‘I know that, too.’ Bridie crossed the room and stood over the man who was her stepson. He was in a deep sleep, the sort of sleep that sometimes precedes the end of life itself. She picked up a flannel and wiped his face. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she begged, ‘don’t take him, not at this age.’
Diddy joined Bridie. ‘Look, I’ve some balsam at home. There’s an old girl down Hornby Street who makes it from an Irish recipe. You just stick it in hot water and let the fumes rise till it breaks up the phlegm.’ She sniffed. ‘Strips the bloody paint off your walls at the same time, like. Still, if it does him no good, it’ll do him no harm.’
While Diddy went to do battle with the weather, Bridie settled herself next to the bed and held Anthony’s limp fingers. He was so still. The only movements came from his upper body, which seemed to shake and shiver with each and every breath. She prayed, put all her energy into the effort. He had to live. He was young and strong and clever and good . . . dear God, don’t let him die, she prayed inwardly.
Eugene had lived for a day after the accident. She had sat like this right up against the bed with his hand in hers. There had been no marks on her husband’s face. His legs had taken the worst of it. Had he lived, he would not have worked again, might never have walked unaided.
A tear slid down her face, was followed by another and another until her whole body was racked with sobs. She hadn’t been able to cry. The children had needed her, the farm had needed her. Even now, she remembered standing in the churchyard dry-eyed and numb. Da hadn’t attended the funeral. Da didn’t allow himself to set foot inside any place of worship that wasn’t Catholic.
And here lay a sad young man with no family around him. This wasn’t right, wasn’t human. She wept until she was exhausted. There was something about Anthony that reminded her of Eugene. She tried hard to work out what it was, because her first husband had been fair-haired and solid, not dark and tall like this man. Drier sobs were still coming from her throat while she attempted to find some similarity between Anthony and Eugene. As far as she could ascertain, their masculinity was the only common ground. There was the humour, she told herself. Like Eugene, Anthony had a sense of the ridiculous and didn’t mind making a fool of himself.
Where was Diddy? she asked herself. She mopped the clammy brow again, straightened the bed covers, smoothed black hair away from his forehead. It was probably the mouth, she decided. Yes, Eugene’s mouth had been like this one . . . or was it the chin?
‘Bridie?’
She jumped involuntarily. His dark eyes were fixed on her. ‘Yes, it’s Bridie,’ she said eventually.
‘A drink.’
Bridie placed an arm round his neck and supported him, guided him to the cup in her right hand.
After one sip, he was defeated. ‘Thanks,’ he managed.
Diddy bumbled in, brought cold air with her. ‘It’s always in the last place you look, isn’t it?’ She waved the bottle of balsam.
Bridie bit back a clever retort about things obviously being in the last place where a person looked, then helped Diddy to set up her cauldron and make the brew. After a few minutes, the air was thick with the smells of tar and eucalyptus. ‘He woke while you were gone, Diddy.’
Big Diddy Costigan grinned. ‘That’s a good sign. The stink of this bloody lot should shift him one way or another.’ She walked to the bed. ‘See? He’s breathing easier. You’ve been crying, Bridie. No need for that. This lad has a few more miles in him yet.’ She patted the quilt. ‘That’s right, Anthony. We’ll get you better. Just breathe easy, slow and easy.’
Bridie, too, breathed more freely as the night wore on. While Diddy snoozed in an armchair, the younger woman remained alert to the sick man’s every intake of air. With luck and good medicine, he might just come out of this without getting pneumonia.
Towards morning, he woke again. Bridie was sitting next to him. Her hand rested on his and she was staring straight into his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
She smiled at him. ‘Will you make it after all, Anthony?’
He nodded. While she was in the world, he would surely remain alive. As she bustled about pouring tea and medicine, he kept his eye on her. She was his father’s wife. She was his father’s wife and Anthony loved her.
Six
The first day in the fourth decade was crisp and bright. Children played out of doors, whipping new tops into dizzying whirls of colour, testing out footballs and skipping ropes, skidding along in carts consisting of orange boxes and old pram wheels.
Cathy lingered outside Bell’s and thought about being good. She had been good for a whole week and, up to now, she had permission to keep Noel. But Noel would go back where he came from if Cathy broke any of the rules. She hadn’t been near Cozzer and Tildy for days, was avoiding involvement in any scheme to improve the Nolans’ quality of existence.
The dog squatted next to his new mistress, thought about scratching his ear, froze with a hind leg in mid-air. He had to be alert. Itching was a cross to be endured so that he could keep his mind on looking after Cathy. She had tied a red satin bow to his collar, and he had spent several hours trying to be rid of the indignity, but this was not the time to indulge in personal grooming. So the dog simply cocked one of his floppy ears and awaited instructions.
Cathy sighed heavily, wondered what to do. She missed Tildy and Cozzer. Mammy had gone along to Dryden Street with soup for Mr Bell, who was Anthony out of school, and with some more soup for the Nolans. Mammy was acting tight-lipped with Uncle Sam, something to do with Uncle Sam not visiting Anthony while he was ill.
The little girl made up her mind at last. She would walk along to Dryden Street and visit Anthony. With any luck, she might just avoid Mammy and bump into the Costigans. ‘Come along, Noel,’ she ordered.
Noel was a grand dog and he knew it. Life had been hard thus far, but he had come through with flying colours, one of which was currently fastened to the length of leather round his neck. The collar itself had taken some getting used to, but he owned a tolerant nature and a degree of self-control. Ignoring three cats and a yappy mongrel, Noel raised his tattered tail and walked proudly with his owner. He needed no lead, because he was so grateful to have shelter and good, solid food that he practised obedience and was almost perfect.
Cathy knocked on Mr Bell’s door, was ushered inside by her mother. ‘Can Noel come in?’
Bridie frowned. This dog of indeterminate origin was the size of a sofa. Unfortunately, she had taken a liking to the thing. It knew how to get round people, how to look sad, happy, mischievous and angelic. It was probably something to do with the eyes being two different colours. The dog’s expression depended on the onlooker’s point of view. ‘He’ll have to behave himself.’
Noel stalked in and parked himself on Anthony’s feet.
Anthony stared down at the strange-looking creature, wondered whether it might have been a rag rug in an earlier life.
‘He’s a very good dog,’ said Cathy cheerfully. ‘He’s not chewed anything since Christmas.’
Bridie suppressed a giggle. ‘He picked on one of Sam’s new slippers, I’m afraid, worried it to death in the back yard.’
‘What breed is it?’ asked Anthony.
‘One of its own,’ replied Bridie. ‘God broke the mould when He saw the state of this article. There’s mountain dog in him – St Bernard or some such kind, but Noel’s a bit of a mixture and he eats constantly. Everyone keeps asking what breed he is. Anyway, he doesn’t bite, and that’s what counts.’
The dog lay flat, squashing most of the feeling out of Anthony’s toes.
Bridie set a tray, placed a bowl of steaming soup next to a spoon and a chunk of bread. She moved the dog by simply giving it a long, hard look, then passed the tray to Anthony. ‘There you are, some nice Irish broth.’ He looked so much better. That foul-smelling brew of Diddy’s had helped to do the trick, it seemed. ‘Now, no going outside,’ she ordered. ‘Billy will be in later, and Diddy’s making a pie for your tea.’ Sh
e pulled at the dog’s collar. ‘Away now, Noel. You’re only getting in the way.’
‘Leave him,’ begged Anthony. ‘Let him and Cathy keep me company for a while.’
Bridie left them to it and walked home. She had delivered a pan of broth to Cissie Nolan, who now trusted Bridie sufficiently to allow her into the house. Bridie had discussed with Diddy the idea of getting the Nolans some furniture from the shop, but Diddy had squashed the idea. Anything that wasn’t nailed to the floor in the Nolan household was sold and swilled down Mr Nolan’s throat. Had there been a market for children, he would probably have let all his offspring go to the highest bidders.
Scotland Road looked better today. With frost and a sprinkling of snow, and without the dust that accompanies toil and transport, the area was more attractive. Bridie bustled on towards Bell’s Pledges, her mind fixed on sandwiches, scones and cakes. Today, there would be three visitors. Liam, who had remained absent over Christmas, was to grace the family home with his presence. He would be accompanied by Sam’s cousin and her husband.
Bridie refused to be nervous in the face of this imminent happening. Her hands were trembling because of the bitter cold, she told herself. And the headache was just tiredness, wasn’t it? Of course it was. She wasn’t dreading seeing those awfully cold eyes again. No, not at all. She was just a little run down, no more than that.
Anthony’s house was very interesting. There wasn’t a lot of furniture – just a pair of armchairs in the tiny parlour, a table and chairs in the kitchen, a couple of rugs. But there were hundreds of books. Some were on real shelves and in bookcases, others were housed in orange boxes stood on end to look like cupboards, and many were stacked on window-ledges, mantelshelves and against walls. Cathy dashed about picking and choosing, finally setting on an Atlas of European Countries.
They pored over a map of Ireland. ‘There it is,’ said Cathy triumphantly. ‘Ballinasloe. It’s really spelt B-E-A-L, A-T-H-A, N-A, S-L-U-A-I-G-H-E. With lines over some of the letters. That’s proper Irish. There’s a castle to guard the river Suck and a big quarry nearby where they get the Galway stone. Great big men work there. They have to be strong to break the stuff. Sometimes, there’s an explosion and your feet tremble. I used to pretend I lived near one of those mountains—’
‘Volcanoes?’
‘Yes. They spit fire and rocks.’
She was bright to the point of effervescence. Intelligence shone in her eyes, and she had humour, too. Cathy was like her mother, he decided. Although he had never known Eugene, he guessed that this little one would turn out to be very like Bridie. Bridie. He mustn’t think about the fall of her hair and the arch of her brows. No, he should concentrate on what he did best, should stick to educating children.
He listened while Cathy prattled on about the forge and the church, while she passed on her mother’s opinions about various neighbours. ‘My daddy ran the farm, then he was killed in the machinery. Mammy took over, but the landlord wanted a man to have the place. Mammy told him she could read and count and do as well as anybody, but we were still moved. We lived with Granda. He’s got angry eyes and bushy hair, but he plasters that down with stuff in a bottle. Granda has horses and cows and pigs. I had my own chicken and a dog, but now I’ve got Noel. Granda used to slap me. I think that’s why Mammy said she’d come over and marry Mr Bell. We call him Uncle Sam. Mammy never smacks us and she doesn’t like anyone else slapping us. Anyway, Uncle Sam’s nice because he never shouts and he got Noel for me.’
They both gazed at the animal in question. ‘He’s a size,’ said Anthony.
‘I have to be good to keep him. Mammy says we’re both on trial. But really, I’m the one who has to behave.’
He tried not to laugh. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult. When Tildy and Jimmy want to go . . . want to find stuff for the Nolans, just walk away.’ The child would never walk away from anything. She was an explorer, one of life’s navigators.
Cathy studied this teacher and friend for a moment. ‘Can I do that? Won’t they laugh and call me a baby if I just go off and don’t help to feed the poor?’
Anthony took the child’s hand. ‘Does it matter if they do?’
It did matter. What people thought was important. She was Mammy’s big girl in the house, but when she went outside, she became a little girl who had to remember her mother’s orders and stick to them at all costs. Following Mammy’s orders meant she couldn’t spend time with the Costigans, couldn’t choose or decide anything for herself. Cathy told Anthony about this. ‘I’m to be big and helpful at home, but not in the street.’ She withdrew her fingers from his grip and folded her arms. ‘It’s like being two different girls altogether, one big and one small. I have to remember which one I’m being, and that’s not easy.’
He understood her. ‘Childhood is confusing,’ he informed her. ‘And parents don’t always make the best sense. But your mother has your welfare at heart, Cathy. She wants you safe and sensible. Tildy and Jimmy have had a different life. Anyway, don’t you want to go back to Ireland? Isn’t that what you’d like to do?’
She really didn’t know, and she told Anthony all about it. ‘I like school. I like the shop, and Uncle Sam gives me pennies. Tildy is my friend, even though she’s older and in a different form at school.’ She pondered for a second or two. ‘But I miss Bob and Chucky and the fields. I don’t miss Granda, because I don’t like him. Nobody likes him. If we do go back, it won’t be to Galway, Mammy said. So . . .’ She chewed her lip. ‘So I’d rather stay here than have to go and live somewhere new all over again. It would be Ireland, but it would still be strange.’
The front door opened and Maureen Costigan stepped inside after a cursory little click of fingernails against the wood. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Cathy, then slinked her way into the room and stood in front of the fire. ‘I just came to see how you are,’ she informed the sick man. She smiled to show off her dimples, then fluttered the long, soot-and-petroleum-jelly-coated eyelashes.
Anthony breathed deeply. How much longer would this go on? Maureen was in her last year at school, for which he thanked God, but she was pursuing him relentlessly at every opportunity. During playtimes, she came down from the senior department and ‘helped’ him. ‘Helping’ was sashaying about with inkwells and gazing into his eyes across piles of books. ‘I’m going to have a rest now,’ he told the two girls.
Maureen pounced on the tray, carried it out to the scullery and clattered the pots.
Cathy placed a proprietorial hand on Noel’s head and led him to the door. Sometimes, she didn’t quite manage to like Maureen Costigan. At first, she hadn’t liked Nicky-really-Monica, but Nicky was all right. Nicky had a boyfriend called Graham Pile. Graham Pile had a lazy eye that stuck in the corner next to his nose, but he was kind. When he got his hands on stale or spoiled stock at the bakery where he worked, he always wrapped it up and brought it to the Nolans. But Maureen was selfish and proud.
The little girl said goodbye and went out into Dryden Street. Maureen wasn’t nice. She was usually chasing boys. Tildy was always telling stories about Maureen kissing people in the dark in jiggers and in shop doorways. As far as Cathy understood, kissing should be reserved for members of a family. For a brief moment, she imagined herself embracing one of the boys from school. When her stomach settled, she walked along to a group of children that contained Cozzer and Tildy. Within seconds, she had forgotten all about Anthony and Maureen.
The black-clad man alighted from a vehicle and stood at the bottom of Dryden Street. Anthony was ill, or so he had been told by Aunt Edith. He must go and visit his brother. After all, wasn’t the tending of the sick a part of his ministry? And he rather liked the concept of praying over his prostrate twin. Was he still afraid of Anthony? Liam asked himself as he made his way towards the house. No. All that nonsense should be dead and buried by now. This was 1931, the first of January, the beginning of a new decade. Wasn’t it time to forgive and forget? His mouth curled into a travesty of
a smile.
The older O’Brien girl was here with some of those dreadful Costigans. He stopped for a few seconds and watched the group playing an unseasonal game of cricket. It was clear that the Costigan boy had been given a bat for Christmas, as he was dictating and changing the rules to the advantage of his own side. Gas lamps acted as wickets, and a monster of a dog kept running off with the ball. The O’Brien girl spotted Liam, ran towards him. ‘You should be inside,’ she cried. ‘Mammy says you’ve to stay warm.’ The child shunted to a halt. ‘Sorry, Father. I thought you were . . .’ Her words tailed away as she spoke.
Liam ignored the girl, straightened his shoulders and tapped at Anthony’s door. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, he would emerge victorious. If Anthony accepted the attempt at reconciliation, Liam would get the glory. If Anthony would not negotiate, then the priest would still be wearing the halo.
He entered the house. Maureen Costigan was sitting opposite Anthony with a cup and saucer. The host, too, was sipping tea. Liam paused, took in the situation. This strumpet was dressed to the nines and her face was painted. It was plain that she adored the sick man. ‘Anthony,’ he said with a nod, ‘I thought it was about time I paid you a visit.’
Anthony maintained the grip on his cup, but only just. Had Maureen not been here – and he fervently wished her in darkest Africa at that moment – he would have said a few short, sharp words. As things were, he could only sit and hope, however stupidly, that he was experiencing yet another nightmare from which he would wake in a moment or two. Of late, Liam Bell and Maureen Costigan had figured in the less pleasant of Anthony’s dreams.
Maureen rose carefully and placed her crockery on the mantelpiece. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘I’ve been looking after Mr Bell.’ She smiled fondly at the recovering invalid. ‘He’s getting better now.’ She tightened the scarf at her throat and awarded both men a smile that was supposed to be seductive. ‘Ta-ra, Father,’ she trilled. Then she turned to Anthony. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, her tone suddenly husky.
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 13