‘I . . . er . . .’
‘Spit it out, girl. It’s Christmas tomorrow, in case you haven’t noticed. There’s no time for messing about. That bloody bakehouse is packed, you know.’
Bridie tried to organize the words. ‘I need some money,’ was the best she could manage.
Diddy laughed. ‘You need money? Try telling that to Cissie Nolan. She’s fourteen mouths to feed and her feller’s drunk all his Christmas bonus before my Billy could get to him.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘Arthur Nolan’s in the bloody bridewell again sleeping it off. Christmas? It doesn’t mean a thing to them poor Nolan kiddies and their mam.’
Bridie felt ashamed. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean the Nolans don’t matter, it’s just that—’
‘What do you want it for?’
The younger woman swallowed. ‘Horses,’ she whispered.
Diddy crossed the shop floor with an agility that was remarkable in view of her bulk. She clasped Bridie’s hands. ‘The horses your dad gave to Sam?’
Bridie nodded.
‘Worth a lot, are they?’
‘Yes. Well, they could be.’
Diddy cursed under her breath. She cursed Sam, Thomas Murphy and the family of Bridie’s dead husband. ‘Bastards, the lot of them,’ she murmured.
‘Does everybody round here know?’ asked Bridie.
‘Know what?’
‘That my father had to pay to get rid of me and the girls.’
Diddy hesitated for a split second before wading in. ‘Rubbish,’ she spat. ‘That’s not true. If you’d stopped at home, some bright feller would have picked you up.’ She gazed at Bridie Bell. ‘You’re the best-looking woman in the whole of Liverpool,’ she advised her companion. ‘Anyway, I’ve told nobody about the horses. What do you want them for?’
Bridie thought for a few moments. ‘To know what I’m worth,’ she said slowly. ‘To get them trained as runners so that I can show my father his error of judgement. He may be clever with animals, Diddy, but he knows not one thing about me. I’m easily as good as he is with horses, I must say that.’
The shop door opened, so Diddy went off to make tea while Bridie served. Diddy spoke to Shauna, gave the child a bit of chocolate. Sam Bell and Thomas Murphy wanted whipping, she thought as she waited for the kettle to boil. Poor Bridie had been treated like a piece of property – no – worse than that, she pondered. The young woman was not even merchandise in the eyes of her father and her husband. Bridie and her children were nuisances, irritations, things to be passed on as quickly as possible.
‘Diddy?’
The visitor turned, looked at Mrs Bell the younger. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know why exactly these horses are important. They just are.’
Diddy warmed the pot.
‘They were in the wrong, my father and Sam. My father was more wrong than Sam, of course.’
‘I know they were wrong, love.’
‘The horses are my chance of becoming . . . oh, I don’t know.’
‘A human being?’
Bridie smiled. She had known all along that Diddy would understand. ‘But they’re worth a lot more than I’ve got to spare.’
When the tea was poured, Bridie picked up her cup and stood with one foot in the shop and the other in the kitchen. Diddy, silent for once, stirred in several measures of sugar to help her think. ‘Take something from the stores and flog it in town.’ She waved a teaspoon at one of Sam Bell’s many hiding places – a walk-in cupboard which ran the length of the kitchen. ‘I know it’s locked, but my Billy could open it.’
‘No.’
‘You what?’
It was difficult to explain, but Bridie could not bear the thought of hurting Sam. He had done her no harm, had taken in her children, had sheltered and fed three strangers. He was wont to disappear from time to time with fishing rods and net, but that was no crime. ‘Not that, Diddy. Not from Sam. I know he bargained with Da, but my father’s a powerful man when it comes to persuasion. No, no, I’m not going to turn against Sam.’ She left unspoken the certainty that Sam would never turn against her and the girls. She was developing a respect for her husband, a tolerance that bordered on concern.
‘What else, then? There’s stuff parked all over this house that’s worth a fortune. It’ll all go to that bloody Liam once Sam pops his clogs. Sam doesn’t know what he’s got, can’t remember half of it. He’d not miss some bits of silver and jewellery.’
‘I can’t.’
Diddy drained her mug. ‘Where else will you get the money?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve handed over my mother’s locket and both my wedding rings so that Rosa McKinnell won’t sell Sorrel and Silver without telling me first. But the value of my bits and pieces won’t feed the animals through the winter.’
Diddy’s mouth dropped. ‘Does he know about the ring?’
‘He thinks I lost it with it being so big.’
‘Bloody miser,’ said Diddy. She took a long, hard look at Sam Bell’s bride. ‘You getting on all right with him?’
‘Yes.’
Diddy considered the problem. The horses must have been worth a few bob. Sam Bell didn’t know a horse from an aspidistra. If someone could convince Sam that the beasts were worthless . . . Even so, Bridie would need a fair sum. ‘Have you no money at all?’ she asked.
‘None,’ replied Bridie.
‘Housekeeping?’
‘I just ask when I need it. But he gives me only a few shillings at a time.’
‘Let me think on it,’ said Diddy. ‘It’ll have to wait till after Christmas now.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘Billy’ll fetch your goose round from the bakehouse when it’s done. There was a bit of a queue this time. Must be a good sign if a few of us can afford proper meat too big for our own ovens.’ She frowned. ‘If you’ve any bits of food left over tomorrow, bring it round to our house for the Nolans, will you?’ Diddy bustled off to carry on her Christmas preparations.
Bridie made a mental note to make sure that some ‘leavings’ found their way into the Nolans’ house. Cissie Nolan was that poor, thin woman who had opened her door to Bridie when Cathy had gone missing on their first morning in Scotland Road. Twelve children. Bridie shook her head and wondered how anyone could possibly manage more than two. She glanced at the clock. Cathy was out again, of course, had probably forgotten her promise to be good. She was no doubt trailing all over Paddy’s Market with Cozzer and Tildy-Anne.
‘Bridget?’
The young woman froze, then turned slowly. Theresa Bell was fully dressed and standing on the stairs. ‘Muth,’ began Bridie lamely, ‘so glad you’ve managed to get down the—’
‘No time for all that,’ snapped Theresa. ‘You and I need a bit of a talk together. I’ve got ears, you know. There might be a lot wrong with me, but I’m not deaf, not yet.’ She frowned deeply, making the channels of age more pronounced than ever in the withered face. ‘It’s time you and me got a few things straightened out, girl.’
Bridie saw Charlie entering the shop, fished around in her brain for some excuse. She didn’t want to talk to Theresa Bell. How long had Sam’s mother been eavesdropping? Had she heard the conversation between Bridie and Diddy? Meekly, she made her way back into the kitchen.
Theresa Bell limped in, shooed Shauna into the shop. ‘Right, lady,’ she said to her daughter-in-law. ‘I declare this meeting open. Just let me say my piece . . .’
Cathy O’Brien was in her element. Mammy was busy with the shop, with Uncle Sam’s mother and with Shauna. There were no fields to run in, no horses to play with, but Scotland Road was like a large extension to Bell’s Pledges – full of noises, sights, interesting things and people. In spite of Bridie’s several warnings, Cathy had taken charge of herself, had grabbed a degree of liberty.
Since her father’s death, Cathy had never imagined herself to be a part of anything. Her mother loved her and was good to her, her clothes were decent and she had a little sister who wasn’t al
ways a desperate pain, but she had been lonely inside since Eugene O’Brien’s terrible accident. Now, Cozzer and Tildy were beginning to fill a corner of the void in Cathy’s young heart.
It was Christmas Eve, so excitement hung in the air even here, where many people were too poor for lavish celebrations. The shops were busy, their windows decorated with dabs of cotton wool and twists of crêpe paper. People stopped for what they called a gab or a jangle, then rushed off to prepare whatever was within their means. The lamplighter handed out toffees, and a silly man in a Father Christmas suit sang songs and, when he thought no-one was looking, swigged whisky furtively from a bottle.
Cozzer had earned a few pence for carrying oilcloth, and these wages had been squandered in Scouse Alley, a café near the market. Tildy, Cathy and Cozzer had dined oh a feast of scouse and red cabbage followed by several helpings of syrup cakes. Cathy felt as if her stomach would burst at any moment, yet the memory of those syrup-soaked pancakes was precious. ‘That was the best thing I ever ate,’ she told her companions. ‘Where do we go now?’ Mammy wouldn’t be looking for her yet, surely?
Cozzer shook his head. They had scoured the pavements outside the Derby, the Gaiety and the Gem cinemas, had found no dropped pennies. Fishing down the grids had yielded a shirt button and a single miserable halfpenny, and it was too early for drunks. Cozzer was clever with drunks. He would engage them in conversation, help them across the street, then pick their pockets before wishing them well. Of course, pocket-pickings were for the Nolans. Catholics did not steal, not for themselves, at least, not unless they were starving to death. ‘We could have another wander round Paddy’s,’ he suggested.
They strolled down Scotland Road, their way lighted by gaslights that flickered unconvincingly, their breath hanging in chill air like miniature clouds. Vans carrying paupers’ parcels coughed their way up and down the road. On a whim, Jimmy ‘Cozzer’ Costigan stepped out and halted one of these vehicles. ‘Stop!’ he yelled, a hand raised against the looming van.
A woman alighted. ‘Boy, you will be killed,’ she announced.
Cozzer eyed the charitable person. ‘Have you done the Nolans?’ he asked. ‘Dryden Street, twelve children.’
She nodded. ‘We left the food with Mrs Costigan.’
‘Just as well,’ commented Cozzer. ‘Else Mr Nolan would have sold it for beer.’ He stepped aside and allowed the Goodfellows to continue their gargantuan task of feeding the destitute.
‘We’d best go home,’ said Tildy. She jerked a thumb at Cathy. ‘Her ma’ll be wondering where she is again. And we might have to go down Limekiln to the bakery.’
Cozzer shook his head. ‘Me dad’s picking our bird up. Let’s go to Paddy’s.’
‘Why is it called Paddy’s?’ asked Cathy. ‘Mammy says it’s St Martin’s Market.’
As they ambled along, Tildy instructed Cathy on the origins of Paddy’s, told her about destitute Irish immigrants who had clothed themselves with stuff bought second-hand at the market. ‘Everybody knows about it,’ pronounced Tildy airily. She prided herself on her standard of education, most of which had been gained by listening to her mother. ‘On ships, they call the main gangway Scotland Road. Even on the big liners what go all round the world. If you’re lost, a sailor tells you to go up Scotland Road, then bear port or starboard. That means left or right.’
Paddy’s was crowded. People milled about, some with purchases in mind, others just passing time and waiting for that magic moment when the Scotland Road butchers and fruiterers would be panicked into auctioning off their stock. Many a Christmas roast would be acquired at the last minute by folk whose purses were slim to the point of emaciation.
Cathy lingered near Nicky Costigan’s stall. Nicky was trying to do business with a man who looked very strange. He was wrapped in several layers of clothing, and was wearing no less than six hats. Cathy understood the need for all the jackets and woollens, but was defeated by the sight of six precariously balanced bowlers above a brown, sea-weathered face and huge black eyes.
‘What Johnny pay?’ asked Nicky.
Cozzer grabbed Cathy’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘They’re only Johnny Laskies.’ He pointed to a long row of dark-skinned men, one of whom was struggling to carry what looked like a whole fireplace. ‘Them in the middle of the line has the money,’ he informed Cathy. ‘So’s they never get robbed. They’re no use to us, not for the Nolans.’
But Cathy was riveted to the exotic sight.
‘His Master’s Voice,’ the seaman told Nicky.
Nicky walked to the front of her stall, winked at her siblings and pointed to a gramophone. ‘His Master’s Voice,’ she said. ‘Two shillings, Johnny.’
Johnny shook his head, miraculously failing to dislodge the heap of hats. ‘Libby’s Milk,’ he replied.
‘This not Libby’s Milk, Johnny,’ said Nicky slowly. ‘This from Bell’s shop. Mr Bell not stick Libby mark on gramophone.’
Cathy’s jaw hung open. How on earth could this man fail to distinguish a tin of milk from a gramophone?
Tildy nudged her female companion. ‘Shut your mouth, you look soft,’ she advised before offering an explanation for this strange scenario. ‘Some stallholders have found labels on milk tins that look a bit like His Master’s Voice. They cut them out and stick them on gramophones. Johnny’s just being careful. Aren’t you, Johnny?’ she asked the Indian sailor.
Twin rows of perfect teeth smiled down on Tildy and Cathy. ‘Johnny careful,’ he agreed.
Cathy was finally dragged away by Cozzer and Tildy. ‘Six hats,’ she muttered. ‘And gramophones and bicycles and somebody’s fireplace.’
Tildy nodded sagely. ‘All bought for tuppence and sold for a fortune when they get home. Like me mam says, that ship’ll be low in the water tonight.’
They wandered on, listened to a band playing carols on foo-foos, strange little wind instruments out of which the locals produced improbably beautiful music. Cozzer took a comb and paper and joined in, made a fair stab at it. ‘He’s getting a foo-foo for Christmas,’ said Tildy. ‘Then he can join a proper band.’
A fight broke out in front of an improvised coconut shy whose owner had used weighted coconuts. Police arrived, missiles flew, and strong language filled the freezing air. Cozzer dragged his female charges out of Paddy’s and through the narrow jiggers towards home. Then a thought struck him. ‘I’m going to get them a bird,’ he announced.
Cathy, who was still reeling from the adventure on Paddy’s, leaned against somebody’s back gate. The jiggers were awful places, narrow alleys running between back-to-back houses. The tiny yards were so close that children could climb on the walls and leap across from gate to gate. The rubbish-filled middens stank, even in cold weather, and the droppings of dogs were not easy to avoid in the darkness.
‘I’m going for a bird for the Nolans,’ repeated Cozzer.
‘Where from?’ asked Tildy scathingly. ‘Top of the Liver building?’
‘Shut up, you,’ ordered Cozzer.
‘I’m older than you.’
‘And I’m a lad,’ snapped Cozzer.
Cathy said nothing. It was hard to judge the time, but it felt late. Mammy would be angry, she felt sure. And this was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, her dog would come. Uncle Sam had promised a dog for Christmas. ‘I’d better go home,’ she said.
‘Scared?’ asked Cozzer.
‘No.’ Cathy turned up the collar of her coat.
‘She is,’ announced Tildy.
‘I’m not.’
‘Prove it,’ challenged Cozzer.
Cathy was becoming very uncomfortable. She knew about the Costigans trying to help the Nolans, had heard all about their dad’s efforts to take money from Mr Nolan before he could drink it. Mr and Mrs Costigan turned a blind eye when things appeared magically, things that the Nolans could use. ‘How do I prove it?’ she asked.
Cozzer thought for a moment. ‘You can get Mr Marks out of his shop for me.’
Cathy squirmed.
‘How does she do that?’ Tildy wanted to know.
‘I’m thinking.’
The two girls waited while Cozzer thought. Tildy, who was used to being in trouble, didn’t mind for herself. No matter what happened, no matter what she and Cozzer did for the Nolans, Mam and Dad would forgive them. But on Cathy’s behalf, Tildy was concerned. ‘Mrs Bell won’t like it,’ she whispered to her brother.
‘She won’t know,’ he answered.
‘She will,’ insisted Tildy. ‘She’s one of them people that know things just by looking at you.’
‘Don’t talk so soft,’ he advised.
Cathy moved from foot to foot, wished the cold would go away, wished the smells would go away, wished Cozzer would go away and stop involving her in all his naughty activities—
‘I’ve got it,’ he declared triumphantly.
‘God help us.’ Tildy sounded just like her mother.
‘Tildy can have an accident,’ proclaimed Cozzer.
‘Thanks,’ said the proposed victim.
‘Just pretend,’ he said. ‘Lie on the floor outside the shop, then Cathy can go in for help and I’ll run through, grab a chicken or something and leg off home.’
‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Tildy. She dug her elbow into Cathy’s side. ‘Don’t start on about blaspheming,’ she reminded her friend. ‘That was praying. If we’re going on one of our Jimmy’s adventures, we’ll need the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost and every saint that ever drew breath.’
Cathy, too cold to mind about blasphemy, kept her counsel.
‘Come on, then,’ said Cozzer. ‘And you can stop calling me Jimmy,’ he advised his sister. ‘Else I’ll call you Tildy-Anne.’
Cathy followed the two miscreants through the alleyways until they reached Great Homer Street. This was awful. She had to go into a shop and tell lies so that Cozzer could enter the same shop with a view to stealing. And it was Christmas. Surely sins committed at Christmas were worse than any other sins committed at any other time? It was Jesus’s birthday. ‘It’s Jesus’s birthday tomorrow,’ she muttered.
Cozzer, whose hearing was acute, pushed Cathy against a shop window. ‘Jesus turned water into wine.’
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 9