Liam was perched on the edge of a brown leather sofa, his hands clasped as if in prayer. ‘Have you made up your mind, Father Brennan?’
The older man took a sip of tea, then turned his chair so that he could study the man who wanted to attach himself on a semi-permanent basis to the parish. This priest had been here before, had brought trouble with him. ‘What did the bishop have to say on the subject?’ he asked.
‘He says I know the area well, which is true, as I was born on Scotland Road. But the final decision is yours. I can assure you that I work hard and take my calling seriously.’
Father Brennan stood up and walked to the window. This was a busy parish, packed to bursting with large families whose problems were manifold. Poverty lurked on every corner, particularly in the courts where people endured conditions that were almost beyond belief. It was 1931, yet folk hereabouts shared space with all kinds of vermin, sometimes without the facilities to keep their own bodies properly clean and safe from infection.
Father Brennan was tired. For six months, he had been alone. He said at least two masses a day, heard confessions, took communion to the sick, held confirmation classes, visited the school twice a week, baptized the newborn, performed benediction services, comforted the dying. Help was needed. No man could keep up the pace, not on his own. And yet . . . He turned and looked at Liam. ‘Did you make peace with your brother?’
‘I tried.’
Michael Brennan remembered the fight. Liam had been newly ordained, had been travelling round Liverpool to gain experience of parish work. Just a few weeks into his own ministry at St Aloysius’s church, Father Brennan had found the quarrelling twins, had separated them. He had not expected Liam to return here, was slightly bewildered by the bishop’s suggestion. Yet he did not want to spoil a new priest’s career by advising the diocese of a family dispute that had taken place years earlier. ‘You should raise your hand to no man, Liam.’
‘It was self-defence.’
Michael Brennan nodded. ‘Anthony works in our school. How would it be if I sent you in to take a class?’
‘Civilized enough, I should think,’ Liam replied smartly. ‘We are both professional men. There will be no further trouble.’
The parish priest wished with all his heart that the bishop had made a clean-cut decision. ‘Liam, I can’t say I don’t need your help, because that would be a lie. These are troubled times. Since the police strike, when our parishioners were accused of looting, rumour has it that the Home Office has spoken about clearing Scotland Road. The houses are foul and the police have to walk about in threes. I believe we shall witness the break up of the Scotland Road community.’
Liam nodded just once. ‘When the Liverpool police came out on strike, the people round here took advantage. They signed their own death warrant in 1919.’
Michael Brennan took a deep breath. Judgemental – that was the word for Liam Bell. ‘Liam, if you had a wife and children and they were starving, what would you do?’
‘I would not steal.’
‘Then what would you do?’
The younger man shrugged. ‘I’d get work.’
‘And if there was no work?’
‘I would pray.’
Father Brennan sat down again. ‘Prayers are all very well, but a baby screaming with hunger can drive a man to despair. Families must eat, Liam. I don’t condone thievery, but humankind can be pushed to extraordinary lengths by poverty. The parishioners here require some compassion, some hope. I can’t condemn them to hell for feeding their offspring and keeping themselves warm, clothed and sheltered. We must not set ourselves on pedestals. We, too, are human.’
‘The commandments are the commandments,’ said Liam.
‘Love thy neighbour as thyself,’ replied Father Brennan. ‘That instruction implies forgiveness and tolerance. Jesus said, “And the greatest of these is charity.” To work here, you will need to relax your attitude. There are crimes far worse than stealing to sustain life. We are not talking about murder here.’
‘I understand.’
Michael Brennan noticed a slight tic at the corner of the visitor’s mouth. He did not like Liam Bell. Because he did not like him, he knew that he must give him a chance. After all, wasn’t that what he had just been preaching? ‘I shall speak to the bishop,’ he said. ‘I think a temporary stay here might help you. After all, when you get your own parish, you may find yourself in a situation not dissimilar to this one. However, if there is any problem between you and Anthony, I shall ask for you to be moved.’
Liam inclined his head. ‘Very well, Father Brennan.’
When Liam Bell had left, Michael opened a bottle of whisky and poured himself a hefty measure. A strange sensation paid a brief visit to his spine, a chill that sent a message the length of his body and into his brain. There was something very wrong with Liam. He was too correct, too rigid, too decided.
The fire flickered and spat while the cleric gazed into its flames. He emptied the glass, poured in another drop. Sam Bell’s son had come through the seminary with flying colours. He had gained distinctions in all subjects and at all levels, would soon be on his way to his own living and his own congregation. Too perfect, thought Michael Brennan. Too perfect, too sure and too . . . cold to be a priest. But it took all sorts to make a world. He finished his drink and went up for a siesta. There were plenty of people on the sick list, so he grabbed his rest while he could.
Big Diddy Costigan needed no visa to enter a house in the Scotland Road area. She had laid out the dead, had nursed the sick, had even delivered twins during an interval at the Rotunda Theatre. To lock a door against Diddy would have been like struggling to hold back the tides or the sunset. The woman was a valuable ally and a fearsome foe, so she went freely in and out of homes, shops, churches and places of entertainment.
Without much more than a tap of the knuckles, Diddy entered Anthony Bell’s house. She found him seated by the fire with a pile of books and with Maureen gazing at him from the opposite armchair. ‘Out, lady,’ commanded the matron. ‘Get yourself home and I’ll talk to you later.’
Maureen’s jaw dropped. ‘You what, Mam?’
‘I said out. And don’t come back in here, neither.’
Maureen stood up and smoothed her skirt. ‘I’m only looking after him.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with him now,’ said Diddy. ‘In fact, if we were all as healthy as him, we’d be in the pink.’ She stood her ground while Maureen left in a temper and surrounded by a pungent cloud of Evening in Paris.
Anthony grinned ruefully. ‘I was wondering when you would notice,’ he said. ‘But she was safer with me than on the streets. At least we knew where she was.’
Diddy folded her arms. ‘You knew, but I didn’t. I’ll have you know I’ve been the talk of the bagwash,’ she told him. ‘The air was thick with it when I got there. They’ll need no starch in their collars today – the bloody shirts’ll stand up by themselves. What’s been going on?’
‘Nothing. Maureen just keeps coming in and . . . talking to me. She’s older than her years. She just wants a bit of attention, that’s all. But I knew you’d be worried about her spending so much time with a crusty old bachelor. At the same time, I didn’t want to be carrying tales to you and Billy.’
He was a handsome man. Diddy tried to work out how completely identical twins could possibly be so different from each other. Liam and Anthony had dark brown hair that just missed being jet black, brown eyes, straight noses and square chins. They had both grown to approximately six feet in height, were well-made without being weighty, and they even shared some mannerisms, like the way they walked and held their heads.
‘Diddy,’ he said. ‘I—’
‘Hush, I’m thinking. Has she said anything to you? Our Maureen, I mean. Because I’m telling you now, she’s got big plans and you’re on the agenda at the moment.’
Anthony sighed. Maureen was only thirteen, so her mother had every right to know about her behaviour. Yet his i
nstinct told him not to betray the young girl. Maureen had tried to hold his hand, had said how much she liked his eyes, had gone on about what a good teacher he was. ‘She just kept making gallons of tea,’ he replied. ‘I’m thinking of changing my name to Horniman, because I’m swimming in the stuff.’
Diddy tapped the floor with the toe of a shoe. ‘She’s told Minnie Houghton’s girl that you’re going to marry her when she’s sixteen. Marry our Maureen, that is, not Josie Houghton.’ Diddy sniffed. ‘I doubt anybody’ll marry Josie, spiteful little cow. Anyway, you and our Maureen are having four bridesmaids, a papal blessing and a do afterwards at Fairy Mary’s. All the dancing class will be there and she wants a three-tier cake.’ Diddy’s mouth twitched. ‘They’d better hurry up and build us a cathedral, because St Aloysius’s won’t be good enough for you and our Maureen, will it?’
Anthony, too, was fighting his laughter.
‘I don’t know what to do with her,’ complained Diddy, her tone suddenly serious. ‘She’s getting out of hand.’
‘Exactly what Bridie says about Cathy.’
Diddy nodded her agreement. ‘Yes, but Cathy can’t get herself in the family way yet, can she? Our Maureen’ll have me in my grave, I’m telling you.’
Anthony wondered what to say. He had no feelings for Maureen – no feelings for anyone except . . . No, he was not in love with his father’s wife. It was probably lust and a yen for the unobtainable. ‘Take it slowly, Diddy,’ he said. ‘Don’t go jumping down her throat and turning her away from you. She’s neither child nor woman. It’s a very difficult age.’
‘Difficult? Difficult? She’s always been the same, Anthony. I’ll swear she had an eye for the men when she was still in the pram. What if she gets herself in trouble? She’ll be no good as a singer and dancer with an eight-month belly on her.’
He understood only too well. Girls left school, married young in order to break free from their crowded homes, then went on to create a crowd of their own. It was a self-perpetuating problem, a downward spiral into which young people continued to jump before they were ready. ‘Make sure she carries on attending the dance school,’ he advised. ‘At least you’ll know where she is two evenings a week. And she is talented, you know.’
Diddy lowered her bulk into the chair Maureen had vacated. ‘Sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing it all wrong.’ It was funny, she thought, how she could open her heart to this man. He was educated – a teacher – and he had no experience of rearing a family of his own, yet he had no side to him. Going to college hadn’t spoiled Anthony Bell. Perhaps losing Valerie had aged him, had made him more accessible than most.
‘In what way?’ he asked.
The visitor leaned back and rested her head. Washing for seven people took its toll sometimes. ‘Well, the way I let them . . . find stuff for the Nolans. And our Jimmy running barefoot round the docks begging for work, and our Nicky selling stuff on Paddy’s for Bell’s and other junk shops. They’re old, Anthony. They’re only young, but they’re old.’
He understood completely. ‘Diddy, you’re the best mother you can be in the circumstances.’
She looked at him, her eyes bright and wet. ‘When they put our Charlie in my arms down at the lying-in hospital . . .’ She swallowed, inhaled deeply. This topic was not raised very often, because it upset Diddy so badly. ‘He was a difficult birth, didn’t want to put in an appearance at all. They took me from our front room to the hospital on the coal wagon, you know. I was as black as a pot when I got there. When they told me he was different, I broke my heart. And it’s never mended, Anthony. I suppose I’ll never get over it.’
Anthony knew. Charlie had been damaged at birth, had been dragged out by panicking doctors. He was stiff down one side, slow in his speech, hard to understand. He would have gone far had he not lacked oxygen during Diddy’s first labour. ‘He’s a good boy, Diddy,’ said Anthony.
‘I know. What happens to him after me and Billy are dead? I don’t want him to be on his own, but I don’t like the idea of Maureen or Monica or Tildy-Anne being stuck with him.’
Anthony bit back a question about Jimmy. It was always assumed that the Cinderellas in a family had to be female. ‘Charlie could manage by himself,’ he told her. ‘He’s got more sense than most, and I think you know that.’
Diddy shrugged, the movement almost listless. ‘Well, I suppose I won’t be around to worry about that when it does happen. But our Charlie was only the start. I’ve four more. Are they growing up right, Anthony? You see, we’ve always helped people, me and Billy. And the children have just joined in. But Bridie set me thinking when she said about Cathy not being allowed to run about with them while they’re looking for bits and pieces for the Nolans.’ She paused, pondered for a moment. ‘There’s more to life than Scotland Road, isn’t there?’
‘Of course,’ he answered softly.
‘They might move away from here, my kids. They might go somewhere with gardens and velvet curtains. Or they might not be able to better themselves because of how I’ve brought them up. Then it would all be my fault.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. Anthony lived in hope. Although the cycle continued to renew itself through early marriage and large families, he knew that some of the older pupils at school had set their sights further afield. They wanted professions, indoor plumbing, fewer children and a full larder.
Yet he sympathized with this woman’s dilemma. She had been born into poverty, had brought children into poverty. Diddy and Billy worked hard, kept their brood fed and clothed. But Diddy was beginning to look to the future, and she wanted better things for the next generation. ‘They will educate themselves out of the trap,’ he told her. ‘Your children will move on, Diddy. They’ll have opportunities that weren’t available to you. And they’ll be good people.’
‘Promise?’
As far as he could remember, he had never heard Diddy sounding so uncertain. Maureen had frightened her. Diddy had realized today that life wasn’t standing still, that her fledgelings were growing and preparing to leave the nest. She was hoping and praying that they would not allow themselves to repeat the age-old pattern of marriage, parenthood and the pain that came with deprivation. ‘I’m sure they’ll turn out fine, Diddy,’ he said. ‘All of them will turn out fine.’
Bridie was surprised to find Edith Spencer at the back door. ‘I’m just ironing our Cathy’s clothes,’ she told Edith. ‘They go back to school in a couple of days.’ What was this woman doing here again? She’d visited at New Year and, as far as Bridie understood, the Spencers were not regular callers in Scotland Road.
Edith stepped through the scullery and into the kitchen. ‘Where are the children?’ she asked.
‘Cathy’s round visiting the Costigans and Shauna’s in the shop playing. Charlie’s very good with her.’
Edith looked round. Everything was as neat as a new pin, just as it had been when Aunt Theresa had been in charge of the household. ‘I’ve come to sort out the horses,’ said Edith. ‘They will be moved tomorrow.’
‘Thank you.’ Bridie’s heart raced. If only she could go to the Spencers’ farm. If only she could climb into a horsebox and hide throughout the journey, then canter across meadows on Sorrel’s back. ‘Sam is making a gift of them to me.’
‘And to your daughters,’ said Edith. ‘He stressed that.’
Bridie set the kettle to boil, carried a batch of scones to the table. ‘He’s good to us,’ she remarked while splitting and buttering. And he was good. Sam was undemonstrative, predictable, quiet and hard-working. But he tried to be fair.
‘Yes, he seems to care about you and the girls,’ replied Edith thoughtfully. Sam was a Scrooge. If a fool and his money were soon parted, then Sam Bell was a genius. Yet for the first time, Sam seemed to be mellowing slightly. Perhaps he loved this woman, then. Perhaps his chainmail had been penetrated at last, because he’d shown little affection for his first wife, had parted with few gifts in poor Maria’s direction.
‘Will you t
ake a scone, Edith?’
Edith nodded absently. ‘This idea of yours about returning to Ireland – what’s happening?’
Bridie shook her head. ‘I really don’t have the answer to that. It’s strange, you know, because I like Scotland Road. I’m still shaken by the noise of it, but I’ve an affection for the people. And it’s nice to have the picture houses and the theatre so close. We went to the pantomime at the Rotunda. It’s a beautiful place. They get variety shows there, too. Then there’s the markets and the street entertainers – never a dull moment.’
‘But?’
‘But Cathy’s a very bright child. If she sees Jimmy and Tildy running riot, she’ll end up not following them, but leading them into mischief.’
Edith Spencer swallowed her pride and a bite of feather-light scone. ‘Would you stay with Sam if Cathy could be settled?’
‘Yes, I think we would stay.’
The unexpected guest drained her cup. ‘Then I’ll have her.’
Bridie dropped the butter knife. She tried to absorb Edith’s words, allowed them to dance about the surface of her brain for a second or two before taking them in. ‘Split up my family?’ she managed at last. ‘I can’t allow that, Edith.’
The older woman placed her cup in the exact centre of its saucer. ‘Bridie, I live only forty-odd miles from here. Public transport means that we are almost neighbours. You see, Richard and I can afford to send Caitlin to a private and very exclusive school where her abilities will be directed positively. We own a great deal of land where she can use up her energies without getting into trouble. I am offering your daughter a future.’
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 16