The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I’ll go and get some things together,’ said Diddy. ‘And I’ll send our Monica round. Charlie’ll see to the shop.’

  Bridie sat and waited for Charlie to return. Shauna played with a basket of toys. The child who had been a weakling was thriving among dirt and poverty. Cathy, a robust and cheery soul, was away being cured of a debilitating disorder. Life was full of strangeness, Bridie thought. Poor young Maureen was carrying an unwanted baby, while Edith had spent years craving for a child. And so the world went round on its crazy axis.

  Muth came in. In spite of the heat, she was wearing a thick shawl and winter boots. Muth was another mystery, because she was old, yet infantile again. Since the death of her son, Mrs Bell Senior had gone downhill fast. ‘Have you seen me mam?’ she asked now.

  Bridie shuddered. Would Nicky Costigan manage an errant infant and an old lady whose mind wandered further from reality with every day?

  ‘Where’s me mam?’

  ‘In heaven,’ replied Bridie. This was getting worse. Even yesterday, the bewilderment had been less noticeable.

  ‘But I’ve not had me tea.’

  Bridie sighed. Perhaps a further burden would soon be delivered to Edith’s door. Edith had already offered to care for her confused aunt. So a new baby and an old baby might reside at Cherry Hinton. The world was truly upside down. No, no, Bridie told her inner self. Old Theresa would not be going to Bolton. Sam would have insisted that his mother should stay here with Bridie. That had been his final request to his solicitor on the last day of his life.

  ‘I’m hot,’ declared Muth peevishly. ‘I shouldn’t have boots on in this weather. What were you thinking of?’ she asked her daughter-in-law. ‘Telling me to wear me boots in the middle of summer.’

  Bridie reached out and put her arms round Theresa Bell. ‘God bless you,’ she said.

  Muth tutted. ‘Get this shop tidied up,’ she snapped. ‘And leave go of me. I’m too hot for all this carrying on.’

  Bridie watched helplessly while Muth tottered into the living room. She had to go with Diddy to Bolton. She wanted to see Cathy, needed to reassure herself that the child was getting better. And Diddy was going to need support. It was no use – she could not expect young Nicky to cope with everything. Once Charlie returned, Bridie would go out and seek a neighbour’s help. That was the beauty of Scotland Road, she reminded herself. On Scotland Road, no emergency was too big. When Jesus had said that the greatest virtue was charity, He must have imagined a place like this.

  Maureen sat down at the edge of the small orchard. Little pears were forming above her head, their peculiar shape already apparent in this early stage of growth. She stared up at the tiny clusters, wondered how much bigger they would grow before the mellow season.

  Inside her belly, another small thing was developing. For some time, Maureen had wondered about her body’s altered mechanism, had pushed away the idea that she might be pregnant. But today, Dr Richard Spencer had made the situation real and undeniable. She was harbouring an embryo and she hated whomever this tiny person was going to become. Bitter resentment filled her mind and heart, coloured every moment of this day, haunted her thoughts and left her exhausted. It must die. She had to find a way of making it die. Surely God did not want this terrible thing to be born?

  She lay back and placed her hands on her abdomen. It was scarcely rounded, yet Maureen was sure that she could feel something hard, like a fruit stone in the centre of her being. Every morning, she felt a bit sick, though she was managing, just about, not to vomit. The doctor had noticed her nausea, had diagnosed the unacceptable.

  Leaves swayed above her head. She didn’t know how to kill the unwanted presence. She didn’t know where to look, how to find a person who would undertake the murder of this small but heavy being inside herself.

  Dr Spencer could have done it. Well, he probably knew how, but he had not mentioned the possibility. Maureen had heard tales at school about gin and hot baths and knitting needles, but the specifics had never been made clear. Did the gin go in the bath or in the expectant mother’s stomach? And what would she do with a knitting needle? Oh no, surely not?

  The foliage rustled gently. Through green-framed gaps, she caught glimpses of a deep-blue sky. ‘I could have been happy here,’ she said aloud. ‘Except for this.’ She smashed a fist into her belly. ‘I’ll kill you myself,’ she muttered. ‘And if I ever see you . . . if you ever come out of me . . .’ The very thought made her heave. That vicious man had done this to her. Not content with ruining her dreams, he had also left his dirt inside her. His filth was spreading like a disease. The thing that grew would be ugly, deformed, evil. She was poisoned inside.

  Hot tears ran down her temples and into her hair. She would get fat soon. The fat would be the outer sign of inner corruption. No amount of baths or washes could possibly eliminate the contamination. Like the whited sepulchre in the Bible, Maureen would be eternally putrid on the inside.

  Through the earth beneath her, she felt the beat of a horse making steady progress towards the trees. Perhaps she would be crushed by pounding hooves. If that happened, the devil’s child would die. But so would she. Death had become an option during the last few hours. She had thought about sitting with Cathy, poor little Cathy who had to stay upstairs most of the time with all the windows thrown wide open because she needed air. Maureen remembered Mr Bell, who had died recently. Mam had said for ages that Mr Sam Bell had TB, though no doctor had ever got close enough to put a name to that hacking cough. How could she manage to catch TB, and would it kill her before this thing got born?

  The horse was nearer. It was not going at its fastest speed, but it was cantering. She would leave the decision to God. If God wanted to finish her, He could do it now.

  Through a gap between two apple trees, a huge white horse appeared. It was Quicksilver. In spite of his reputation, Silver was a sensible animal. As he neared the branches under which Maureen rested, he seemed to grind to a jarring halt. The unseated rider shot over the stallion’s head and fell with a loud crack. Silver snorted, eyed Maureen and the crumpled man, then bolted off in the direction of his stable.

  Maureen held her breath, waited for the man to move. A thick, red substance poured from his head, and she noticed that a partly buried stone was acting as a pillow beneath the man’s neck. But a stone did not provide the properties of a cushion, especially when contact between bone and masonry had been so sudden and so violent.

  She recognized him, knew that he was out of context. This was not an Astleigh Fold person. He was . . . he was big and rather old to be riding a mount as uncertain as Silver. Even Robin Smythe had trouble remaining seated on the grey. The only person who could handle the temperamental Irish–Arab was Bridie, and she had enjoyed a close relationship with the earth on several occasions.

  Robert Cross appeared. He ran to Maureen, made sure that she was not hurt, then bent over the prostrate figure. ‘Who is he?’ Bob asked. ‘Do you know him?’

  Maureen nodded.

  ‘Who?’ asked Bob again.

  The young woman rooted about in her memory. ‘I think he’s Bridie’s dad.’ The blood looked black against the grass. ‘Yes, he’s Bridie’s dad.’ She felt sick again. The man was dead, or nearly dead. If she could organize a similar fall for herself, then her troubles could well be over.

  Bob sought a pulse, found a weak flutter in a wrist. ‘He stole the horse,’ he said. ‘We’d saddled Silver for his morning exercise, then this fellow came in and took him away.’

  The jockey arrived, whip in hand, short legs encased in khaki jodhpurs. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Not far off,’ answered Bob. ‘Get down to the house for help. Did the horse come back?’

  Robin nodded. ‘He passed me in the meadow. At least we know he’s a homing pigeon.’ He set off in search of Richard.

  Thomas Murphy groaned. ‘My horses,’ he muttered, though the words were drowned. He was dying. Dolly had told him to bugger off, so he had come here to claim hi
s property. Strangely, he felt little pain. The life was ebbing out of him, leaving him cold, diminishing all his senses.

  Maureen vomited quietly, wiped her mouth on a handkerchief. Bridie had lost her first husband and her second husband and she was now losing her father. All the people who hadn’t needed to die were dying, while Maureen contained a life that nobody wanted. She should have been the one. Had the horse killed her, the problem would have been solved. ‘Should have been me,’ she said.

  Bob was kneeling over Thomas Murphy, looked at Maureen. ‘Rubbish,’ he said, ‘you’ve your whole life in front of you, love.’

  Maureen wept softly. It was a life she didn’t want.

  Anthony led Bridie into his little sitting room. The funeral had been quiet, just himself, Bridie and the Spencers, because Diddy had remained at Cherry Hinton with her daughter. The possibility of returning Thomas Murphy’s body to Ireland had been discussed, but Bridie had dismissed it after sparse consideration. Thomas Murphy was now interred in Tonge Cemetery in the Bury Road area of Bolton. He had been given all the trimmings including a full Requiem and a graveside service, though no-one had truly mourned the man’s passing.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ asked Anthony.

  ‘No.’ She just wanted to sit and think. ‘I’ve needed you,’ she said, her voice devoid of emotion. The fact that she needed him was nothing to do with love. It was his strength, his down-to-earthness that she missed. She also missed his humour, though that had been dampened by recent events, she realized. The love was another matter altogether.

  He pushed her into a chair and knelt at her feet. ‘Cathy’s getting better,’ he told her. ‘Richard says that she might be able to attend school fairly soon.’

  ‘And Shauna’s getting worse. She stole fruit the other day.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘She’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘I hope so.’ She could not manage to feel any grief for her father. She was sad, but only because her own life had changed so much in recent months. ‘Signposts along the way,’ she muttered absently.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Bridie looked into the velvety brown eyes. ‘Life’s like a road,’ she told him. ‘With little pointers at the edge of it. You go to school, start working, follow the way as best you can. Then things happen. Somebody . . . adds the punctuation. And you don’t know when or where the next full stop will come, because the road winds about a lot. Suddenly, you’re alone, because some of those signs have the word death printed on them.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Anthony said. He was helpless and useless and head over heels in love.

  ‘The worst of it is, Anthony, that sometimes we are pilots as well, with young ones clinging to our hands. So I’m not alone, not while Cathy and Shauna depend. I mean, isn’t it hard enough finding your own way through the mess without having to guide others? I’m so very tired.’

  He took her hands. ‘He wasn’t a good father. He never showed you the way, did he?’

  Bridie shook her head. ‘Mammy was the guide. Then Eugene, then Sam. Your daddy was not a young man, so he was almost like a father to me. The way he had of never worrying, of never showing or sharing any troubles he might have had. That was a steady man. And he’s gone, and my Cathy is ill and Shauna’s a terrible, selfish little madam.’ She managed a tight smile. ‘Do you know how dangerous we are together?’

  He did. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘You have. Oh yes, you have thought. You’re my stepson.’

  Anthony understood her only too well. He remembered his first sight of the new bride, realized that feelings as strong as his must have communicated themselves to her almost from the start. And whatever he had felt for her had been reciprocated and therefore magnified. ‘What shall we do?’ he asked.

  ‘You sound like Cathy. You are another child, I suppose, the son of my dead husband. Such a cold man he seemed at first.’

  ‘You warmed him.’

  ‘Yes, I did. I respected your father.’ She shifted her weight, leaned away from him, but made no effort to free her hands. ‘We were fine together, Sam and I. But I was aware of you all the same.’

  He squeezed her fingers. ‘We’re supposed to be looking for A Christmas Carol. Your daughter wants to read it again.’

  Bridie closed her eyes and rested her head against the chair’s back. ‘Maureen is expecting your nephew or your niece,’ she said wearily. ‘And there’s no way of telling what Diddy will do if the truth ever comes out.’ Her eyelids flew open. ‘What if the child is like its father? What if poor Maureen gives birth to another Liam?’

  This thought had crossed Anthony’s mind more than once in recent days. ‘We can do and say nothing without proof.’

  ‘Even with proof, it would be a difficult task.’ She was suddenly more than tired. Would Liam be back? Was Cathy going to make a full recovery, was Muth about to lose her mind completely, did Shauna steal for devilment, how was Maureen going to manage a baby when she was just a child herself?

  He pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘You need a rest.’ He led her up the steep staircase, noticed how tightly she gripped his hand.

  Bridie lay on the bed of the man she loved, allowed him to cover her with the quilt. ‘They’ll wonder where we are.’

  ‘Let them wonder,’ he replied.

  She folded the cover back and reached out for him. The lassitude she felt seemed to have dulled the sensible side of her mind. She wanted and needed him, and the love was now a part of the need. It was all the one thing, she told herself. Anthony was Anthony and Bridie was Bridie. And whatever existed between them was another of those signs on a road they were destined to share.

  Anthony held her for a long time before kissing her. She was vulnerable and precious and he could not bear the thought of her regret. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  She stared hard into his face. ‘Sure is something we can never be, Anthony Bell. But I love you and I need you and we have to start somewhere. And we know that Sam won’t mind. Sam’s blessing is good enough for me.’

  Eighteen

  Father Michael Brennan pursued the shambling figure of Flash Flanagan across Scotland Road, musing on the miracle of the tramp’s survival. Flash looked neither right nor left, simply stepping into the road and waving grimy hands at anything that dared to come near him. When the offending article was a tram weighing several tons, Flash treated it with the same contempt he showed for horses, carts, motor vehicles and steam lorries. He was a true king of the road, allowing no respect for any obstacle in his path.

  ‘Flash?’ yelled the priest.

  The old vagrant took no notice. He had a bellyful of scouse and red cabbage, and he was on his way to perform on the corner of Penrhyn Street. A passing Mary Ellen might throw him a penny or an apple, and the ‘girls’ returning from the bagwash were always ready to stop for a bit of a jangle about the price of fish.

  He parked his cart, took out a pair of battered marionettes and started to pick at all the tangled strings.

  ‘Are you deaf?’ asked the priest.

  Flash sniffed. ‘That is not one of my afflictions, not yet,’ he replied. ‘Though a drop of whisky would help my cold.’

  Michael took a shilling from his pocket. ‘You are supposed to contribute to the support of your pastor,’ he complained. ‘But it seems to be working the other way, doesn’t it?’

  Flash shrugged, struggled with a knot. ‘How do these things manage to get all tied up?’ he moaned. He threw the puppets into the cart and fished around for the components of his one-man band.

  ‘Flash, you know and I know that a piece of Father Bell’s vestmentry is missing. His room, the church and the whole presbytery have been searched. We must find that stole,’ said the priest.

  Flash eyed his adversary. They’d had a few run-ins in the past, he and Father Brennan. The priest should have been more understanding. In Flash’s opinion, they were two of a kind, since each of them depend
ed on others for their subsistence. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he said. ‘I gave it to Sam and I’ve not seen it since. And I promised Sam I’d say nothing. You wormed things out of me, Father Brennan.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Did you hear that, Sam? I done me best.’ He returned his attention to Father Brennan. ‘A priest lost it in the first place, so a priest can bloody well find it.’

  Michael squared up to the beggar. ‘Listen, Flash. Sam must have said something about his intentions—’

  ‘He said nothing,’ yelled Flash.

  Some children who had been dangling twine down a grid stopped and stared at the two men. Their ‘angling’ had yielded nothing, so they decided to watch the priest and the tramp for a while.

  ‘Go away,’ said Father Brennan.

  ‘Bugger off,’ yelled the tramp.

  ‘He sweared,’ said a little girl with a torn dress and hair like a bird’s nest. During school holidays, the younger residents of Scotland Road got a bit untidy. ‘He sweared and it’s a sin.’

  ‘Your dad’s always bloody swearing,’ said a boy in odd boots.

  ‘He’s not,’ answered the girl-child angrily. ‘He never swears, my dad.’ The urchins backed off, then began to creep closer again.

  Michael gave his full attention to Flash. ‘Look, poor Sam mentioned nothing about the stole to his lawyer,’ he whispered. ‘But surely, when you left the article with him he gave you some idea of what he intended to do with it?’

  ‘No.’ Flash clattered his cymbals to the ground. ‘I’m dead serious now, Father. I don’t know what he did with it. It’ll be in the shop somewhere, or in the house. Can’t his missus look for it? And why won’t the police try to find it? I can answer that one – they don’t believe any of it. They never believe me. They never believe nothing I say, contrary sods.’

  Michael Brennan sighed. ‘They don’t believe me or Anthony Bell, either.’