Anthony patted the bemused child on the head, then made his way downstairs. Even at Christmas, the sharp-edged sword of poverty cut into people, made them bleed over the double standards that plagued the Catholic community hereabouts.
Grandmuth had got herself down to the kitchen. She was tucking into a plate of soda bread and strawberry jam. ‘Manna straight from heaven,’ she mumbled through a mouthful. ‘This girl can cook, all right.’
Anthony smiled at Theresa. ‘Who helped you downstairs?’
Bridie’s head put in a brief appearance from the scullery. ‘She helps herself, Anthony. I’ve been bullying her and building her up, you see. She complains about me all the time, says I’m a cruel and thoughtless woman.’
‘That’s why you’ve to stay,’ croaked the old woman. ‘You have to look after me.’
Anthony gazed round the room he knew so well, the place where he had been reared by the frail-looking lady who was currently demolishing a sizeable late breakfast. There was the dresser drawer against which he had been thrown by Liam. On that occasion, a doctor had been brought in to staunch the flow of blood. Anthony recalled how matted his hair had been once the blood had dried. To the right of the dresser stood a locked door behind which Sam Bell stored some of his too-good-to-sell treasures. Anthony had been trapped in there many times, had listened helplessly while Dad and Grandmuth had searched for keys hidden by Liam. To this day, Anthony remained uneasy in confined spaces, especially during darkness.
‘You don’t look well to me,’ announced Theresa.
Dad had always saved things, had never managed to save Anthony from the flailing fists and boots of his twin. Dad hung on to pots and ornaments against the day when they would ‘come back into fashion’, was a wizard at assessing the potential value of inanimate objects. But Dad had never seemed to notice that Liam was odd and extremely dangerous in temper.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Grandmuth.
‘Sorry, I was thinking.’
She placed the plate on a side table. ‘He’s not here any more, love. He can’t cut your head open or take an axe to your toys.’
Anthony shivered.
‘Holy Orders was the only place for him to run,’ said Theresa. ‘He’s not fit for the ordinary life, so he goes about telling everybody else how to live now.’ She sniffed. ‘As if he knows owt. Nasty bugger.’
The door to the shop opened and Sam stepped into the scene. For a split second, he stopped mid-stride, as if uncertain about his next move. ‘Hello, Muth,’ he finally managed. He had thought that Anthony would be well on his way by this time.
Anthony rose to his feet.
‘Stop where you are,’ commanded Theresa. ‘Don’t be dashing off just when you’re getting warm. I’ve told you, you don’t look well.’
Sam pulled on a piece of rope and dragged a large dog into the arena. ‘For Cathy,’ he told his mother.
Bridie entered from the scullery, blew a strand of hair off her face and fixed her gaze on Sam. He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have brought an animal home while she was still making up her mind about the future. She noticed that the two men seemed awkward, reminded herself that her husband and his son were not on proper speaking terms. But for the most part, her attention remained glued to the ugliest piece of canine creation that she had ever seen.
Sam puffed and panted, then fastened the hound to the handle of the storeroom door. ‘Well, what could I do?’ he asked helplessly. ‘The man brought the dog to the pub. I couldn’t ask him to take it away again. Nobody else wanted it, and I can’t say I blame them. It takes some dragging along, the stubborn brute.’
The dog sat down and cast a lugubrious eye around the room.
‘In all my days, I have never seen anything as miserable-looking as yon dog,’ declared Theresa.
Bridie leaned on the door jamb. This unfortunate creature resembled an impossible cross between a tram and a long-haired carpet that needed hanging outside for a good beating. ‘What breed is it?’ she asked, her words emerging strangled.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Sam. It was a huge dog, not much smaller than a Shetland pony. It had one brown eye, one dark-blue, and long ears that flopped all over a permanently puzzled expression. ‘Nobody wants it,’ he repeated.
Bridie pushed another lock of hair from her damp forehead. ‘I’m not surprised. That will eat Cathy,’ she pronounced. ‘And it’ll swallow Shauna whole for its pudding.’ She approached the beast and offered the back of her hand.
Sensing a friend in this cruel vale of tears, the dog licked Bridie’s hand and woofed a polite greeting.
‘I’ll be off,’ said Anthony. ‘I’m expected elsewhere.’ He kissed his grandmother, nodded at Bridie, then left the room.
Theresa Bell stared at the animal. She knew what Sam was up to. He had brought the dog so that Cathy would make a scene about going back to Ireland. He was doing his best to get Bridie to stay, and he didn’t care what means he used. ‘Take it back, Sam,’ Theresa said quietly. ‘It’s not fair. And you know what I mean, son.’
He coughed. ‘The man’s gone home now. He lives over the bridge – miles away. And it’s freezing out there.’
‘If Cathy sees that dog, there’ll be no shifting her,’ said Theresa. ‘Don’t you think it’s time Bridie started making her own mind up, Sam? It’s like the bloody horses all over again.’
Sam shifted awkwardly, curled a hand and coughed self-consciously behind it.
‘It’s all right,’ continued his mother. ‘She knows. Bridie knows you and Thomas Murphy have a habit of dragging dumb animals into things when you want your own way.’ She eyed her daughter-in-law. ‘And if she does decide to stop on in Liverpool, you can give her them papers, Sam.’
‘Papers?’
Theresa sighed heavily. ‘Horse papers. You can let Bridie have them two horses. I’ve not lived this long without knowing you. Oh yes, I know how to deal with me own son. So pin your ears back. You’d best give her the animals, or you’ll have me to deal with on top of everything else.’ She glared at the ‘everything else’ until it squirmed inside its matted brown coat. ‘Your cousin Edith’ll take the horses. She can get them stabled and all that.’
Sam looked at Bridie. So she knew all about it, then. ‘It was your dad’s idea, not mine. I . . . er . . . I’m glad you’re here. You’ve made a difference to me and to Muth.’ He paused for a second. ‘The horses are yours whether you go back to Ireland or stay here.’ He untied the dog’s makeshift lead. ‘And I’ll get rid of this as soon as possible.’
He was a decent man, thought Bridie. He was not much to look at, he was predictable to a point that made her want to scream sometimes, but he had a bit of conscience. If he had a bit of conscience, why wasn’t he more friendly towards Anthony? Anthony was a lovely chap. Well, he was usually pleasant, though he had seemed a bit down in the mouth today.
Sam approached his wife, rope in one hand, a small box in the other. ‘I got you a new one,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s a wedding ring. Brand new this time.’
She couldn’t leave him. Apart from the fact that marriage was for ever, he was trying so hard to please her. But what should she do about Cathy? Perhaps the child needed a lead so that she might be tied up like this stupid great dog.
The wedding band was beautiful. ‘Twenty-two carat,’ Sam said proudly.
Bridie swallowed a pain in her throat. This man was not a husband to her. The marriage had been consummated, just about, but Sam was . . . perhaps he was the father she had never had. There wasn’t much warmth in Sam Bell, but she forgave him for that because he had been a widower for almost thirty years. Yet Sam’s presence in the house gave her a secure feeling, an idea that he would not allow her or the girls to come to any harm. She didn’t know what to say to him, could find no words.
‘And the horses are yours, too,’ he told her.
Bridie lifted her head, looked at Sam, then at Theresa. She had s
ome value after all. The man was standing here, was telling her that he needed her, that she was not a bitter pill sweetened by the promise of riches from racecourses and stud farms. She, Bridie Bell, was worth keeping. ‘Thank you so much, Sam,’ she managed. ‘You have done your best to welcome strangers into your home. Please remember how grateful I am.’
Clearly embarrassed, the pink-faced man glanced down at the dog. ‘What shall I do with this?’ he asked.
Bridie squatted down and allowed herself to be almost drowned by an over-enthusiastic canine tongue. ‘We’ll call him Noel,’ she said, ‘because it’s Christmas.’ She rose, gave Sam the ring and allowed him to place it on her hand. Just as Diddy had said, this was not a bad man, not a particularly good one. ‘The first sign of sun and you bathe this creature, Sam,’ she said with mock-severity. ‘And make sure he stays from under my feet.’
‘Mine, too,’ announced Theresa.
The dog glanced from one to the other, his ragged tail waving to demonstrate a glimmer of hope. They had food. He could smell it, could almost taste it on his lolling tongue. If he bided his time and made no sudden moves, his belly might be filled.
The feasting was over. Sam unbuttoned his belt and leaned back in his chair. It had been a grand day. Roast goose with good gravy, then Christmas pud and brandy sauce. Bridie was a pearl. He looked across at Muth. ‘New necklace?’ he asked.
Theresa fixed him with her small, bright eyes. ‘Anthony got them for me. Remember him? He’s the lad who was here just on dinner-time. I believe he’s a teacher by trade. Think hard, now, it’ll all come back to you. Lived here at one time, he did.’ She sat up and leaned forward. ‘He’s a good lad, our Anthony, well thought of round these parts.’
Sam sighed and closed his eyes. The worst thing about Muth was the fact that she just couldn’t leave well alone. He supposed they were like that, the Bolton folk. Muth’s niece was the same, always speaking up for herself and laying down the law.
‘It’s not right that you don’t talk to your own boy.’
He opened his eyes. ‘He went too far last time,’ he said softly. ‘He should never have thrashed Liam. Yes, he went too far, Muth.’
‘Did he?’ Theresa shook a finger at her only son. ‘He were grieving. He were upset on account of Val.’
Muth was upset too, now. He could tell she was worked up, because her ‘wases and weres’ got mixed up whenever she became excited. ‘Leave it alone, Muth.’
Theresa struggled to her feet. ‘Goodwill to all men? What sort of a Christmas is it when you can’t be civil to a blood relative? You weren’t here when they were little. You were always mithering over the shop and running about buying stuff. You never saw what I saw, Sam. Liam would have killed our Anthony if I hadn’t rattled his bloody ear for him. He’s bad through and through, and you’re as blind as a bat.’
Sam remained in his chair, refused to rise to the bait in any way. Anthony had always been Muth’s favourite. Liam was a wonderful man. He had gone away to a seminary and had kept up with the best of them. Few people realized how clever priests had to be, all that Latin and liturgy and moral law. There had been a scrap or two between the twins when they were very young, but nothing out of the ordinary. Then Anthony had started a terrible fight and he would not make his apologies to Liam.
Theresa Bell loomed over her son. ‘You saw nowt, our Sam. He were allers good when you came home, that sly Liam. Oh aye, butter wouldn’t melt, eh? He were a strong little beggar, forever shoving our Anthony in cupboards and pretending it were all a game. And you pretended too. Because you could never face what he was, and you can’t face what he is to this day. Leopards does not change their spots, just mark my words.’
Sam pulled the tobacco tin from his pocket, took out the last cigarette. ‘Go to bed, Muth,’ he advised calmly. ‘You’re getting worn out.’
The old woman stepped back a fraction. ‘Have I not spent long enough in bed? I stopped up there all them years because there were nowt down here for me, nowt at all. I missed our Anthony. I still miss him. And yes, I will be going up in a minute, because that swine’ll be paying his after Christmas tea visit, won’t he? Oh aye, he’ll be stopping the night with Father Brennan so he can come round here and plague the daylights out of me. Well, just keep him away from my room, that’s all.’
Sam watched his mother making her slow way out of the kitchen. Bridie was upstairs putting the girls to bed. She was a grand woman, a good wife. A lovely dinner and a lovely tea – what more could a man ask? He tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate and answered his own question. A man wanted peace when his belly was full. As for Anthony – well – that one would have to apologize to Liam before he would be welcomed properly again.
The scullery door flew open and brought a draught with it. ‘Sam,’ puffed Diddy Costigan, ‘it’s Anthony. He called in to wish us all the best, then he had a turn at our house and we took him home and put him to bed. He’s burning up.’
Sam sat up straight. ‘Get the doctor.’
‘We have,’ answered Diddy. ‘He said it’s his bronchials.’
Bridie entered from the stairway. ‘What’s happening?’
Diddy told the tale again, then stood and watched while Bridie pulled on her coat.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Sam.
Bridie stopped in her tracks and looked at her husband. She had no idea what the quarrels were about, but she knew at this moment that she could spare no patience for the family feud. ‘I’m off to look after your son,’ she told him. ‘I’ll leave you to do the same for my daughters.’
It was a terrible night. The wind howled in the chimneys, rattled guttering, shunted slates along ill-formed rooftops. Flurries of snow twisted and turned, swirled like miniature tornados and prevented anyone from seeing houses across the way.
‘God’s in a temper,’ declared Diddy. ‘My ma always said that when the weather was bad. May the good Lord rest her.’
Bridie heaped more coal into the parlour grate. Billy had brought down Anthony’s bed and set it up in one of the alcoves that flanked the fireplace. The sick young man slept on a mound of pillows, since the doctor had advised his neighbours to keep him as upright as possible. His breathing was audible, as if it rasped and tore at his lungs in order to find its way out.
Diddy sat by the bed with her knitting. Three doors away, members of her family were enjoying the final hours of Christmas, but Diddy was staying where she was needed. ‘He doesn’t deserve none of this,’ she declared as she stabbed away at a half-formed cardigan in bottle green. ‘It’s always the good what suffer. Have you noticed that, Bridie?’
‘Yes.’ Mammy had suffered, had shrivelled away slowly and painfully. Now, this kind-hearted man who worked hard at educating the poor was desperately ill, too ill to be moved to the fever hospital. Sam hadn’t even bothered to turn up at Anthony’s bedside. ‘What is going on with the Bell family?’ asked Bridie. ‘Why won’t Sam call round to see his son?’
Diddy picked up a dropped stitch and tossed her needlework aside. ‘None of us knows the whole truth. The twins never got on as babies, everybody knew that. Liam used to batter Anthony and break all his toys. He didn’t like Anthony having anything. I’ve heard tell that Liam bought Anthony’s friends by giving them toffee and fruit, stole the money to get the stuff. Devious little swine, he was. And I don’t think he’s much different now.’
Bridie perched on the edge of a fireside chair. ‘It’s more than that, Diddy. It’s bigger and more recent, but not yesterday or even a year ago.’
The older woman gazed at her friend. She had a full set of marbles, this Bridie Bell. She could sense the atmosphere in the Bell household, had worked out that something major must have happened. ‘All I know is there was a big bust-up after Val died. It was probably something Liam said – I bet he was glad poor Anthony had lost his girl, because she was a lapsed Catholic, you see. But I’ve not many details for you, Bridie. The only folk with the truth about what was said are Lia
m and this one here.’ She waved a hand at the bed. ‘For the first time in twenty-odd years, Anthony turned on Liam and gave him a pasting the likes of which you only see at a bare-knuckle fight behind the market.’
Bridie stared at Anthony’s ashen face. ‘Was Liam ordained when this happened?’
Diddy nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes, he was fully-fledged, all right. Didn’t have his own parish – still doesn’t – but he was attached to St Aloysius’s while he learned the ropes. It was after confession one night. At a guess, I’d say Father Brennan went looking for Liam and found him in the porch with Anthony standing over him. Our Charlie saw some of it. He was the last but one in the confessional box. When he came out to say his penance, Anthony went in. So there was only the twins and our Charlie in church at the time.’
Bridie stood up and poked the fire to life. ‘Isn’t it unusual to have a man confess to his own brother?’
Diddy fixed her eyes on the flames and sighed. ‘I don’t think he went in there for a blessing, Bridie.’
‘Neither do I.’
Diddy frowned. ‘Our Charlie’s slow on his feet – you know what he’s like. He was just outside the church when they rolled out in a ball, both kicking and screaming. Then Anthony picked his brother up and knocked seven shades of everything out of him. Charlie couldn’t do nothing, so he came home as quick as he could and told his dad. And when my Billy got there, everybody had gone. I heard they were in the presbytery, but I’m not certain. Since then, there’s been no love lost.’
‘It’s a terrible situation,’ remarked Bridie. ‘Sam should be here with his sick son.’
‘He’s all for Liam.’
‘I know.’
‘And Theresa Bell’s all for Anthony. That’s why she sulked for so long.’
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 12