His list tonight? He would not take a fourteen-year-old child just because her mother was worthless . . .

  A warden grabbed her arm. ‘Mrs Bell? What the hell are you doing stood out here? This isn’t a bloody fireworks show.’

  She stared at him, past him and into a crater between two rows of shattered houses in what used to be a street. ‘Diddy was right, you know,’ she managed. ‘This place will disappear altogether, no houses, no shops. And the Germans are helping the corporation and the government, aren’t they?’

  He scratched his head and tutted impatiently. ‘We’ve no time for hanging round here jangling about politics, love. There’s a war on, you know.’

  She turned and looked at the steel-helmeted man. His face changed colour as various lights danced across his skin. ‘They want rid of Scotland Road. Big Diddy has always said that. By fair means or foul, the community will be broken up.’

  The warden’s tongue clicked again. ‘They’ve not started a war just to knock your houses down, girl. There’s a bit more to it than that. London’s getting it as well as us.’

  ‘All the same, it’s another excuse for the government to . . .’ Bridie Bell pulled herself together. ‘Ah well,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll get back to the shop.’

  The man pondered for a moment. ‘Have you been injured?’ he asked. Perhaps something had hit her on the head . . . No. She had always been a great ponderer, this one. She was usually worrying about something or other. ‘You all right now?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She would not tell him about the figure that lurked around the corner. Wardens had enough to do without chasing a shadow, a spectre that had reappeared as if by magic after an absence that spanned a decade.

  ‘Come on, then. Let’s get you in a shelter. The buggers up there mean business this time.’

  She shook her head, felt grit pouring from her hair and down her face. ‘I’ll go with Shauna. She’s in the Morrison under my table.’

  The man frowned. ‘There’s a few been flattened in them indoor contraptions.’

  ‘And a few in the public shelters, too,’ she reminded him. ‘Did you pass our shop?’

  He nodded, lifted his voice against a new wave of bombers. ‘Bell’s Pledges is still there. Come on, let’s have you home, queen.’

  She allowed herself to be dragged along until she reached the place in which she had lived for eleven years.

  As she stretched out beneath the kitchen table between Tildy and Shauna, Bridie mouthed a few words to God. ‘This house is no more important than any other,’ she advised her Maker. ‘But thank You all the same for saving us so far.’ She would try to be good.

  During a short, dream-ravaged sleep, the man stood before her, long arms outstretched to receive her, laughter lines curling from his eyes until they almost touched that shock of dark, unruly hair. ‘Hello,’ he whispered. ‘Did you miss me, Bridie?’

  She would not go to him. Fiercely, she clung to her younger daughter. Shauna must come first. Cathy was fine, she told herself. Cathy was living the life of Riley on a farm in Lancashire. Where Cathy stayed, there were no bombs, no incendiaries, no warehouses to attract the wrath of Germany’s airborne armada.

  He called to her softly. ‘Come here,’ he mouthed.

  ‘No. I promised God. For Shauna’s sake, I cannot be with you, because we are not married. And we cannot marry. I told God, I told Him that I—’

  ‘Don’t bargain with God, Bridget,’ the man snapped.

  He had changed, yet he remained the same. The eyes were still brown and the hair was black, but laughter lines had shifted to the forehead, had become a deep, accusing frown. ‘Go away,’ she screamed. ‘Go and tend your business.’

  ‘You are my business,’ roared the dark-clad enemy.

  Bridie woke, heard Shauna weeping. ‘You held me too tight, Mammy,’ sobbed the girl. ‘And the noise is loud. When will it stop? When will the war finish?’

  ‘Ah, there’s no-one but God has the answer to that question, my love.’ Bridget Bell smoothed her daughter’s hair and listened to Tildy Costigan’s quiet snores. Tildy-Anne always slept, however bad the raids. When Shauna settled, Bridie plucked at a rosary, counted the decades and begged to be relieved of the terrible weight of her sins. She would see him no more, would love him no more. And poor old Liverpool continued to burn.

  One

  Bridget O’Brien stepped off an alarmingly unsteady gangplank and planted grateful feet on firm ground. At last, it was over. Never again would she go willingly within a mile of
choppy waters. Even now, the angry waves could be heard among the sounds of a hundred voices, some alien, others as Irish as her own.

  For many years, Bridie’s compatriots had left home to settle here. The exodus was supposed to be abating, yet the boat had been crammed with emigrants sailing hopefully into the start of a new decade. Hopeful? she wondered. What on earth would she find here in this grim, dark place? No fields, that was certain. No fresh air, no cold, clear water gathered from a sweet mountain stream. This was 1930, and England’s northern counties continued to embody the glory and the gloom of industrial revolution.

  She inhaled through her mouth to settle the queasiness, wrapped the shawl more firmly round the sleeping Shauna, then gripped the hand of her older daughter. ‘We’re there, Cathy. And thanks be to God for that, too.’ The three-year-old in her arms moaned, sneezed, settled again to sleep. Cathy, her eyes rounded in shock and wonder, clung to her mother’s side. This was England. It was dark, smelly and very noisy.

  Thomas Murphy was not far behind his daughter and grandchildren. The trip had been a bad one, even for a seasoned traveller like himself. Two or three times a year he made this voyage in the company of well-bred horseflesh. The animals, he thought now, were easier company than his daughter had been. She had begun to moan and vomit long before the coast of Ireland had slipped away behind grey curtains of November sleet. ‘Come, now, Bridie,’ he ordered, pulling her away from the water and across a square of cobbles. ‘Sit yourself down on the case till I find the rest of your belongings.’ He strode away in search of luggage.

  Bridget lowered herself onto the case and took in the sights. Dusk had fallen heavily, was weighted down by black clouds that promised to spill their tears at any moment. Groups of travellers huddled together for comfort, the children crying, the women white-faced with exhaustion. Sailors passed by, canvas bags slung across broad shoulders, skins browned and roughened by sun and saline. Across the rough-hewn surface of New Quay, revellers spilled from a dockside public house to watch two men who fought over some imagined slight. Befuddled by drink, this pair of heroes fell into an untidy and comatose embrace while the audience, deprived of a spectacle, drifted back into the pub. ‘This is a terrible town,’ Bridget mumbled to herself. ‘And I can never go home, for I could not bear the journey. As for putting space between myself and boats – well – we’re stuck here, almost on top of the docks.’

  Cathy touched her mother’s knee. ‘Liverpool?’ she asked.

  Bridget nodded. ‘Aye, ‘tis Liverpool, child. We shall be living right next door to all these boats and ships, though I’d dearly love to put many an acre between us and them. Still. We must make the best we can of life, Caitlin.’

  Caitlin, usually Cathy, was too young to understand her mother’s words. The crossing had terrified the child to the point of numbness. Mammy had been too ill to speak, while Granda’s temperament had not been improved by the boat’s lurchings. Granda Murphy was not fond of children. During her seven years on earth, Cathy had learned to be quiet when Granda Murphy was about. ‘Will we stay here, Mammy?’ the little girl managed, the short sentence forced between ice-cold lips. It was a frightening place, the child thought. People were running back and forth, many of them boys of eight or nine, some barefooted, others in heavy, iron-tipped boots. Newspapers, hot potatoes and chestnuts were being advertised by folk whose voices seemed to cut a swathe through the air, so shrill and piercing were the tones. The river was quieter, appearing to concede defeat in the face of humankind’s cacophonies. ‘Will we stay here, Mammy?’ repeated Cathy.

  ‘Aye, we must,’ sighed Bridget.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your stepfather lives in Liverpool.’

  Cathy crept closer to her mother and resented Shauna yet again. Since the supposedly frail child’s arrival, Cathy had been denied some of the maternal attention she had learned to expect. Her three-year-old sister was not thriving and she needed everything doing for her. Mammy was always saying, ‘Cathy, you have to be the big girl, for I’ve all to do for Shauna.’ Cathy didn’t feel big. Seven was a grand age according to Mammy, yet the little girl knew she needed her one remaining parent more than ever. ‘Why did Daddy die?’

  ‘Not again,’ replied Bridget. ‘Please don’t be starting all of that, Cathy. Didn’t we explain to you about the accident?’ She shivered all the more, a new ice in her bones owing something to the weather, much to the fact that she had not been allowed time to grieve. Eugene was only six months buried, yet here she was among foreigners and on her way to an English altar.

  Cathy bit her lip, felt no pain because of the merciless cold. Daddy was a great man who had gone to stay in another place called heaven. Why hadn’t he come to Liverpool instead of going off with Jesus like that? He would have held her, comforted her. He would have played games like cat’s cradle and guess which hand is the sweetie in. But he’d gone away and he wouldn’t be coming back and Cathy’s stomach was empty.

  ‘And poor Shauna misses her daddy, too. At least you knew him for a long time, child,’ said Bridget quietly.

  ‘Poor Shauna’ was warm and as cosy as a newborn against Mammy’s shoulder. Cathy shuddered again, wished that she, too, could be wrapped in a plaid shawl and held close to the body of her mother.

  Granda returned, his brow still furrowed by ill-temper. ‘Boy?’ he yelled at a passing urchin.

  The lad ground to a halt, drew a wrist across his nose to dislodge a dewdrop. ‘Yes, sir?’

  Mollified slightly by the child’s respectful tone, Thomas Murphy drew himself to full height before placing a hand in his pocket. ‘A threepence for you if you find a cart to carry us and our trunks and cases, lad. No fancy vehicles, mind.’ He sniffed and glowered at the boy. ‘If you’re quick, there’ll be a further payment when we reach Scotland Road. Do you know Bell’s?’

  The barefoot child nodded eagerly. ‘Bell’s Pledges? We live near there, mister. I can get a lend of a cart for a few pennies if you hang on here a minute. Will there be a name on your things?’

  ‘’Tis Murphy. Thomas James Murphy. Can you remember that?’

  ‘I can, sir.’ The boy nodded so vigorously that his rain-damped hair sent forth droplets that landed on Cathy’s face. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It was an accident, girl.’ The ‘girl’ came out as ‘gairl’. ‘See you after, then,’ he added before running off towards the ship.

  Cathy watched the lad, saw him wending his way past passengers, sailors, a crate containing live hens. His feet were filthy and bare, yet he ran as easily as the wind across ground that must have proved painful.

  ‘Come away with you, now, Bridie,’ chided Thomas Murphy. ‘We’ve a wedding in half an hour.’

  Bridget O’Brien swallowed a foul-tasting liquid that had settled in her throat. Her stomach groaned cavernously, yet she could not have eaten to save her life. Oh, what was she doing here? She was a grown woman of twenty-seven years, the mother of two daughters. She had organized the running of a sizeable farm since Eugene’s death, had kept books, paid wages, bought and sold stock. Yet here she stood, a lamb prepared for slaughter, a displaced person in a strange land . . .

  ‘Bridget?’ The two syllables were coated with steel.

  ‘Yes, Father.’ She rose, lifted the dozing Shauna, dragged Cathy to stand alongside the grandfather who had wrenched them all out of Galway. ‘I still think there was no need for this,’ she mumbled. There was need, an inner voice told her. Da was older and even more cantankerous than he had been during her own childhood. Twice, he had raised his strap to Cathy. Twice, Bridie had intervened, had placed herself between the man and his granddaughter. But she couldn’t be in the house all the time. He might slap Cathy when Bridie was out shopping or seeing to the horses. On the one hand, she was being forced to leave home. But, at the same time, Bridie needed space between her father and her little family. She should have run away, she told herself for the umpteenth time. She should have fled from the county and into wherever. Wherever – Thomas Murphy
would have found her.

  Thomas Murphy glowered. He was a tall man with thick, iron-grey hair and bushy eyebrows that seemed to bristle with anger above clear blue eyes. Even when he wasn’t annoyed, he looked dangerous, thought Bridie. Now, with his temper rising, he had pulled those eyebrows south until they overhung his features like the edge of an untidy thatched roof. ‘It had to be done,’ he snapped.

  ‘Eugene’s parents were quite resigned to the—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he roared. ‘They bided their time and no more, that’s the truth. Do you think I wanted my grandchildren whisked away to the Church of Ireland as soon as my back was turned? Heaven forbid that such a thing would ever happen.’

  Bridie sat on her temper. For how many years had she kept herself damped down? she wondered. Oh, such a lovely girl, she was. She had been a model daughter, a diligent worker on the farm, a loving and sensible spouse, a good mother. At what price, though? Since babyhood, she had feared the man who had frightened her mother. Thomas Murphy had never lashed out in earlier days, had never beaten his wife. The long-ago cruelties had been verbal and, it had seemed, eternal. Philomena Murphy had produced just one live child, and that child had been a sore disappointment. A girl? What use was a girl? ‘You’re not even half a woman,’ Thomas had screamed at his fading spouse.

  Bridie stared into her father’s steely eyes. Just once, she had defied him. She had got herself pregnant and had married ‘out’, had taken a non-Catholic husband whose family had cut him off for mating with a Roman. Now, with Eugene dead and the farm newly tenanted, Bridie was left with few choices. She and her daughters could have moved in with Thomas Murphy or with the O’Briens. The only other prospect might have been to take a cottage and trust to luck where money was concerned. Instead of opting for any of those unpalatable possibilities, Bridie had agreed to a fresh start well away from her da and her in-laws. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

  ‘Who would that be, now?’

  Bridie counted to ten. ‘The bridegroom, of course.’