The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  When the young madam had left, Liam placed himself in the chair she had vacated. Like many priests, he treated the houses of others as if they were an extension of the church and presbytery. Even here, where his welcome was not assured, he made himself at home.

  ‘What do you want, Liam?’

  Anthony did not look ill at all. And he had been entertaining that cheap-looking girl, too. ‘I heard you had been sick, so I came to see how you are,’ said the priest.

  When his teacup and saucer had been placed on the rug, Anthony rose to his feet. ‘I don’t recall asking for Extreme Unction – when I do need a priest, I’ll send for a real one. And I don’t remember inviting you in.’ His voice was quiet.

  ‘Do I need an invitation?’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ was the quick reply, ‘because you’ll never receive one.’

  Liam remained very still. It didn’t matter. This man could say and do nothing that would have the slightest chance of damaging an ordained priest. ‘That business is long past and best forgotten,’ he said. For much of the time, Liam really did forget the past. Occasionally, he even managed to believe that nothing had happened, that it had all been a strange story that he had read somewhere.

  Anthony nodded. ‘It’s long past, I agree. And Val’s long dead.’ He concentrated on his breathing, prayed that he might stay free from one of his coughing bouts. ‘It must be twenty years since you threw me in the river.’ His tone was normal, conversational. ‘I think we were eight when you broke my arm, a little bit younger when you knocked out two of my teeth.’ The clock marked beats of time for a few seconds. ‘And you killed Val five years ago.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ snarled the hallowed visitor.

  Anthony nodded pensively. ‘The police said the same thing. They thought I was in shock. But even if I was in shock, I knew you. I knew you then and I know you now.’

  Liam stared straight ahead, seemed to look through his brother. ‘I am only glad that my father and grandmother didn’t get to hear about that foul accusation.’

  Anthony laughed, though the hollow sound contained no joy. ‘If my allegation had been empty, you would have run to Dad and told him. You would have been delighted to inform the family about how wrong and how cruel I was, how I had tried to blacken your name with the police. But you kept quiet.’

  ‘I was a priest,’ snarled Liam.

  ‘And a murderer. Now, because of your sins, you are condemned to eternal damnation – isn’t that the case? If you go to confession without telling all, if you partake of Holy Communion while in a state of mortal sin – isn’t that a sacrilege?’

  Liam continued to stare, but his eyelids blinked slowly. Anthony was saying all these things, but Liam could scarcely bring to mind the sequence of events that had led to the quarrel.

  ‘You are so sick,’ whispered Anthony. ‘So sick and so evil. You forget, don’t you? If the past is unsavoury, you just file it away in a drawer marked miscellaneous. You genuinely manage to wipe out all the things you don’t need to remember. But I remember, brother. Oh yes, I can’t erase any of it.’

  Liam licked his upper lip. He was the priest; he was in charge. The things Anthony spoke of were part of another time, a different life. ‘Anything I have done wrong has been confessed and forgiven,’ he said clearly.

  ‘Get out,’ snapped Anthony. He leaned over the chair in which his brother sat. ‘Even the pope himself could not absolve a murderer – not without the intervention of state authorities. To be absolved, you would need to confess to the church and to the police. Out, now. Or I’ll find the strength to kick you the length of this street.’

  Liam jumped up, staggered back, then threw himself out of the house.

  Anthony, his breathing suddenly laboured, sank to the rug and gasped for oxygen. How could the man just walk in here like that? After a minute or so, his heart slowed and his head stopped spinning. As slowly as an old man, he placed his weary bones in the chair. He was cold, chilled to the marrow in spite of a healthy coal fire in the grate.

  Icy sweat poured down his face, stung his eyes. Dear God, would he never be free of Liam? He remembered. Oh yes, he remembered, felt the pain in his head, in his arm, felt the water closing over his face. ‘You’ll die,’ Liam had spat before throwing his twin into the Mersey. Anthony had been no swimmer, but a docker had rescued him. ‘An accident,’ Sam Bell had declared while visiting Anthony in hospital.

  Girls. The girls had always found Anthony attractive. One by one, Liam had picked them off, had bought them little gifts, had bribed them so that they would change allegiance.

  Anthony shifted his head and looked at a pale photograph of the mother he had never known. ‘He came close to rape many times before actually committing it, I’m sure,’ he told the faded picture. Of course, the assaulted girls had not lived in this parish – they had been culled from streets nearer to the city itself.

  Liam had needed to be angry. In his calmer phases, he had not been particularly interested in females. Anger gave him false power, aroused him to a semblance of manhood. ‘I should have spoken up then,’ he whispered. ‘Fourteen or more years ago when I heard about girls hysterical and with torn clothes.’ He swallowed painfully. ‘But I didn’t. I was young and ashamed of him. And the Parliament Street girls never spoke up, either.’ He nodded, swallowed a sob. ‘He probably disguised himself, anyway. So clever, our Liam. And it’s too late now.’

  He closed his eyes and leaned back. Liam had become a priest for several reasons, none of them sound. Firstly, the priesthood would gain for him the acclamation he required – no – demanded. Secondly, he knew that Anthony would never match this wonderful achievement. Thirdly, Liam was incapable of leading a life that involved wife and children. Fourthly, the cloth would give him power and a degree of immunity. Father Liam Bell was now a worthy cleric. He toiled ceaselessly for the poor of Blackburn, was a guiding light in his parish, was intelligent enough to rise through the ranks – parish priest, Monsignor, bishop.

  Anthony’s eyes flew open. God forbid that the creature should ever become a cardinal. Liam had built a fortress around himself. The materials he had used were holy, impenetrable. If Anthony wanted to make a fool of himself by telling the church hierarchy that his brother was a pervert, Liam would ride any such storm without effort.

  He stood up, poured medicine into a spoon, gulped down the foul-tasting concoction. It was his inability to warn the world that made him sad and fearful. Liam had taken away everything Anthony had enjoyed or valued, from toys to intended bride. The savage creature had probably placed everything in the one category. The killing of Val would have been no more significant than the loosening of a bicycle wheel. Absently, Anthony rubbed his arm. The upper bone had suffered a green-stick fracture when the bicycle had fallen apart beneath him on Great Homer Street.

  Back in his chair, he coughed until his body was weak. He was weak, all right. There must have been something he could have done to impede Liam’s destructive journey through life. He inhaled until the convulsive movements of his chest abated. ‘I could have killed him, I suppose,’ he said aloud. ‘I could have descended to his level. By ridding society of him, I might have saved a lot of grief.’

  But although he sat and pondered for hours, he knew he was covering familiar ground and that there was no solution. The fact remained that Anthony Bell was not a killer. The man with whom he had shared a womb was the murderer, but who would believe a tale as tall as that? The answer, as ever, was no-one.

  Bridie’s table glowed with pride and silver. She had spent the whole of New Year’s Eve cooking, had risen today at five o’clock in order to set out the feast. According to Diddy Costigan, Richard and Edith Spencer were ‘classy’. ‘She grew into her face,’ Diddy had proclaimed. ‘She wasn’t nice-looking as a young woman, but she’s handsome in her middle years.’ Bridie rubbed an imagined spot from a knife, folded muslin cloths around sandwiches to prevent staleness.

  Sam came in and surveyed the scene. ‘
Our Edith will think she’s got off at the wrong tram stop,’ he said.

  Bridie paused, cake-slice held aloft. ‘Are they coming on a tram, then?’

  He shook his head, even managed a faint smile. Bridie was getting to him. In spite of himself, Sam Bell was becoming rather fond of his wife. Had he loved before? he wondered. Had he loved poor Maria? ‘By tram?’ he asked, squashing a laugh. ‘Oh no. They travel by car. Richard’s a doctor, so he has to have his own transport. And Edith does a lot of charity work, takes sick children to Blackpool and helps out at the hospitals.’

  ‘Are they rich?’ asked Bridie.

  Sam considered the question. ‘Well, it depends what you mean by rich. They’ve land. Richard’s dad was a gentleman farmer, and Richard kept the farm on, but it’s run by tenants. They’ve livestock and big gardens. They’ve a sizeable house and no children. Yes, I suppose they’re better off than most.’

  Bridie glanced down at her wedding suit. It had come up fairly well after a spongeing, but it wasn’t the height of fashion. She felt a bit shabby, a bit of a country bumpkin. Like many of those who had toiled under landlords, she had an overdeveloped respect for anyone who owned acreage. ‘Do I look all right?’

  Sam stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Am I dressed well enough?’

  He blinked rapidly. She was lovely, she looked radiant and very pretty. ‘Er . . . yes, you look fine to me.’

  Bridie considered her husband’s suit. She had cleaned that, too, but it had seen better days, as had the shoes. ‘Sam, you got married in that, didn’t you?’

  He glanced down. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘It’s very old,’ she told him. ‘And you need shirts, too. With the girls and your mother and the shop, I can’t spend a lot of time turning collars.’ She straightened her spine. ‘To be truthful, we all need clothes, Sam.’

  He considered the problem. If he gave her everything she wanted, she could spoil and become demanding, even selfish. No, no, she could never be like that. If he refused to listen, she might go back to Ireland. He could not imagine life without her. This was the first day in January, and she had arrived towards the end of November, but his life was so different now. He had not imagined that a second marriage could be so free of stress. There were no neighbours popping in to see to Muth and make a bit of dinner. Snacks of bread and dripping or charred toast were things of the past. He was well-fed, his house was clean, and his mother had found a new lease of life. ‘Get what you want,’ he told her. ‘And for the children, too.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll open an account,’ he promised rashly. ‘At Blackler’s or Bon Marché. Take your pick.’ Deliberately, he sat on the misgivings born of his frugal nature.

  Bridie was flabbergasted, but she kept quiet. Back home, she had made her own clothes. The suit she wore at present had been ordered by post through a catalogue. A chance to acquire shop-bought clothes on a regular basis was very attractive.

  The shop bell rang and Sam went off to greet the visitors. Bridie fussed with her hair, glanced at the clock and worried about Cathy. Shauna was upstairs with Muth, who had refused to come down until the ‘queer feller’ had been and gone. Cathy was with Anthony. Well, she hoped Cathy was with Anthony. What if the child had gone rooting around the back of Paddy’s Market again? What if she’d become involved in another of the Costigans’ naughty schemes?

  The door opened and a tall, thin woman stepped in. She wore a simple black coat over a simple black suit, and everything about her screamed of money. Her shoes were good but plain, and she carried a vast handbag and a pair of kid gloves. ‘Bridget?’ She did not attempt a smile.

  Bridie thought about curtseying. Timidly, she held out her hand. ‘Yes, I’m Bridie.’

  Edith Spencer grasped the proffered hand and studied the young woman. ‘Do you eat properly?’ she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she swivelled and called to her husband, ‘Richard? Do come in, we are making a draught.’

  Sam and Richard entered the room. Like his wife, Dr Richard Spencer was dark, tall and slender. He wore rimless spectacles, a goatee beard and a solid gold albert across his waistcoat. He marched in, shook Bridie’s hand and asked how she was.

  ‘Fine, sir,’ she managed.

  ‘Richard,’ he reminded her not unkindly. ‘My wife is Sam’s cousin. Sam’s mother and Edith’s mother were sisters.’ He lost interest and stalked off to correct the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘A whole minute slow,’ he informed his hosts. ‘A life can be saved in a minute.’

  Edith removed her hat and coat, pushed the gloves into her handbag, then thrust the bundle at Sam. ‘Get rid of these,’ she said. ‘And tell Aunt Theresa I’ll be up in a few minutes.’

  While Richard Spencer settled down with an old newspaper, the two women stood by the table. Bridie felt doubly awkward, because the guest was so sure, so confident. ‘Will I make some tea for you now?’

  ‘Not just yet, dear,’ replied Edith. ‘Liam will be along soon. We dropped him off lower down the road. He has gone to visit his brother.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ These words slipped from Bridie’s lips before she could check them.

  Edith allowed a dry laugh to escape from her throat. ‘Never mind, Bridget. God alone knows what gets into those two boys, but it’s no worry of yours.’

  The tension drained from the younger woman’s body. This lady seemed very nice, full of humour and kindness.

  ‘You’ve children of your own, I believe. You have enough problems. Oh, by the way, do you prefer Bridie?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, I do.’

  ‘Good. Bridie it is, then. Richard?’

  The seated man glared over the top of his newspaper. ‘The world is in a terrible state,’ he declared, waving the sheet as if trying to kill it.

  Edith lowered an eyelid in a half-wink. ‘Richard does not like newspapers,’ she explained. ‘They make him angry, but he will insist on buying them. He’s a doctor, so he should know how to cure his own disease, but he won’t listen.’

  ‘One has to keep up,’ said Richard.

  Edith winked again at Bridie. Bridie, shocked to see a lady winking, dropped into a chair and waited for the pantomime to continue.

  ‘A British physicist is splitting atoms,’ said the doctor. ‘Do you know what that means, Edith?’

  Edith didn’t know, and she admitted her ignorance readily.

  Dr Spencer glared at the daily paper, seemed to blame the inanimate object for all the woes of mankind. ‘Energy,’ he roared. ‘Instant, cheap energy. No good will come of this discovery, mark my words.’

  ‘Oh, we shall mark your words, dear,’ murmured his wife reassuringly. ‘By the way, Bridget prefers Bridie. Isn’t she a pretty thing? Would you say she’s thin, though? Perhaps cod liver oil and malt, Richard?’

  He looked at Bridie over the top of his spectacles. ‘Nothing wrong with her,’ declared the doctor. ‘Good Irish air has been her mainstay. Small bones, Edith. She would not carry weight, so she is better to remain on the slender side.’

  Bridie bit her lip. She had been nervous to the point of terror, but now, while the two visitors discussed her physical construction, she wanted to giggle. It was a mixture of relief and hysteria, she told herself as the laughter escaped in spite of her best efforts. She leaned against the table and buried her face in her hands until she cried with the pain of mirth.

  ‘Look!’ said Edith. ‘You’ve upset this poor child, Richard.’ This statement sent Bridie into further uncontrollable paroxysms, as the poor man had done nothing wrong at all.

  The doctor jumped up and came to the table.

  Bridie raised her tear-stained face. ‘You make me sound . . . sound like a cow at the . . . oh, saints preserve me . . . at the fair. No, no,’ she shrieked. ‘More like a horse. A horse that’s . . . seen better days and won’t . . . oh dear . . . won’t carry weight. Am I ready to be melted for glue?’

  Richard Spencer threw back his head and roared with laughter that seemed
too big for his body. Edith joined Bridie at the table and chuckled loudly. ‘Sense of humour, Bridie,’ she declared, delight in her words, ‘that will see you through many a crisis.’

  A crisis chose this instant in time to announce itself through the scullery door. A very dirty Cathy was dragged in by the tight-faced Liam Bell, who, in turn, was pursued by Noel. The dog growled, because a stranger was manhandling Cathy.

  Immediately, Bridie was sober, though the echo of unseemly merriment seemed to reverberate round the kitchen for several further seconds. ‘Cathy,’ she said finally, her tone carrying more sadness than anger, ‘whatever have you been up to this time?’

  Liam glared at his father’s wife. He had heard the conviviality, and was not pleased to discover that Bridie was enjoying life. She was just another jumped-up madam, a creature with her eye on the main chance. Well, he would speak to Dad later, would make sure that Sam realized that this colleen and her brats deserved nothing out of Bell’s Pledges. Dad’s money should go to the Church where it rightfully belonged. ‘This child was with the Costigans,’ he said tightly. ‘I saw her and brought her home.’ He curled his lip at Bridie. ‘She should not be allowed to associate with those dishonest people.’

  A coldness entered Bridie’s breast at that moment, as if her inner core tried to reflect the ice in Liam’s face. ‘Children play,’ she informed him. ‘When a child is clean all the while, a mother worries. Little ones learn through play. We can’t expect Cathy to be clean when the streets are dirty and wet.’

  ‘What they learn depends on their choice of companions,’ spat the cleric.

  Bridie decided to ignore him, though she did wonder whether that might be a sin. After all, a priest represented the Holy Father in Rome who, in his turn, embodied the one true Catholic and Apostolic faith. But this Liam had a cruel set to his jaw and a face like a month of wet Sundays. She grabbed the child and pulled her towards the dresser. ‘What were you doing?’