Sam glanced down at his mirror-finished boots. ‘They’re clean,’ he ventured.
‘So’s your shirt. The collar’s frayed, though.’
The man heaved another sigh. ‘I’m too busy for all this panic,’ he grumbled. ‘There’s a lot of customers for your Charlie to see to. I should be round at the shop to give him a hand.’
Did glowered at him. ‘Our Charlie could run Bell’s with both arms in plaster and his legs broke. He’s been with you six years. Every time you go fishing, he takes over. Stand straight while I brush your jacket.’
The man shrugged and gave himself to the untender mercies of Elizabeth Costigan. He didn’t want to get married, didn’t relish the idea of young children poking about all over his shop, getting under his feet, asking for pennies. But a bargain was a bargain, and Thomas Murphy was not a man to be trifled with.
‘Did you shave?’ asked Diddy.
‘Yes.’
‘What with? A bloody butter knife? You look like a flaming hedgehog, Sam. Still, too late to worry now, I suppose.’
Sam Bell glanced round the Costigans’ spanking clean front parlour. This was a fortunate family. Their luck lay in the fact that both parents were energetic workers who refused to lie down in the face of that grim thief called poverty. ‘Is Billy coming?’ he enquired of his hostess.
‘Course he is. I got him ready and shoved him in the Holy House. One pint’s his ration, and one pint’s what he’ll have.’
The pawnbroker jangled some coins in a pocket, pulled out a wedding band. He wasn’t a great drinker, but he wished with all his heart that he could get out of here and anaesthetize himself at the Holy House bar. The ring was dull, so he rubbed it on his sleeve to brighten it up a bit.
Diddy gasped. ‘You’re never getting wed with a secondhand ring?’
Sam stopped polishing. ‘It’s twenty-two carat, only one previous owner. I’ll have you know this was Eileen Heslop’s.’
‘And she’s dead.’
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I know she’s dead. Tom Heslop sold me the ring after the funeral. How else do you think I got hold of it?’ He waved the yellow band under Diddy’s rather large nose. ‘She only pawned this twice, you know. Once to pay for her mam’s headstone and then when she put the spread on for her daughter’s wedding.’
Diddy scowled. ‘A new one would have been better,’ she insisted. ‘Even a nine carat ring or a cheap silver one like the nuns have.’
‘This one’s got history,’ he announced.
‘And scratches. It’s served its time at the wash-house scrubbing boards, that ring.’ Diddy rammed an unbecoming hat onto her over-tight brown curls, then stabbed a nine-inch hatpin through her felt and hair. Gripping a missal, she stalked off towards the door. ‘Stop here,’ she ordered. ‘Till I send your best man.’
Sam peered through the window and watched Diddy stamping off in the direction of a pub near St Aloysius’s church. The hostelry’s original name was seldom used since its re-baptism as the Holy House. After masses, funerals, benedictions and confessions, the Holy House was a favourite meeting place for many among the church’s congregation.
The shopkeeper glanced at his watch, hoped that Charlie Costigan was doing a good job. The oldest of the Costigan brood was an odd lad, stiffened down one side of his body by birth damage, not much to say for himself, a wizard with numbers. Yes, Charlie would no doubt be coping. Nicky Costigan was at the shop, too. Diddy had briefed her daughter carefully. ‘Make sure there’s plenty of hot water for Mrs O’Brien. You help her with the two little girls.’
Two little girls. Sam paced, stopped in front of the fire, studied a sepia picture of Diddy and Billy on their wedding day. Above the photograph hung the papal blessing and a dried cross from last Palm Sunday. Two little girls. All that noise and running about. They would need clothes, shoes, food, playthings. Still.
Sam examined the wedding ring once more before stuffing it into his pocket to jangle against pennies and sixpences. Oh well, he had made a pact and, as Big Diddy had said earlier, it was a bit late to start worrying now. Bridie, she was called. Bridget, really. She’d been married to some Protestant over in Ireland, a big chap called Eugene. The kiddies were Caitlin and Shauna. He wondered what Muth would make of that lot—
‘Sam?’
‘Oh. Hello, Billy.’
Billy Costigan was a big man, tall, hefty and prematurely bald. His weather-reddened face was almost split in two by a wide grin. ‘Ready for it, are you?’
To his amazement, Sam felt his own cheeks heating up. ‘I’m too old for all this,’ he grumbled. ‘And I hope she’s not counting on a big legacy when I’m gone. I’m leaving a lot to Liam.’
‘And what about your ma? She’ll see us all out, I bet.’ Billy knew better than to enquire about Liam’s twin. Although there had been no overt arguments of late, everyone knew that Liam and Anthony didn’t get on.
Sam thought about Muth, a saint of a woman, who had been bedridden since 1926. The new Mrs Bell would save a few coppers by looking after the ageing Theresa Bell. There’d be no need for minders, no need for folk to carry washing to and fro. ‘She can’t go on for ever,’ he said finally. ‘Come on, Billy. Let’s get it over with.’
Bridie had managed to change during five stolen minutes. She wore a dove-grey coat and skirt with a matching hat, dark blue shoes and some smart gloves of navy kid. The house was terrible. She didn’t want to live here, couldn’t bear the thought of spending her life in such a desperate place. There had been no time to go upstairs. She stood in the luggage-cluttered kitchen-cum-living room and righted her hat in a dirty, pock-marked mirror. ‘Come on, Cathy,’ she said softly. ‘We must go to church now.’
Cathy fixed an eye on Nicky Costigan. Nicky Costigan had scrubbed Cathy’s neck with a rough cloth and smelly red soap. ‘I don’t like you,’ announced the child.
Nicky grinned, displaying gappy teeth and a bright red tongue.
‘Don’t be rude, Cathy,’ chided Bridie absently. Would that slopstone in the tiny scullery ever come clean? Would any number of scrubbings get through to the actual surface of Sam Bell’s kitchen table?
Nicky wagged a finger at Cathy. ‘You’d better behave in St Aloysius’s. Father Bell’s coming down from Blackburn specially. He’ll be your big brother. How do you fancy having a priest in the family?’
The girl’s words cut through Bridie’s rambling thoughts. ‘Is he . . . is he Mr Bell’s son?’
Nicky nodded vigorously. ‘There’s Liam and Anthony. Twins. Anthony’s nice, but Father Liam, well . . .’ She wet a forefinger and drew it across her throat. ‘All hell’s flames and misery, me mam says.’
Bridie swallowed. How old was this Sam Bell? Da had informed her that the bridegroom was ‘slightly older’ than Bridie, but priests? Surely priests went to college for ever and a day? Weren’t they well into their twenties before being qualified? ‘How old are Anthony and Liam?’ she managed finally.
The eldest of Big Diddy’s daughters sucked her teeth for a second. ‘About thirty, I think. Me mam says they were born the year the queen died.’
So Sam Bell, the father of these two, must be at least fifty. She was going to the altar to fasten herself to an old man. No wonder Da had been grinning like a clown these past weeks. Several times, Bridie had caught him smiling secretly to himself. She took a deep breath, tried to wipe from her mind those pictures of home. Mammy’s sewing basket sitting in the hearth, peat glowing beneath a hanging kettle, soft snow clinging to a window-sill. Her mother’s home was Da’s house now. She would not go back, could never go back.
‘Are you ready, then, missus?’
Bridie stared hard at Nicky Costigan, thought she saw something akin to mockery in those pale grey-blue eyes. Could a girl of this age see straight into the soul of a grown woman? Surely not.
‘You’d better go and see Mrs Bell first,’ advised Nicky, pausing for a few seconds when she saw Bridie’s confusion. Had this bride been told about the ol
d woman? ‘She’s Mr Bell’s mam and she lives in the back bedroom.’
Bridie’s left hand climbed of its own accord to her throat.
‘She’s in bed. She’s always in bed. Mr Bell’s had to pay to get her looked after. I suppose you’ll be doing it now.’
Bridget O’Brien swallowed bile and temper. She would not go upstairs. She would not do anything that might persuade her to run back to Galway in the company of Thomas Murphy. ‘Time enough for me to meet Mrs Bell later,’ she told the girl. ‘After all, we must not keep the gentlemen waiting.’
The children followed their mother through the shop. Cathy stared at the strange young man behind the counter. He had a large head, a twisted arm and very strange eyes.
‘That’s our Charlie,’ volunteered Nicky. ‘He’s a cripple, but a clever one. Aren’t you a clever boy, Charlie?’
Bridie shuddered. The mischievous young woman might have been talking to a colourful member of the feathered kingdom. ‘Hello, Charlie,’ said Bridie. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’
Charlie’s mouth spread itself into a huge grin.
‘He likes you,’ pronounced Nicky. ‘Well, you must be all right, ’cos our Charlie only smiles at nice people.’ She rubbed a hand on her apron and touched Bridie’s shoulder. ‘I hope you’ll be happy, missus,’ she mumbled. ‘And our Charlie hopes so too.’
Bridie strode forth into the din of Scotland Road with a child on each side of her and a lead weight in her heart. Da was outside the shop talking to a man in a black coat. ‘Here she comes,’ shouted Thomas Murphy. ‘Bridie, come away now and meet your stepson.’
The man turned and looked at his father’s bride-to-be. Such a little thing, she was, no more than five feet two, blonde and quite beautiful. His heart leapt about in his chest, because he understood what it was to lose someone who was meant to be a partner for life. This girl had lost a husband, while Anthony had been deprived suddenly, cruelly, of the woman he had loved. And Bridie was so young, so lovely. ‘I’m Anthony,’ he told her. Could he go into that church? Could he? There was fear in her face. Yes, he must attend the wedding. His stepmother-to-be would be needing friends, he felt sure.
She could scarcely meet his gaze. What on earth must he think of her? Here she was, a usurper from another country trying to fill his mother’s shoes. Perhaps this young man thought she was after Sam Bell’s money. ‘I’m Bridget – usually Bridie.’ In, out, said her inner voice. Just breathe slowly, don’t panic, don’t let the fear spill out into the street.
Thomas Murphy cleared his throat. ‘Anthony’s brother will officiate at the wedding.’
Bridie gave her father a brilliant smile. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it great to have a priest in the family?’
An expression of shock and disappointment paid a brief visit to Thomas Murphy’s face. She ought to have been perplexed, should have been unhappy to realize that her husband-to-be had a grown-up family. But she was so cool, as if she had known all along that Sam Bell was middle-aged. ‘Right,’ he mumbled. ‘Off we go, then.’
Bridie took her father’s arm, suppressed a shudder that tried to invade her body. This wedding would be done properly, right down to the last tiny detail. Fiercely, she clung to the words she had read some weeks earlier. Only once had Sam Bell communicated with his intended bride. ‘I will not trouble you much except to have you help in the business . . .’ He had made no mention of a bedridden mother and twin sons of thirty years.
For a split second, she lent the false smile to Anthony. ‘Would you bring the children, please?’ she asked the young man.
Anthony took the hands of Cathy and Shauna. ‘Off we go,’ he told them, ‘into the prettiest church in Liverpool.’
Two
It was a beautiful church. Despite her misery and bewilderment, Bridie noticed how lovely it was. Perhaps the interest in her surroundings was a defence mechanism, a way of ignoring the panic beating in her breast.
Narrow windows in stained glass alternated with stations of the cross along the walls. The pews were old, some with little doors leading in from the middle aisle, every piece of moulding polished to perfection. Three altars were spread with fine linen, the central and main table displaying the purple of Advent. There would be no high mass, as this arranged marriage was taking place with special permission during a forbidden time. Bridie shivered slightly as she stood on the threshold of a new life and in the doorway of an unfamiliar place of worship. Lent and Advent weddings brought bad luck, didn’t they?
The organ struck a dissonant chord the second she appeared on her father’s arm. Bridie had not expected music, partly because of the church calendar and partly because music needed paying for. But the celebrant priest was the bridegroom’s son, so the organist was probably playing for free. The hymns would not be joyful, not during Advent, but perhaps the music would serve to muffle the loud beating of the bride’s heart.
Anthony Bell and his two young charges sat yards ahead on her side of the church, while everyone else was positioned to the right. A large man rose as soon as the organist played the first bar of ‘Faith of our Fathers’. Bridie removed her gaze from a particularly ornate carving of Veronica wiping the face of Jesus, and gave a corner of her attention to the occasion in hand. No wedding march, of course, not during Advent. The chunky fellow seemed to be best man; a smaller figure rose and stood with him. The short man coughed noisily and fiddled with a handkerchief. Sam Bell, she supposed.
‘Are you ready for this?’ whispered Thomas Murphy.
Bridie stopped mid-stride and wondered whether she had heard correctly. ‘What?’ she murmured.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Is this the right time for such a question? They’re ready to start the second verse.’ She could feel the heat of embarrassment settling in her cheeks. Heads were swivelling in the direction of bride and bride’s father, and the singing was beginning to straggle somewhat.
The small congregation of St Aloysius Gonzaga looked quizzically at the grey-haired Irishman and his petite daughter, then were brought to book by the priest’s loud singing. Everyone faced the front and attacked anew the famous hymn of battle that curdled Orange blood on Catholic walking days. ‘We will be true to thee ’til death,’ they droned.
‘He’s old for you.’
‘You already knew that.’
‘Yes, but—’
Bridie clicked her tongue. ‘We can’t stand here talking. Weren’t you the one with the brilliant idea? Weren’t you the one who shifted us here away from the O’Briens?’ She lifted her head and dragged her father the rest of the distance. There was no going back, she told herself doggedly. Here in Liverpool there would be filth and noise, but there would be no animosity between the O’Briens and this tyrannical patriarch.
Sam Bell positioned himself next to Billy Costigan. He pulled the ring from his pocket, tried not to cringe as two halfpennies tumbled and clattered their way across the floor. She was so young. Determinedly, he faced the front and pushed the deceased Mrs Heslop’s ring into the sweaty palm of Billy Costigan, his best man. The children were very young, too. One of them was beginning to cry . . . Another cough bubbled in his chest, and he squashed it determinedly. The little girl was making enough noise without Sam adding to it.
Bridie stopped alongside the pew that contained Anthony Bell, Cathy and Shauna. ‘Shush, now,’ she told the mewling three-year-old. ‘See – play with my rosary.’ She thrust the beads into Anthony Bell’s hands. This was her mother’s rosary. But she would not think about her mother or about Ireland; she would not even look at the man to whom she must shortly be joined in this celebration of holy wedlock. Holy?
She returned to her father and stared at him full in the face. Although she feared the future, Bridie O’Brien smiled sweetly before giving her consideration to the altar. Father could go home now. He could look after himself, because no-one would cook or clean or sew for him. Perhaps one of the local girls might come in for an hour or two, but an arrangement
of that sort would involve money. Whatever, with his wife long dead and his daughter in England, Thomas Murphy was about to find himself without unpaid servants. Even during her marriage, Bridie had given one full day each week to her father. So. Himself was alone now. The grim prospect of total isolation had given birth to Father’s sudden dismay – of that Bridie felt certain.
‘Deus Israeli conjungat vos . . .’ intoned the priest.
Bridie found herself gazing at the celebrant. At twenty-seven years of age, Bridie was about to become stepmother to a man of God whose facial expression reflected precious little inner charity. Thirty, if a day, she thought. The features matched those of the other fellow . . . the man who was minding the girls. Now, what was his name? Anthony. So this was Liam, then. These were identical twins, yet . . . Furtively, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, saw Shauna playing prettily with Anthony.
The priest cleared his throat, waited until the bride got her mind on the sacrament of marriage. ‘Brethren,’ he said, ‘let wives be subject to their husbands.’
Bridie bit her lip. Though she had avoided looking to her right, she knew that the person standing next to her was Sam Bell. He was not big, but he was real. He was flesh and blood and she could hear him breathing. The man had a troublesome chest, she thought. Would Shauna catch more colds here? Would the poor child suffer that dreadful croup again?
The bride swallowed painfully against a rising sob. Eugene . . . That had been a hurried marriage, too. With Cathy in her belly, Bridie had stood before a priest and had taken vows in the presence of two witnesses. Her first husband had been graceful when it had come to the signing over of all his unborn children to the Church of Rome. Eugene’s voice popped into her mind. ‘Does it matter, really?’ he had asked. ‘As long as they’re strong and healthy, our babies can find their own way to God.’
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 3