‘Yes.’
‘Whose idea?’
‘My father’s.’ That was not the complete truth, Bridie told herself. Lately, she had wanted to put the sea between herself and him. The O’Briens, too, needed removing from the horizon of her life.
Diddy wriggled and plucked absently at her clothing in a vain effort to ease a particularly troublesome length of whalebone in the hated corset. ‘You’ll be just a skivvy for him and his mother.’
‘That’s all I was at home once our farm was re-tenanted. When we had to move out, we lived for a while with my father, so I did all the chores for him. Anyway, Da was worried about my dead husband’s family. They’re Church of Ireland and Da thought they might try to influence Cathy and Shauna.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I’d had enough of Da. He was desperate when I married Eugene and he never forgave me. So I had to get away.’
Diddy nodded but kept her counsel. She knew a thing or two about Thomas Murphy and a certain female shopkeeper not a stone’s throw away. Dolly Hanson had been ‘looking after’ Bridie’s father for donkey’s years . . . ‘You’ve gone from one slavery to another. You won’t even have a field for your children to play in, Bridie. Young ones round here are wise before their time. It’s a pity you came. It’s a pity I didn’t get the chance to warn you.’
Panic paid another brief visit to Bridie’s chest, but she dismissed it. For better or worse, she was a wife once more. ‘’Tis done now,’ she told her hostess. ‘No use looking back and dwelling on what might have been. If my mother had lived, if Da had been a better man, if you had written to me . . . We can’t live while we keep looking back all the time.’
Diddy dropped her head in tacit agreement, chewed on her thoughts for a few moments. ‘Sam Bell’s not a bad man,’ she pronounced eventually. ‘And he’s not a good one, neither. Like the rest of us, he’s got his faults.’ Light was beginning to break in the rear of her mind. Horses. Some snippets of conversation were weaving themselves into the thin curtain that separates the conscious from the subconscious. ‘The horses came about a month ago,’ she volunteered thoughtfully.
Bridie half smiled. ‘Ah, yes. They would be ferried across in good weather and on quieter tides. He takes great care of his beasts. Da’s famous for his horses.’
‘Some were sold on.’ Diddy clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as if trying to restrain herself. Given a chance, she would have clobbered Sam Bell and Thomas Murphy there and then. ‘Two were kept with the gypsies. There’s a stallion and a mare. The gypsies have been walking them miles and paying rent for fields where they could run about a bit. They’re frisky, like. Specially the grey stallion.’
‘Racers,’ said Bridie. She ignored a flutter of excitement in her breast. Were Quicksilver and Sorrel here? Would she see them again?
‘What?’
‘They’ll be racehorses. Arab–Irish are the best.’
Diddy eased herself out of the chair. ‘Would you like a drop of ale?’
‘No, thank you.’ Bridie had never tasted strong drink.
‘Cup of tea, then?’
‘It’s late. I must go and see to my children.’
The older woman laughed. ‘Our Tildy’s the best baby-minder in Liverpool, queen.’
‘All the same, I’d rather—’
‘Come on then.’ Big Diddy Costigan forced her size seven feet into the size six shoes picked up from St Aloysius’s rummage sale. ‘We’ll walk round to the stables and get your so-called husband to take you home.’
Bridie hesitated, forced herself to remember the letter. Sam Bell had promised not to trouble her except where the shop was concerned. She didn’t really want to think about bed, could not encompass the idea of close contact with a man she had only just met. And he was old, with a terrible cough and thinning hair and a very dirty kitchen table.
Of course, there would be the cleaning, shopping, cooking, washing and ironing; there would also be his mother to tend and the girls to mind. Those things were a woman’s lot, part and parcel of the institution called marriage. Compared to all those chores, the part-time running of a shop promised to be easy. If only he would give her a room of her own. She clenched her fists into tight knots and prayed that he would not touch her.
Bridie sat slumped in the midst of disaster and wondered whether she would ever be sane again. The walk from Dryden Street to Newsham Street Stables and thence to Bell’s Pledges had been interesting, to say the least. The actual stables had been closed for the night, so Bridie had been denied the chance to see the two horses. She and Diddy had spoken to the gypsy whose husband owned the business, had been told that Sam and his companions had left some time earlier.
Flashes of what Bridie had seen outside kept leaping before her mind’s eye like cinema film that jerked its way over sticky spools. She had brought her children into a place of perpetual motion and constant bustle, it seemed.
She leaned back, allowed her eyelids to droop. Noises from the road continued – people shouting, running, singing. It was plain that every shop in the neighbourhood intended to trade until midnight. Bridie was frightened, scared almost to death of the Scotland Road folk. They were loud and emotional, as if their feelings dwelt just a fraction of an inch below the skin’s surface. How easily they laughed, argued, fought. How quick were their eyes and movements, how rushed was their speech.
On hearing that Sam Bell and Thomas Murphy had left the stables before the arrival of Bridie and Big Diddy, the latter had shooed home her own offspring before dragging Bridie from Newsham Street into the Holy House, then had forced the new immigrant to face the crammed bar with its thick blanket of tobacco smoke and its stench of stale beer.
Bridie closed her eyes and allowed herself a little smile. As long as she lived, she would never forget that moment. Diddy had strode into the hostelry, had pushed aside anything and anyone in her path. ‘Billy Costigan?’ she had roared. ‘Sam Bell? If you’re in there, get out here. That goes for Thomas Murphy, too.’ For several seconds, silence had visited the bar.
Bridie’s grin widened. Perhaps the tendency to express sentiments so vigorously might even be fun? Perhaps the people hereabouts were all like Diddy – strong, kind and given to bouts of laughter? Oh, she hoped with all her heart that she might feel for others what she felt for this first friend.
Well. She tapped the arm of the chair. Here sat Bridie Bell, recently O’Brien, née Murphy, in a room filled with the clutter of travel, in the house of a man whose property she had just become. The ring was in her pocket. She could not wear it, because it was too big by a mile. If he touched her, she would surely die. If he touched her, she would run away.
Big Diddy Costigan was doubtless a trustworthy soul, as she had produced a key to the back door of Bell’s Pledges. ‘I keep this in case of emergencies,’ she had said. Had the good woman been unable to gain access to Bell’s, Bridie would have been spending her wedding night elsewhere. Wedding night. She would find her way upstairs in a minute, would seek out her daughters and her own bedroom and . . . and the old woman. How many rooms? One for Mrs Bell, one for the girls, one for . . . Would she be forced to sleep in the same room, in the same bed as a man old enough to be her father?
A key turned. Bridie froze, her ears straining towards the shop.
‘Come in, Tom.’ The voice belonged to Sam Bell. ‘Sit on this stool while I find you a drop of good Irish.’ Although the Liverpool accent was present in his language, the man spoke clearly, was easy to understand.
Bottle and glasses clinked faintly.
‘I hope you’re satisfied.’ These words came from Thomas Murphy. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Sam Bell. After all, she’s young and healthy, strong and able. She works hard and doesn’t complain. You should be paying me, man—’
‘You wanted her settled,’ replied Bridie’s husband. ‘I mean, it’s not my fault if her husband’s family’s Protestant. And she’s not on her own, is she? There are two children who’ll want feeding and clothing.’
‘Cat
hy can help in the shop. She’s a bright enough girl, though she needs a firm hand.’
Bridie’s heart beat feverishly. A firm hand? If anyone lifted as much as a finger, she would surely leave this place and take the children far away.
‘I was all right,’ said Sam. ‘I’d no intention of getting married again. In fact, nothing was further from my mind. I’m set in my ways, you know, getting a bit long in the tooth for fresh starts.’
‘Too late,’ chortled the Irishman. ‘The bargain’s made and the wedding’s over. You’ve two fine horses out of it, haven’t you? Silver will fetch a pretty penny once he’s broken properly. And the mare’s as solid as a rock.’
Another drink was poured. Bridie leaned forward in her chair. Da had paid this pawnbroker to marry her. Her flesh crawled as if she had suddenly become infested by some particularly virulent parasite. Surely to God a father didn’t go about trying to get rid of his only child?
‘John Baker knows all there is to know about horseflesh,’ grumbled Sam Bell. ‘He’s not interested in either of the animals, says there’s no call for them at the moment.’
‘What?’ roared Thomas Murphy. ‘Of course he’s interested. He’s just acting the part in the hope of a better bargain. I’m telling you, man, Silver will be a good runner. It’s all in the breeding. And, if you manage to race him without gelding, you’ll have a pension from the stud fees.’
‘I’m not so sure of that.’
The two men continued to talk. Bridie, shocked to the core, realized that her father had sunk to depths even lower than she had ever imagined. She had been sold. No, that was not the case, she told herself. In fact, if she had been sold, then she might have had some idea of her own value. Da hadn’t even managed to give her away; he had paid someone to relieve him of his burden.
With her eyes adjusting to the dimness, she managed to make out the shape of a sofa. The reason behind Da’s moment of hesitation in the church was now as clear as day. He had parted with two valuable horses, had been reluctant to give away so much. She was worthless in the eyes of her own father, simply because she brought no money in. Horses were, of course, a great deal more important than blood relatives.
Quietly, she rose and tiptoed across the room. A small case hung open. Little Tildy-Anne Costigan had probably raided this piece of luggage to find the girls’ nightwear. Bridie lifted boxes and packages, placed them quietly on the floor. The wedding night problem was solved. She would sleep here on the sofa with her coat acting as a blanket. Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. Da could continue his journey towards hell, but she intended to make the best of an appalling situation.
Sleep did not come easily. When she finally dozed off, she was back in Ballinasloe. The old castle oversaw the ongoings, kept its many eyes on river, market and church. Cattle straggled along lazily, birds sang, Mrs O’Hara stood outside the forge while her husband laboured and sweated over horses’ shoes. Brendan Gallagher rested against a wall, a glass of dark stout in his hand.
Mammy came along the street, her black skirt sweeping the dust, the snow-white apron starched and ironed, a shawl about her shoulders. She waved at Bridie before disappearing into the churchyard. Even in the dream, Bridie remembered that her mother was dead. But look, Eugene was coming along on that terrible, bone-shaking bicycle. His blond hair was sticking out in all directions, and his face was pink after toiling in the fields. Eugene had come back to her!
Bridie ran to him, touched his shoulder, breathed in the scents of the earth that always seemed to cling to his clothing. They would be married tomorrow.
Eugene kissed her, lifted her off her feet and onto the handlebars, took her along the bumpy street and struggled to keep the balance for both of them. She was so happy. She could hear him laughing, could feel the wind in her face.
She woke, looked around her. Sweet Jesus, what was she doing here? What would Eugene have said about this terrible business? No, no, she wouldn’t cry. From the next room, the room that was a shop, Thomas Murphy’s voice continued to drone. Wondering what Eugene might have thought and said was a waste of time. Had he lived, she would never have come here.
Sam Bell lit the gas, allowed the flame to glow for a few seconds before turning it down. Bridie was asleep on the sofa, had been here all the time, then. Had she heard? Did she know that her father had persuaded, cajoled and bribed in order to get someone to take her off his hands?
Big Diddy Costigan breathed down Sam’s neck. ‘You shouldn’t have gone off like that after the wedding,’ she whispered. ‘And I’ve worked out what you and Thomas Murphy have been up to. Why, Sam? What possessed you?’
The pawnbroker lifted his shoulders a fraction. ‘He wanted rid of her, I suppose. If anything had ever happened to him, her in-laws might have taken charge.’
‘He didn’t plan this out of love, you know.’
Sam nodded.
‘You shouldn’t have done it. It’s bloody evil. I mean, look at her. That girl could have got herself a younger man—’
‘He wanted her away from Ireland.’
Big Diddy dragged the shopkeeper out of the living room and into the small, lean-to scullery. ‘He wanted?’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘What the hell does it matter? It’s her life, not his. She must have been desperate to get away – desperate enough to fasten herself to somebody she’d never even clapped eyes on. Well,’ she spat, ‘I hope you get what you deserve, Sam Bell. I hope your horses never break into so much as a bloody trot.’
He pulled away from her. Diddy was not the sort of woman he wanted to cross. She was universally loved and respected. ‘I’ll look after her,’ he muttered lamely.
‘See that you do. Because you’ll have me and Billy to answer to if any harm comes to her or the children. Your card’s marked. We’ll be watching you.’ Her hand raised itself and the index finger jabbed in his direction. ‘That dad of hers is a rotten bugger. He’s been warming Dolly Hanson’s bed for years – even before his wife died, I’m sure. This poor girl’s not got a father – he’s more of an excuse. So you make her a good husband or I’ll break your puny little neck. And that, Sam, is a promise.’ She flung open the door and marched out.
Sam returned to the kitchen-cum-living room. For several minutes, he lingered in his chair next to the range, watched the pretty young woman sleeping. This was his wife. He thought about Maria, who had given him twin boys before slipping away quietly with pneumonia brought on by the exhausting confinement. He thought about Muth, who had stepped in immediately to raise the motherless Liam and Anthony.
Sam Bell fixed his eyes on the dampened fire, wondered what the hell he was going to do with a child bride, two female youngsters and a couple of mad, scarcely broken racehorses. He shouldn’t have listened to Thomas Murphy. The idea of taking on a resident nurse for Muth was sound enough, but marriage was a frightening step. As for horses – well – they had a leg at each corner. Four-legged furniture was something he understood, but valuable animals were not his forte.
Bridie shivered, muttered something in her sleep. A tear made its way down her cheek. He hoped she wasn’t going to be a moaner. She had been advertised by her father as biddable, strong and good-natured. The concept of a colleen wailing all over the house was not a happy one.
Silently, he crossed the room and turned off the gaslight. Bed was the best place for a man as exhausted and confused as he was. He checked that all was well in the shop, made sure that every bolt was fixed. Muth would be asleep by now. A young woman from Wilbraham Street had been instructed to feed and settle the old lady.
Bridie opened her eyes and listened while the man climbed his stairs. She had felt his scrutiny. A proper wife would have followed him to the upper storey, would have been glad to spend the night next to her husband. But Bridie was not a proper wife. Two horses had entered the bargaining arena. Mr Bell had required a great deal of persuasion, because he hadn’t really wanted to remarry.
She struggled to her feet, dragged the coat about
chilled shoulders. Tomorrow, her new life must begin. But for the rest of this night, she must remain in limbo.
Three
Cathy woke, discovered an elbow in her face. Where was she? Ah yes, they had come on a boat to Liverpool, everyone except Granda had felt sick, then Mammy had been married last night. The man Mammy had married was very, very old, because a lot of his hair had gone. It was all very frightening. It would have been so much nicer if they could have stayed at home. Cathy missed her own bed, her dog, her chicken and all the horses. Even living with Granda would have been better than Liverpool, though she had little love for her mother’s father. But she must try to be a big girl, because Mammy had all to do for Shauna, who was not thriving.
Although a pall of darkness hung in the air, Cathy sensed that this was morning. She kicked out at the other person, who was extremely knobbly and sharp. ‘Take your arm away, please,’ she implored.
Tildy rolled to one side, hit the floor with a none too quiet bump. ‘Jesus,’ she muttered angrily. ‘You’re worse than our Nicky, you are. No need to throw me across the bloody room. After I looked after you, too.’
Cathy sat up. ‘What are you doing here? And you shouldn’t be blaspheming. You shouldn’t say Jesus except when you’re praying, and you should bow your head when you say it.’
‘I’ll say what I bloody want,’ replied Tildy smartly. ‘You’ve hurt me.’
‘Is this your bed?’
‘No, it’s yours. But even if it is your bed, you shouldn’t be kicking me out of it. I stayed with you, didn’t I? Mr Anthony Bell told me to look after you and your sister – remember?’
Cathy remembered some of it. Mammy had gone to sleep in a corner. The pigeons had been asleep, too. There had been loads of food called spiceballs and ribs, and she had eaten two slices of something described as bunloaf. A man called Anthony had carried Cathy through the streets. ‘Did you carry my sister Shauna here?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I got in bed with her at first, but she’s a wriggler. So I climbed in with you.’ She shivered. There had been a fire in the corner of the bedroom, but that had gone out hours earlier. ‘Let’s get dressed,’ she suggested. ‘And I’ll show you round Mr Bell’s shop. Our Charlie works here, you know. He’s me brother and he’s a clever lad. He looks a bit funny, but he’s all right. Then our Nicky – that’s Monica – runs a stall on Paddy’s Market. She sells the stuff what gets left over downstairs – stuff what’s not worth much. Me and our Cozzer help out after school, like, if she’s busy.’
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 5