The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  Bridie bit her lip. ‘She’ll settle down here.’ There was doubt in the words.

  ‘And if she doesn’t? What will you do when she gets into the next scrape? Will you threaten to return to Ireland again? Because those threats unsettle children. It would be better to go and be done with it rather than to keep mentioning it. You’re going, then you’re staying – how secure do your children feel in the face of such indecision?’

  Bridie dropped into a chair. There had been so many changes in the girls’ lives – and in her own. Happiness was something all three of them remembered. Happiness was Eugene coming up the lane for his supper, hay in his hair, cow droppings on his boots, the sun in his eyes. Happiness was warm soda bread eaten with butter next to the fire on a winter’s evening, cups of tea consumed over books and columns of figures. He had wanted his own place, had started to save a little bit towards the dream of independence.

  ‘Bridie?’ Edith Spencer’s dark eyebrows were arched by concern.

  Heartbreak was a farm labourer running along that same lane with tears coursing down his face. It was a hospital bed that contained a man too small to be Eugene, then a wooden box, also too small for the man she had loved. Misery was Thomas Murphy screaming and ranting because his granddaughters had Protestant blood in their veins. Misery was knowing that she, Bridie O’Brien, must save her children from the wrath of a tyrant who had driven her mother into the afterlife. ‘Let me think about it,’ she whispered. And it hadn’t turned out too badly, had it? They were secure here, warm, fed, well dressed. Leaving Galway and doing her father’s bidding had not been such a bad thing after all. If only Cathy would behave. ‘It’s not a thing I can decide about quickly. And I have to talk to Sam before I do anything.’

  Edith understood. How could a mother part with a child? And why should Bridie hand over her daughter to a woman she scarcely knew? ‘Why don’t you visit, stay with us for a few days? You can bring the girls – we’ll use the car.’ She cast an eye over the ragged animal who had stretched himself out in front of the grate. ‘Noel will be welcome, too.’

  Bridie looked at the dog. He was a fine animal in spite of his appearance. ‘He’ll mess up your car.’

  ‘That’s no matter.’

  The hostess poured tea, sat with her guest and thought about Edith’s suggestion. A bit of fresh air would do them all good, and she would be able to see how Silver and Sorrel would be stabled. ‘What about Sam?’ she asked. ‘He won’t leave the shop, and I’ll not come without talking to him first.’

  ‘Shall I ask him?’

  Bridie shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’ It was her own responsibility, Bridie decided. She should talk to her husband about this. He would agree, no doubt, because he wanted her to remain in England. All the same, he deserved some respect, and she would seek his opinion before making any decisions.

  Maureen Costigan flounced out of the house and ran down the jigger. Mam was being a real pest. Dad wasn’t helping, either. He was just sitting there nodding, agreeing with everything his wife said. They didn’t understand, didn’t even try.

  She stopped a few houses down from her own and opened the back gate. Maureen was in love. This love had lasted throughout the previous school term, right from the beginning of September when she had first looked closely at Mr Bell. He taught the juniors, but she made sure she saw him at least twice every weekday. There was a lot to do in a junior class. There was ink to mix, paper to cut, the blackboard to clean. Maureen did all those things while Mr Bell marked his books.

  Anthony. It was a lovely name for a lovely man. He was going to be her man, because she had made up her mind. Maureen knew that she was beautiful, was sure that she could have any boy she wanted. But she didn’t want a mere boy. The one she had fixed firmly in her sights was a man, a real grown man. However, she failed to understand how or why the present set of circumstances had arisen. Why wouldn’t he notice her? Why was she getting nowhere with him? All her life, she had achieved her own way where males were concerned. There should have been no problem. She wanted him, therefore she should have him.

  She pressed her ear against the scullery door. He was inside, was no more than a few feet and inches away, was probably reading or getting lessons ready for next week. When the door suddenly swung inward, she gasped and stepped back. ‘You frightened me,’ she told him.

  Anthony buttoned up his jacket and tightened the scarf around his neck. For the first time since his battle with bronchitis, he was on his way to the Throstle’s Nest for a pint. And here she was again, for the third time today. ‘Maureen, I’m all right now. I’ve no temperature, no wheeze and no cough. So I can go and play in the Throstle’s Nest.’

  Maureen bit her lip. She wanted to touch him and kiss him and tell him about this pain that was love. He would be able to kiss properly, not like the sloppy lads at school. They would be happy together. She could move in here with him and still be right on top of her own family. Singing and dancing didn’t matter any more. Nothing mattered except being wherever Anthony Bell went. ‘I’ll walk with you,’ she offered hopefully. ‘The fresh air will do me good, too.’

  ‘No, Maureen.’

  Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I’m going that way,’ she said. ‘I’m visiting Bernadette McManus in Kew Street. So I’ll be passing the Throstle’s Nest anyway.’

  He sighed, pushed his hands deep into his pockets. She had to be told. From somewhere, he had to drum up courage and the words to match. Instead, he found himself giving a history lesson about the Throstle’s Nest having been situated originally in the churchyard. ‘It had a big tree outside, and it was hung with cages that held pairs of singing throstles. That’s how it got its name.’

  She tried to keep up in more ways than one, because he had long legs and was very clever. ‘What’s a throstle?’ she asked.

  ‘A song thrush.’

  They walked past Bell’s Pledges and to the corner where the Throstle’s Nest stood. He glanced at her, saw gaslit tears on her cheeks and led her up the side of the pub and into Chapel Gardens. ‘It has to stop, Maureen,’ he said. ‘You must go back to your friends, to people of your own age.’

  Maureen pressed the heel of a hand against her nose. If it started to drip and run, she would surely die of shame. ‘I love you,’ she mumbled.

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘I do.’

  He stepped away from her, took a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Dry your eyes,’ he told her. ‘Then off you go to visit Bernadette.’ Teachers were in a vulnerable position, he supposed. He had heard about crushes, about young girls hanging round the houses of schoolmasters and following their heroes everywhere. It was a forbidden love, his mind’s voice said. But it was no more forbidden than . . . No, the foolishness about Bridie was over, wasn’t it?

  Maureen blew her nose.

  He was so sorry for her. She was obsessed, no more than that. Young people often fell head over heels for a mature person, only to discover that the idol in question had feet of clay or bad breath or some other unforgivable failing. He reached out and touched her arm. ‘Go on, Maureen. I’ll talk to you at school.’

  She nodded dolefully, then fled the way she had come, past Bell’s Pledges and into Wilbraham Street, where she lingered for a moment to dry her face. Bernadette McManus could wait. Bernadette McManus had been a mere ploy.

  Maureen did not notice a shadowy figure at the end of the street, as she was too busy preparing herself for home. Already in trouble with her parents for tormenting Mr Bell, Maureen didn’t want to go into the house all shamefaced and tear-stained.

  Liam smoothed his hair and stepped back into Scotland Road. He was on his way to catch the last train, had been privileged to watch that trite scene between Anthony and this Costigan girl. He had heard none of the conversation, but he had watched the little tears and the sharing of a handkerchief. Costigans. He sniffed, turned up the collar of his overcoat. Anthony had such poor taste in women.

  As he made his way to the city
centre, he thought about his twin’s last dalliance, the one that had ended . . . when? Ah yes, about five years ago. Valerie had been a strumpet. She had denounced the faith openly after leaving training college, had opted to teach in some saintless school away from her roots. Twice he had followed her – once to her place of work, next to . . . no, he could not quite recall the second time. Had it been dark? Dark and cold like tonight? Had he pursued her into a dark place? Well, whatever, she had been found dead and the incident had been reported in all the national newspapers. A Catholic funeral, too, he mused, his teeth clenched against a chill wind.

  It was cold. His breath hung in the air, and the soles of his shoes found poor purchase on the slick of ice that covered the paving stones. Surely that Costigan girl was still a child? Yet she had the body of a woman and a face that matched those found on hoardings outside picture houses. So, Anthony was looking for another soulmate, was he?

  Liam’s lip curled. For as long as he could remember, it had been ‘Anthony did this’ and ‘Anthony said that’. Grandmuth had loved Anthony, yet she had not loved his twin brother. Liam had been forced to fight for attention, had urged himself to attain a status far higher than Anthony’s. But even now, Anthony got all the praise, all the fuss from Grandmuth about being a handsome fellow and a marvellous teacher.

  He turned into Lime Street, bought a paper, leaned against a lighted window and read the news. The words danced before his eyes, would not enter his mind. All he could see was that pretty, dark-haired girl having a lover’s quarrel with Anthony. Anthony would marry, would have children. Dad might be won over when another generation of Bells put in an appearance. And if Dad got won over, Liam would be truly alone.

  He sat on the train and looked at his reflection in the darkened glass. The vehicle lumbered over rails, chattered across points, struggled to achieve its regular rhythm. His eyes closed and he leaned back. As he slipped towards sleep, he heard the regular accent of iron on iron. ‘Anthony Bell, going to hell, Anthony Bell,’ chanted a voice in his head. His eyes flew open. Did he have to wait until the end of life before getting his due? Would things even out only then, when he entered Paradise and Anthony sank into Hades? No, no, he didn’t want his twin to go to hell. He must save Anthony again, must make sure that Anthony made no mistakes. He had saved him before . . . but the details were still vague.

  Liam wiped an unseasonal sweat from his face and loosened his coat. Confusion ruled his brain, made his thoughts jump all over the place. Anthony. He loved him, hated him. He could not just sit back and let Anthony carry on sinning. Something would have to be done, something big. It would happen in a dark place and . . . Yes, he would know what to do, he would remember. The answer would come before death, he would make sure of that.

  Anthony drained the glass and asked for a second pint. He saw Billy Costigan lumbering towards him, hoped that the big man was not too upset. But he should have known that there would be no ill-feeling on Billy’s part. Billy clapped Anthony on the back, asked the barman for a set of arrows and went off to wage war at the dartboard.

  Someone touched Anthony’s arm. ‘Is this you drinking straight out of your sickbed?’

  Anthony smiled down on Michael Brennan. The priest’s head reached Anthony’s shoulder, just about, though his girth filled enough space for two. ‘Whisky, Father Brennan?’

  ‘Oh, very well. Here’s yourself leading me into the ways of sin. Mind, I have to tell you – I’m very easily led astray.’

  They drank, found a corner and leaned against the wall. ‘Crowded,’ remarked Michael Brennan. ‘Are they putting on turns tonight?’

  Anthony shook his head. The pubs hereabouts were still famed for ‘free and easy’ evenings, nights when landlords did battle for business by bringing in a comedian, a singer or an illusionist. ‘No, we’ve no entertainment tonight,’ he told the priest. ‘It’s the football teams debating strategy. There’ll be a ding-dong in Lock Fields next Sunday. They’re competing for free beer. And the rest have come in to watch the fun and to thaw out.’

  The cleric finished his drink and looked hard at Anthony. This was one of the best teachers he had ever encountered. The children respected him, felt no fear of him, trusted him. This was hardly the right place, but Michael Brennan had to come out with it, had to get it off his chest. ‘Anthony, Liam is to be attached to our church for a while.’ Well, at least he had said it. He had been wondering since early evening how he would break the news. But the scotch had loosened his tongue. ‘Just for a few months,’ he added.

  Anthony dropped his chin and thought for a moment or two. This short, friendly priest was Anthony’s confessor. Anthony had never mentioned Val in confession, had never unburdened himself. Could he do it now? Could he do it ever without sounding like a total idiot? ‘Father, I’m ninety per cent certain that my brother raped and murdered my fiancée, though I’m sure he half believes he didn’t. Or perhaps he thinks what he did was not a sin. Yes, he is a priest and yes, he will be coming back to our church simply to make my life a perfect misery.’ Oh, that would sound great, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Anthony?’

  The younger man fixed his attention on the man who was, he supposed, his boss. Without the support of a parish priest, no teacher could reign long in a Catholic school. ‘Michael,’ he said, ‘you asked me ages ago to call you by your Christian name, and this seems a good occasion on which I might start.’ He inhaled deeply, coughed out some second-hand tobacco smoke. ‘I am asking you to release me from my contract.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about, man?’

  ‘The need to go, the need to get away from him.’

  ‘Away from Liam? But why? I know he’s not the kindest of men, and I remember the spat you had when I was new to the parish. But I put that down to you being upset. Didn’t your fiancée get buried a month or so before I took up my post?’

  Anthony nodded.

  ‘Liam said he tried to make peace with you just recently.’ The priest left space for a reply, got none. ‘Is that the case?’

  It was hopeless, thought Anthony. What was he supposed to say? ‘I think he’s sick,’ he managed eventually. ‘Sick in his head. Sometimes, I really believe he has no memory of the unsavoury things he has done.’ He tapped his empty glass with his fingernails. ‘If I were to tell you what I know, and what I think I know, you wouldn’t accept it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Anthony lowered his head. ‘If you did give me credit, the Church in Liverpool could be lifted right off its foundations. Even then, Liam would win through. Winning through is what life is all about as far as my brother is concerned.’

  A new shiver travelled the length of Father Brennan’s short spine. Anthony Bell was a completely trustworthy man. Like everyone else, he was a sinner who attended confession, but there were very few stains on the soul of this teacher. ‘Is he dangerous?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ll say no more?’ Antagonism between siblings was not uncommon, but the Bell twins were surely taking their rivalry a bit too far? ‘Will you wait till I replace you?’

  ‘Of course. There are plenty who will be glad of the chance.’

  ‘And where will you go?’

  Anthony thought for a few seconds. ‘Not too far away from Grandmuth, I suppose. Inland. Yes, I’ll go a bit deeper into Lancashire.’

  Father Brennan touched his friend’s arm, then went forth to visit those among his flock who needed their priest. He stood for a while and watched a tram pulling up, listened to the Mary Ellens as they serenaded all the other passengers. A few of these alighted, fruit baskets empty after a day’s toil at the Pier Head and on the ferries that cut across the Mersey several times each day.

  Ragged urchins dashed about trying to rid themselves of their remaining newspapers. The smells of cabbage, pig’s cheek and spiceballs lingered in chill air as people walked homeward with carry-out suppers. Michael Brennan loved this place, knew that his friend Anthony Bell loved it, to
o. Why was this happening?

  He crossed the road and made for Tenterden Street where a mother was nursing three cases of measles. One of the children was extremely ill and might be in need of the fever hospital. On a corner, he paused for a while and watched an entertainer juggling with plates. Why did Anthony have to leave? Perhaps the bishop’s opinion should be sought, but . . . but what could a man say to a bishop about family feuds? Also, it would be wrong to blacken Liam’s name, and yet . . . And yet Michael Brennan trusted Anthony completely. He stared at the juggler and felt empathy with the man. A priest’s job was not unlike juggling, trying to keep all the plates in the air, hoping they would not collide or crack.

  As he walked towards the sickbeds of children, the parish priest of St Aloysius Gonzaga made his reluctant decision. He must let Anthony go, and he must keep an eye on Father Liam Bell. Like the juggler, the parish priest had to keep the show on the road.

  Eight

  Monica Costigan, usually known as Nicky, walked with the love of her young life along Dryden Street to the door of her home. Graham Pile, a boy with a good heart and an unfortunate appearance, carried a basket of stale bread from the bakery. At seventeen going on eighteen, he was almost ready to complete his apprenticeship, so he and Nicky would be married as soon as she had reached the age of sixteen.

  ‘Mam’ll miss Mrs Bell,’ said Nicky. ‘They’re going to Bolton for Easter, Mrs Bell and her little girls. That Auntie Edith invited them just after Christmas, but Mrs Bell’s only just made her mind up. I like Mrs Bell. We’ll all miss them.’

  ‘It’s only for a fortnight,’ Graham replied. ‘And it’s not as if they’re going to Africa. Bolton’s not that far away.’

  Nicky stopped in her tracks and grabbed his arm. ‘Right. Have you ever been to Bolton?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘Where is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Over there.’ He waved a hand in a direction he judged to be north-easterly.