The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  The street girls of Liverpool had enjoyed some peace once Liam had left the city. Coincidence? wondered Anthony. No, oh no. The bruises and the scratches had been visible on his brother’s hands. With a blinding conviction, Anthony had perceived that Liam Bell’s sexuality was empowered only by fury. He was a woman-hater, a man who needed to wreak his sadistic and sick revenge on females. Yet it was more than that, more than simple misogyny. Liam despised people and believed that he had been put on earth to punish and cleanse them. Almost every one of the prostitutes had reported that their attacker had mumbled over them, as if he had been praying. He punished, then he prayed. The women of the streets were lucky, as they had been allowed to live. Unlike poor Valerie whose life had been terminated by a very sick man . . .

  Anthony shifted in the chair. Liam was guilty, but Liam was ill. Anthony hung on to that idea for a few seconds, ordered himself to feel pity instead of rage. And he did feel pity. Not for Liam, but for the victims. ‘Sweet Jesus, help me,’ he prayed aloud. But would Jesus help him? After all, Anthony had deliberately taken a post in a non-denominational school. He smiled to himself, realized that he was probably as brainwashed as most Catholics. Jesus was there for everybody, not just for the followers of Rome.

  Anthony had no quarrel with the Church, hadn’t stopped going to mass. But he was confused. How could the one true faith harbour in its fold a monster who maimed and killed people? Liam should be in an asylum. If he were locked away, the world would breathe more easily.

  He leaned back, closed his eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing hand. Grandmuth had told him all about the birth. Maria Bell, the mother of the twins, had suffered an appallingly long and painful labour. Anthony had been born first, a healthy and robust child. Liam, smaller and weaker, had arrived some fifteen minutes later. Was it possible for a person to remember, however subconsciously, that a sibling had commanded the best nourishment in the womb? Had Liam wanted to take revenge because he had been squashed for months behind the stronger baby?

  Anthony shook his head. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m serious. Put a stop to him, please.’ Liam had killed Val because Val had been important to Anthony. Must Anthony remain celibate for the rest of his life so that the population could be safe?

  He went downstairs and set the kettle to boil, wincing when his fingers ached again as he turned the tap. While not exactly primitive, the cottage offered just the rudiments necessary to sustain human habitation. It had a cold tap in the kitchen, a grate with an oven attached, and a hob that lowered over the fire for cooking. The kitchen housed a table, two chairs and a dresser with blue-and-white plates, cups and saucers spread along its shelves. In the living room, the furniture consisted of a sofa, some bookshelves and an overstuffed armchair. The lighting was provided by oil lamps, and the bath hung on a nail just outside the kitchen door. A cast-iron grate and a Victorian whatnot completed the living room.

  Richard had offered to get the place decorated, but Anthony, unsure of how long he would remain in Astleigh Fold, had refused any help. He liked things the way they were, anyway. And he had his luxuries. The shelves were crammed with books, and a wireless stood on a small table beneath the front room window. He had to get the accumulators charged at the post office each week, but that was a small price to pay for concerts, plays and up-to-the-minute news broadcasts.

  He warmed the pot, spooned in some tea, made the brew. This afternoon, he intended to walk the short distance to Cherry Hinton. He was going to see Cathy, he told himself.

  When someone knocked at the front door, he put down the teapot and hesitated before walking from the kitchen, through the living room and into the small vestibule. Few people called at the lone cottage.

  He opened the door and tried hard not to show his pleasure. She was wearing blue, and the colour did justice to those magnificent eyes. ‘Bridie,’ he managed, ‘come in. I’m just making some tea.’

  She entered and placed a basket on the sofa. ‘Pasties from Diddy,’ she explained. ‘You’d have thought we were going on safari to Africa, the amount of food and lemonade she packed for us. We saved them for you. Mrs Cornwell kept them cool overnight. They have a refrigerator, you know, at Edith’s house. Did you hurt yourself?’ She noticed that he was nursing the right hand by cradling it with the left.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he answered. ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘With Edith.’ She sat down next to the basket. ‘She wants to keep Cathy. She wants to send her to a good school with a uniform and strict nuns.’

  He nodded. ‘That’ll be Sacred Heart. It’s near Richard’s practice in Bolton.’

  He was a teacher, so she might as well ask him. ‘What would you do? Is it a good school?’ The man had warm brown eyes with laughter lines already taking up residence along the temples. His brother had lines, too, but Liam’s were around his mouth and just above the nose, nasty furrows caused by frowning and scowling all the time.

  Anthony placed himself in the armchair. ‘They’ve been getting girls into Oxford and Cambridge. They have high standards, they expect perfect behaviour and the fees are colossal. As for what I’d do – well – I’ve never had a child, so I can only hypothesize.’ He paused, pondered. ‘Cathy is unusually clever. She is already receiving a good education, but the chance to go to Sacred Heart can’t be dismissed lightly.’ Why did he always lecture her? Why couldn’t he sit here like a normal human being having a normal conversation with another normal human being?’

  ‘What’ll I do, Anthony?’

  He loved the way she spoke, the softness of her voice, the way she caressed the consonants lightly, as if words glided like molten silver . . . He was becoming poetic, albeit inwardly. She had wonderful ankles, too. He cleared his throat. ‘I can’t make the decision for you. But let me think about it for a while. It is important that you see the school and meet the nuns first. After that, you would need to know what was on offer, wouldn’t you? Informed decision’s essential.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Would you go with me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And, if I do decide to allow Cathy to live with Edith, would you keep an eye on her? It’s not that I don’t trust Richard and Edith to look after my child, but you have taught Cathy and you’ve seen her happy in school. So you would know what to look for.’

  He gave his promise. ‘Will you have that cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m off to see the horses again – this time by myself. We took the girls over this morning, but I’d like to look at the horses alone. You know, I remember both of them being born, the filly and the colt. Silver looked like a huge spider – all legs, he was. Sorrel’s a gentle soul. I think I might let her brood, for she’d make a wonderful mother.’ She stood up. ‘In fact, if I’m any judge of horses, we could earn enough from those two to pay our own school fees.’

  Anthony followed her to the door. ‘I watched you riding,’ he said when she was outside on the short path. ‘At the stables. No saddle, no bridle.’ He laughed. ‘Judging from what I saw then, you’d do well in a circus.’

  She felt the heat in her cheeks. ‘If I’d known about the audience, I would have lost my seat.’

  ‘Would you?’

  She paused for a moment, slightly bemused by the expression on his face and the tone of his voice. ‘Probably,’ she replied, ‘though I’ve been riding since I could walk, and there wasn’t always a saddle to suit me.’

  He looked her full in the face, tried to memorize the shape of her features, the eye colour, the skin tones.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Will I bandage that hand?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She backed away, waved, swung into the lane and walked off.

  He stood at the door until she had disappeared round a bend in the track. She had read him, he felt sure. She had seen him for what he was, a total idiot who was finding his own way to hell. The Bells, he mused, were all in a bloody mess. Dad was as cold as ice, Grandmuth was failing, Liam was . .
. Liam.

  The tea was stewed past drinking. He started again, filled the kettle, stoked the fire, spooned out tea. His hand didn’t hurt much any more. But he was still in pain, because he was a fool. Heartache was an acquaintance with whom he had been on nodding terms for many years. So Anthony did what he always did at times like these. He picked up a book and buried himself in someone else’s turmoil.

  Bridie idled her way back to the stables. She needed some time to herself, because the last few days had been so exciting, buying clothes, packing, travelling. The air was good here in spite of those factories down below, and she was enjoying the greenness of everything. Why had he looked at her like that? Was he asking some sort of a question without words?

  A man entered the lane and lifted his cap to her. She watched him leading the cows home to their shippon. Bridie had always liked cows. They appeared stupid, with their soft eyes and docile expressions, but they were far from that. The Friesians apportioned her a few cursory glances, then carried on with their journey, tails swishing, udders swollen with milk.

  Why had he looked at her like that? Buttercups danced in the ditch and a few pink-tipped daisies struggled to survive among denser weed. Eugene had looked at her like that. A pair of thrushes walked along in front of her. Strange how some birds hopped and some walked. Thrushes were watchers. Many times at home she had got close to one of these feathered eejits. They were too inquisitive for their own good. He had been trying to tell her something with his eyes.

  It was a good school. But Cathy might feel rejected if Bridie let her leave the family home. He had dark-brown eyes. They were not gentle like a cow’s eyes, but they were not harsh like Liam’s. And it seemed the most desperate cheek to allow Edith to pay for Cathy’s education. Mind, if the horses came good, things might be different after a while.

  Bridie stopped and sat on a tree stump. Her mind was all over the place. She looked at a cabbage white that fluttered among the long grasses, felt a degree of empathy with the creature. Like her, the butterfly settled on nothing. He just blundered along softly, stopping for a split second then wandering off again. Like her, he was bewildered. The man whose house she had just visited seemed confused, too. She was his father’s wife. Bridie shook herself and stood up.

  No, she had to be wrong, surely? Anthony could not possibly feel anything for her. If he did – and he didn’t – that would be totally against nature. She was supposed to be his stepmother, for goodness sake. A handsome man like that one did not need to make eyes at the person who had just married his father.

  Yet her heart was beating a little faster and, somewhere inside, she was smiling. Was it possible to smile inside and not outside? ‘Pull yourself together, woman,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve horses to visit.’ In spite of this reprimand, Bridie walked the rest of the way with excitement staining her cheeks. Unfortunately, she was the sudden victim of emotions over which she found no control.

  Edith Spencer was ensconced in her small library with Bridie Bell’s daughters. The younger one, armed with wax crayons, was inflicting grievous bodily harm on a sheet of writing paper. Cathy had her eyes glued to a prospectus. ‘Is there any fun at all at Sacred Heart?’ she asked. It looked such a grim building. There was a photo of some girls standing in a row of dark-grey misery. The uniform was so desperate that anyone at all would be unhappy in it, stupid skirt with box pleats, stupid hat with a horrible brim.

  Edith had to think about that. ‘There’s organized fun,’ she replied. ‘Tennis, netball, gymnastics and rounders. Sometimes, the nuns hire a charabanc and take the girls for day trips to Chester or York.’

  Cathy studied the face of the headmistress. The headmistress had a page all to herself. She was so ugly. ‘Do they all look like her?’ The nuns at home in Galway and at the school in Scotland Road had been ordinary, sometimes pretty, often young. The headmistress of Sacred Heart had a big nose, wire-rimmed glasses and a wart on her chin. The wart had three hairs sticking out of it. ‘I don’t like her at all. Tildy’s mother would say this face is like the back end of a tram.’

  Edith didn’t laugh. It was true that Mother Ignatius had an appearance fit to stop clocks. ‘She’s a very nice lady, Cathy. You may go and meet her if you wish.’

  Cathy sat bolt upright. The thought of coming into contact with such an eyesore held little appeal. Of course, Mammy was always saying that beauty was skin deep and that many ugly people had hearts of gold, but the little girl could not quite manage to believe that anyone with such steely eyes might have an ounce of kindness hidden beneath the wimple. ‘I don’t want to meet her, thank you,’ said Cathy. ‘And why should I meet her?’

  Edith took a deep breath. ‘Because Uncle Richard and I want to send you to that school. Of course, you would have to pass an entrance examination and you would need to live in or around Bolton.’

  Cathy blinked. ‘Are we coming to live here, then?’

  ‘No. Not all of you. And you need not stay with us and go to Sacred Heart if you don’t want to. It’s just that you are such a clever girl. There are excellent teachers at Sacred Heart. They take very few pupils under the age of eleven, but their kindergarten would give you the best possible start in life. You would be glad in the end, Cathy. You could even go on to university.’

  The child closed her book to shut out the offending photograph. She could not imagine attending any school whose boss looked like the back of a tram. ‘I want to stay with Mammy,’ she said.

  Edith decided not to go into the business of cajoling and persuading. She could have told the child about all the freedom she would enjoy on the farms, could have reminded her of the animals that were housed on Spencer land. Instead, she simply turned to Shauna and looked at the drawings.

  Cathy didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know what to think. She liked Aunt Edith and Uncle Richard, but she was happy enough in her latest resting place. Until May of last year, she had lived with Mammy and Daddy and Shauna on a farm. Then Daddy had died, and she had lived with Mammy and Shauna on the same farm. The move to Granda’s had not been a happy one, and the relocation to Liverpool had brought its problems. The idea of further upheaval was not attractive. Did Mammy not want her any more? Were the Costigans fed up with her, too? ‘What does Mammy want me to do?’ she asked finally.

  Edith turned away from the prattling Shauna. ‘Your mother wants the best for you, of course.’

  Cathy had worked out that what grown-ups thought best for a child was not always what the child would have chosen. Castor oil or California Syrup of Figs were often listed and administered as the best thing. Going to mass on Holy Days of Obligation was another best thing, even when the weather was cold and the bed was warm. ‘The best is not always the best,’ she said, almost to herself.

  Edith smiled and kept her counsel. The remark made by Cathy proved a point, the very point on which Edith Spencer was pinning her hopes. Cathy was perceptive. Sooner or later, she would require the kind of education that was offered only by schools like Sacred Heart. And Edith would still be here when Cathy needed her.

  The Spencer Stables were situated on Spencer land, though Robert Cross Esquire was very much in charge of all equine and human life on the acreage he ran for Richard Spencer. The house in which he lived was a total shambles. A die-hard bachelor by nature, Bob Cross put horses first every time. The stables and yards were spotless, but finding a chair on which to sit in his kitchen was almost impossible.

  He allowed Bridie to enter his domain, sweeping a pile of clothing from a battered but once ornate monks’ bench beneath the window to provide her with a seat. ‘Got you a saddle here,’ he said. ‘Best leather, straight out of Walker’s Tannery not long back. It’s a good one.’

  Bridie examined the specimen, thought it was brand new. ‘Did Richard buy this for me?’

  ‘Nay,’ said Bob. ‘I’ve had it cleaned up. See, there’s hardly any wear to the seat, and we’ve shined all the brass. It’ll adjust all right to suit you.’

  Bridie
examined it closely, ran a hand over pommel and cantle, checked stirrups and cinch. ‘It’s in very good condition,’ she told him. ‘Actually, I often ride bareback.’

  He nodded, stuck a match between his teeth and chewed for a moment. ‘Them’s damn good horses you’ve got there, Mrs Bell. They want training. There’s many a mile in that there stallion. Rum bugger, mind. Not beyond kicking somebody into the middle of next Tuesday, yon feller.’

  Bridie grinned. Bob Cross’s accent was very like Muth’s. Edith had honed her vowels to match her status, but her aunt, Theresa, remained very much a Lancastrian, as did this chap. ‘He needs to get used to a saddle, then.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ replied Bob. ‘He’s not keen on tack, your Silver. Won’t take no bridling, no halter, not yet. Only there’s not many races run bareback, tha knows. Stable lad’s had a go with Silver, got a lead rein on him after about half an hour of murder, but the horse didn’t take to him. Lad’s leg’s nearly all reet now.’

  It didn’t seem quite proper to smile when some poor boy’s leg had felt the business end of Silver’s not inconsiderable strength, so Bridie made her expression sober. ‘I’d like to ride Sorrel today. She has a pleasant nature, as I’m sure you will have noticed. Silver responds to singing, by the way.’

  The man stared at her and ran a hand through hair grizzled enough to resemble a horse’s short-cut mane. ‘I’m no good at singing,’ he said seriously. ‘Not since me voice broke. But I can get a lend of one of them wind-up gramophone things. Does he like Richard Tauber? Or will he need one of them Eye-talian singers with moustaches and big bellies?’

  He was laughing at her. She could see from the twinkle in his eyes that he was unsure about this tiny Irish filly’s ability to handle highly-strung stock. ‘I saw him born,’ she informed him. ‘I was there when he took his first steps. He had legs right up to the barn ceiling then.’ She lifted her head, ‘I do know quite a lot about horses, Mr Cross.’