The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Funny, I forgot most of it just before we came here. I even forgot about what the doctor had told Dad. I was me, but I wasn’t me. Like a dream. Sitting here like this, I’ve let it all come back. Nobody will marry me now. The nuns said no man wants a girl who’s done the bad thing.’

  Diddy jumped up. ‘This is different, Maureen. You haven’t done anything wrong, girl. It was the man who did wrong, not you.’

  Maureen nodded slowly. ‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s been done. The girls at school used to talk about who’d been broken in and who hadn’t. I’ve been broken in.’ Maureen had enjoyed something of a reputation at school, but she had always known when to make the boys stop. She needn’t have bothered, she supposed now, because her virginity had been ripped from her anyway.

  Diddy tossed aside her mending, jumped up and hugged her daughter tightly. ‘You’ll be all right, love,’ she kept saying. Was she comforting Maureen or herself? After a minute or so, she released Maureen and began to pace up and down the room. Why hadn’t Billy told her the full story? Then she remembered how she had been, crying over the dinner, her tears watering down the corned beef hash or the pea and ham soup. Billy had been trying to protect his wife for as long as possible. ‘I bet your dad left you to tell me when you were ready. And you have done. Christ, I’ll kill that bloody man, whoever he is.’

  ‘I don’t want anybody to know about the bad thing, Mam,’ said Maureen. ‘Our Nicky – there’s no need for her to find out. The neighbours and all that lot – keep it from them.’

  Diddy nodded just once. ‘We will, I promise. There’s only me, you, your dad and the doctor who know all about what happened.’

  ‘And the police,’ said Maureen softly. ‘And the man who did it. The trouble is, if he gets another girl, people will say we should have spoke up.’

  ‘They can say what they like, queen. Whatever you decide, we’ll all stick by you.’

  Maureen continued to look out at the beauty of Cherry Hinton’s gardens. She wouldn’t mind staying here for ever. It was so peaceful after Scotland Road, so beautiful and quiet. ‘Mam?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’m not going back to school. I should be leaving in July, anyway. I don’t care what anybody says, I’m not going. I’d only get asked questions. They’d all be pointing at me and whispering about me. It’d be terrible.’

  ‘All right, love.’

  Maureen inhaled deeply. ‘It’s the same with church. I mean, I suppose I’ll go to mass and confession and all that in time, but I don’t feel like it yet.’

  ‘You just please yourself,’ answered Diddy.

  That was enough for now, Maureen decided. She wouldn’t tell Mam yet about the other plan, the one Edith Spencer had cooked up. If Maureen wanted to, and if her parents would allow it, she could remain at Cherry Hinton as a helper for Mrs Cornwell. Mrs Cornwell had arthritis in her hands and bunions on her feet. The bits in between were all right, the cook was always saying, but, in the woman’s own words, her ‘extreme bits was playing up something monumental.’

  In a day or two, Maureen would ask Mam if she could stay in Astleigh Fold. Whoever he was, he would not come here. Would he?

  It was a very silly way to carry on. In Bridie’s opinion, a horsewoman as experienced as she was should not be falling out of the saddle and landing on her head. The riding hat had rolled away, was sitting upside down in a small indentation between field and ditch. Sorrel wandered about chewing grass while Bridie nursed her sore head. She would get up in a minute. It was the shock, she supposed, because this had been the first fall in years – in fact, she had been younger than Cathy the last time she’d taken a tumble as nasty as this one.

  Bob would be as annoyed as his surname, she told herself. Cross by name and furious by nature, no doubt. The guardian of the Spencer Stables was not watching, and Bridie was grateful for that. Sorrel had to be looked after. Bob Cross would be more concerned about the mount, because he didn’t want Sorrel to think she could toss away her burden whenever the fancy took her. Bob Cross had planned a big future for Bridie’s horses.

  On New Year’s Day in 1932, both Sorrel and Quicksilver would have their legal third birthday. So, in just over twelve months, one or both of them could be entered for the Derby if they showed good form in the meantime. Before the Derby, the horses would be tried at York and Chester. Bob Cross had been in touch with Dad, had acquired documentation that traced the animals’ ancestry all the way back to a long ago Arab–Irish mating. And she, Bridget Bell, had just come off the more peaceable of the pair. She rubbed her head. God help anyone who tangled with Silver, because that feisty beast would throw St Francis Assisi himself out of the saddle if given a mere fraction of an opportunity.

  ‘Hello?’

  She sat up, turned, saw Anthony leaning over a stile. ‘Oh. Hello,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. I fell on my head, so I didn’t feel a thing.’ Her heart was all over the place again. She wanted him to climb over the fence and come to her, wanted him to go away – preferably to China – wanted him to touch her, talk to her . . .

  He came into the field and helped her to sit up properly. ‘You have a bump on your forehead the size of Everest,’ he told her.

  ‘No sense, no feeling,’ she said flippantly. ‘Is the horse all right?’

  ‘You’re as bad as Bob Cross,’ he said. ‘Horses first, people second. She looks fine.’ He dropped down beside her. ‘It’s a long way to fall, Bridie.’

  She was in trouble; she was in love. Was it love? she asked herself. Or was this plain and simple lust? Whatever, it was a condition from which she had never suffered before. ‘I’m tough,’ she said. ‘The main thing is to keep the horse safe.’ She fixed her gaze on the placid young mare. Sorrel was not in the least way concerned about any of it. ‘Sorrel and Quicksilver are expected to have a big future. That’s what Bob Cross thinks, anyway. There’s a jockey coming tomorrow to try the pair out. If he’s any sense at all, he’ll stick to this one. I only hope he sticks to her better than I did.’ She waved a hand towards the pale chestnut. ‘She has an even temper. The other fellow can act up like the very devil, you know, when the mood takes him.’

  ‘Yes, Bob Cross did mention it in the pub the other night. Apparently, your Silver has a tendency to kick out. The stable boy had a limp for three days, I understand.’

  ‘Silver’s highly strung,’ she said defensively. ‘It’s in his breeding. Lord knows it’s sensible to fear humans. Sometimes, when horses show you the whites of their eyes, you know they’re thinking of fight or flight. That’s when I picture them roaming the plains away from humankind. We exploit them.’

  ‘Yet you’ll enter Sorrel for the races?’

  ‘Yes. She’s already in captivity, and she’s happy enough, so she might as well earn some money. And she’s a stayer as well as a sprinter. She has the breathing capacity to go the full distance. The Derby’s a race for horses like Sorrel and Silver.’ If she could carry on talking about horses, things would turn out fine. If she didn’t look at him and—

  ‘I went to Liverpool yesterday. I told Father Brennan about Liam.’

  ‘Ah.’ She got up and retrieved her hat. ‘Have you tried confiding in Sam about Liam? You should tell your father,’ she insisted.

  Anthony laughed mirthlessly. ‘He would have me committed to an asylum.’

  ‘I still think you should talk to Sam. He’s not as stubborn as you make out.’

  He stood up and brushed a few pieces of grass from his trousers. If he looked downwards, he would not have to watch her. His eyes were hungry for the sight of Bridie in that quaint divided skirt she always wore when in the saddle. Her hair had tumbled about her face in ringlets made bright by the spring sunshine. He would not look at her again; he would walk away and climb over the stile and—

  ‘Anthony?’

  He looked. She was unbearably lovely. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Try not
to brood.’

  He dropped his gaze again. ‘I shall do my best. Anyway, I had better be on my way,’ he said. But his feet seemed to have taken root again. ‘Bridie, I—’

  ‘Come along, Sorrel.’ She took the rein and led the horse back towards the stables. He was staring at her. She could feel the heat of his eyes boring into her spine. ‘God help me,’ she muttered. Prayer was the thing, she reminded herself. Anthony was one of the temptations in her path. She must take a circuitous route, must steer herself away from him. Soon, she would return to Liverpool. Things would be easier then.

  ‘Bridie?’

  She froze. ‘Go away,’ she begged.

  He walked around her, placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘You know how I feel, don’t you? Stand still, for goodness sake.’

  ‘Why?’ She looked straight at him. ‘I can’t stand still, Anthony. I have two daughters to rear and a household to run. I have a good husband. The girls and I want for nothing.’

  ‘What about love?’ he asked.

  She bowed her head for a moment, then lifted her chin in defiance. ‘I am married to your father,’ she whispered, ‘and I respect him, Anthony. Respect endures, but love can pass away very easily. I will not hurt him. He is so good to me and Cathy and Shauna—’

  ‘Gratitude,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  He touched her hand, flinched when she drew away from him. ‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life being grateful?’

  Bridie’s grip on the rein tightened. ‘That’s no matter,’ she told him gravely. ‘But I don’t want to be worrying about adultery, either, for the next twenty years.’ Courage, courage, she told herself. ‘You are my stepson. And that’s an end of it.’ She marched away with the horse.

  Anthony hated himself. He had got her involved by relating his innermost secret, by inviting her to worry about Liam and his crimes. Also, he had allowed his love for her to show. ‘You’re a fool,’ he told himself aloud. ‘And a fool gets what he deserves from life, no more and no less.’ With a heavy heart, he trudged back to his little house.

  Bridie stumbled onward, her vision impeded by unexpected tears. Noel ran towards her with Cathy. ‘I’m all right,’ Bridie told her daughter. ‘Just a little fall.’

  Cathy took her mother’s hand and led her back to the stables. She was Mammy’s big girl, and Mammy had been crying.

  Michael Brennan was becoming increasingly sure of one fact. He was not designed to be a policeman or a detective. His spherical shape was aerodynamically unsuited to quick movement, while everyone in the Scotland Road area recognized him as soon as they clapped eyes on him.

  He sidestepped two boys in mangled steeries – carts made from old boxes, pram wheels and rope – then became involved with a crowd of children who had appointed themselves as entertainers for tram travellers. When the tracks had been cleared of singing, dancing and leapfrogging infants, Father Brennan wagged a finger at the young daredevils, then set off for Rose Hill Police Station. Surely he could ask questions without giving away all his reasons? After all, Maureen Costigan was a member of his congregation.

  He entered the station, tried to keep clear of a pair of marauding drunkards. ‘Father!’ screamed the nearest of the two. ‘He’s pinched me last drop.’ Anxious to get rid of the inebriated men, Michael helped a constable to direct them towards the cells.

  ‘Starting already,’ complained the desk sergeant. ‘And it’s only half past seven. What can we do for you, Father Brennan?’

  Michael looked around. Apart from an officer who was distributing police clothing to some ragged children, the area was reasonably clear. ‘I’ve seen you busier,’ said the priest.

  ‘So have I.’ The sergeant took a noisy sip from a mug of tea. ‘You should have been here when we had the loot, Father, during and after the police strike – a bit before your time. There was more stolen stuff going through here in 1919 than I’ve seen in all my other years put together.’ He glanced round the room. ‘By those standards, I suppose we’re quiet. Just shows – police should never go on strike. Without us and your lot, this place’d go straight to the dogs.’

  Michael leaned against the counter. ‘Maureen Costigan,’ he said. ‘The whole parish has been concerned and praying for her recovery. Was Flash Flanagan the first to find her and what have you discovered about the person who injured her?’

  The policeman, who was too near retirement to care much for protocol, gave his answer immediately. ‘Flash Flanagan found her and no, we haven’t got any idea who committed the crime,’ he replied. ‘We gave Flash his marching orders while things settle down a bit. He would have frightened everybody to death with his tales if we hadn’t shifted him.’ He swung round. ‘I’ve eyes in the back of my head, Bobby Flynn,’ he told a lad who was creeping through to the cells. ‘Get back here and find some trousers. The arse is out of the ones you’re wearing.’

  ‘I want to see me dad,’ moaned the boy. ‘It’s a matter of life and death.’

  ‘We know all about that,’ said the sergeant. ‘Your mother’ll batter him to death if she doesn’t get his wages. Well, he’s been drunk since dinner-time and I’ve locked him up for his own good. Go home and tell her I found three bob and a couple of coppers on him. If she’ll come round, she can sign for it.’

  The lad ran out bearing the good news and a pair of brown corduroy trousers.

  ‘He’ll not wear them,’ said the policeman sadly. ‘They don’t like wearing the police clothes. They stink when they’re wet, them trousers. Still, we can do our best and no more.’

  ‘I’m worried about this attack,’ Michael continued. ‘I’ve heard that Maureen was almost strangled.’

  ‘Yes, but we found no evidence apart from the state she was in.’

  Father Brennan picked up his biretta.

  ‘Hang on,’ said the sergeant. He leaned forward. ‘We think it was more like a scarf,’ he said softly. ‘Rope leaves a definite mark, different from the bruise on that poor girl’s throat. But that’s all we know. Oh, and we’ve took a bit of a collection for her. She can get herself a new frock or something when she feels better.’

  ‘Was she raped?’ Michael Brennan spoke in a whisper.

  His companion nodded just once. ‘I know that’ll go no further,’ he said.

  Michael Brennan stepped outside, watched the toffee ponies clopping their way home after delivering sweets to all the little shops in the area. These favourites of the local children were small piebalds with round bellies and well-polished tack. He waved at the driver, crossed the road, made his way through a maze of streets.

  From a cellar, an excited voice called, ‘House!’ Michael grinned to himself. There was not much work about, and many young men spent their time organizing football teams. These were financed by illegal gambling but, like the police, the Church turned a blind eye. They were better off playing lotto than stealing and getting into fights. At least the football matches helped to burn off some of their surplus energy. With the takings from the bingo, they would buy boots, socks and a proper inflatable football.

  A couple of Mary Ellens approached him, their baskets empty after a long day’s toil. They swayed when they walked, as if still balancing the panniers of fruit on their heads. Each wore a long black skirt with loose pleats, and a dark shawl around her shoulders. ‘Hello, Father,’ they chorused. ‘How’s business?’

  ’Fair to middling,’ he replied, as always. ‘How’s yours?’

  ‘Picking up,’ laughed the nearest. ‘Picking up all we’ve dropped before the kids pinch it.’ They sallied onward, their pace unhurried, boots slapping the pavement rhythmically.

  He crossed Scotland Road, saw a fight going on outside the Prince of Wales, stood with his arms folded until the warriors separated, shame on their faces because their priest had seen them brawling.

  In the Throstle’s Nest, he ordered a pint of ale and sat on a stool. Where was the man? And for how much longer could he, Father Michael Brennan, PP
, follow his second in command around the streets? There were other matters waiting for attention, like sick people to visit and sermons to write.

  Molly Barnes plonked herself next to him. Molly was a lovable woman of easy virtue whose looks had faded. So she was off the streets now and running a home for girls who worked the city centre and the dock road. ‘I’ve come to thank you,’ she said, her face broadened by a smile. ‘For lending us your Father Bell.’

  Michael took another sip of beer. Molly was not the best company to keep, because she paid little attention to personal hygiene. Her idea of social acceptability was to spray herself liberally with cheap perfume. This did not disguise the scent of unwashed flesh; it merely added to the unsavoury bouquet of aromas that battled with each other for dominance as they rose from her clothing. She had mentioned Liam. He would take his time, get what information he could from this lady. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Molly downed her gin and stared into the empty glass. ‘Father Bell. He’s working at the Welcome Home.’ She was very proud of her establishment. It provided a safe haven for those who wanted a rest from the weariness that accompanied prostitution. The little nest had been lent to her by a charitable organization. ‘The committee’s very pleased with me,’ she boasted. ‘I’ve got two married off and four who’ve gone back to their mothers.’

  Michael placed his glass on the counter, tried to appear nonchalant. ‘How long has Father Bell been involved?’ he asked. ‘I seem to have forgotten.’

  ‘Oh, just a couple of weeks. He prays with us after tea when he can, when he’s got time, like.’

  He prays, thought Michael. Afterwards, he prays over them. The priest suppressed a shudder. ‘Does he help in any other way?’

  Molly pouted while she thought. Powder had caked and settled into the network of fine lines around her eyes and mouth. The lips were brightly painted, looked as if they had been in contact with the blood of some recently killed animal. ‘Well, he talks to the girls, advises them on how to try and get a proper job. Sometimes, he brings bits of fruit and cake. I mean, he’s a sobersides, but he does his best.’