The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  Flash pulled a harmonica from his pocket and rubbed it along the sleeve of his filthy coat. ‘You think Father Liam’s a bad swine, don’t you?’ He spat on his finger, wiped some grime off the mouth organ. ‘And you’re not wrong. I’ve seen him.’ He nodded quickly several times. ‘The way he looked at women – well – the devil was in his eyes.’

  The priest turned to the children and shooed them off once more. ‘Flash, if you remember anything – anything at all – please come to me immediately.’

  ‘I will. And good luck with it.’ Flash played a few discordant notes. ‘Where’s he gone, anyway?’

  ‘Father Bell?’ Michael shrugged. ‘He sent me a letter about Africa, but I don’t think he’s gone there. God alone knows where Liam is.’

  Flash thought about that. ‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled and my ears pinned back. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

  Cathy disliked Mother Ignatius. Well, she worked hard to dislike the ugly little nun, but Cathy’s determination was matched by her visitor’s persistence. ‘And what did you think of Mr Scrooge?’ asked Mother. ‘What sort of a man was he?’

  Cathy fixed her gaze on the wart. This was one of the wart’s purpler days. She longed to get the tweezers from Aunt Edith’s room. Those tweezers would have made short work of Mother Ignatius’s three bristles. ‘He was cruel,’ the child replied absently. ‘Then the ghosts made him sad, so he stopped being cruel. He liked his money too much.’

  The headmistress picked up Cathy’s homework. ‘I notice from your essay that you felt sorry for Mr Scrooge.’

  ‘Well,’ sighed Cathy, ‘he’d no sense. He could have bought coal for his bedroom, but he didn’t. And if he’d been a bit nicer to everybody, he wouldn’t have seen the ghosts.’ She was getting rather bored with Scrooge. Half the stuff was hard to understand, and the rest was on the miserable side. And Maureen was going to have a baby and she wasn’t even married.

  ‘We’ll make a scholar of you yet,’ declared the visitor.

  Noel lifted his head and eyed Mother Ignatius. Mother Ignatius remained unimpressed by him. He always stayed out of reach when the tiny woman came to see Cathy.

  ‘You’ll be able to come to school in a few weeks,’ said Mother.

  Cathy frowned. The school was probably packed with nuns as ugly and snappy as this one. Cathy had no intention of attending Sacred Heart Grammar School for Girls, but she said nothing. These days, she had to be good. Being good meant open windows and long walks with Uncle Richard and Noel. Being good meant eating everything on her plate and putting up with Mother Ignatius.

  ‘It’ll be university for you,’ added the nun. ‘You’ve a fine brain for a child your age.’

  Being brainy was boring. Stupid would have been more fun, because stupid people read books with coloured pictures and words inside bubbles. ‘Maureen’s having a baby,’ she said.

  The nun pursed her lips.

  Cathy had been through most of Uncle Richard’s books. She was good at creeping, so she had taken to tiptoeing silently downstairs when everyone was asleep. By the meagre light of a couple of candles, she had found the interesting bits. There was a drawing of a see-through woman with a baby curled inside her. ‘At Christmas, Maureen’s baby will be born,’ she informed her unwelcome guest.

  The wart quivered as the nun’s narrow lips tightened even further.

  Cathy wondered how the baby was going to get out of the see-through woman and out of the very solid Maureen. The nun would have no answers. ‘Diddy keeps crying because Maureen’s having a baby,’ she said. ‘And Mammy spends most of her time with Maureen instead of sitting with me.’

  Mother Ignatius’s tongue clicked. ‘Maureen needs a lot of support just now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of her situation.’

  ‘Is the baby her situation?’ asked Cathy.

  In the opinion of Mother Ignatius, clever children were a blessing and a sore trial. This desperate and wonderful girl was probing for information she was too young to digest. Also, a bride of Christ was not a suitable candidate for a conversation like this. ‘Yes,’ she snapped eventually. ‘Now, about the mathematics—’

  ‘There’s no daddy.’

  ‘That’s right. The long multiplication is what we’ll tackle next.’ A not quite eight-year-old ready for long multiplication and division? This little madam was most promising.

  ‘I’ve no daddy.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He died. Uncle Sam died, too.’

  ‘We must pray for their souls,’ said the nun.

  ‘Maureen’s daddy’s not dead. He’s called Billy and he has pigeons and he used to work on the docks, only he works for Mammy now. He’s got really big hands. So will he be Maureen’s baby’s daddy?’

  ‘Grandfather.’

  Cathy was not satisfied. The unborn baby had to have a daddy. ‘Is he dead?’

  Mother Ignatius cleared her throat. ‘I don’t know, Caitlin.’

  ‘Does Maureen know if he’s dead? She must do, mustn’t she? Is that why she’s sad? Has he had an accident like my daddy? Or a heart attack like Uncle Sam?’

  The headmistress glanced at the clock, sighed meaningfully and gathered up her books. ‘I shall return when you are in the mood for work,’ she said grimly. ‘Do you realize how much trouble I am taking to give you an education?’

  Cathy stared at the small person in front of her. In spite of her better judgement, Cathy had a grudging respect for the shrivelled-up woman. Mother Ignatius was really tiny. Even when standing, the woman was minute. In fact, she was probably taller sitting down—

  ‘Caitlin?’

  ‘Yes, Mother?’

  The china-blue eyes were so innocent, thought Mother Ignatius. The child would, no doubt, melt the hardest of hearts with her prettiness. But Mother Ignatius had processed an army of pretty girls in her time. ‘Some questions,’ she said slowly, ‘are best not asked. Maureen Costigan is in pain, but it’s a very private pain.’

  Cathy considered the statement. ‘Uncle Richard can give her something to stop her hurting.’

  ‘It is not that kind of pain, child.’

  The light began to dawn. ‘Is it feeling sick pain, like when your daddy has died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ The little girl chewed her lip. ‘Mother?’

  ‘Yes, child?’

  ‘Is it all right not to feel sad when your grandfather dies? Nobody liked him. I don’t think Mammy cried, even though he was her daddy. But I think we should be sad, really.’

  ‘Grief is not necessary,’ replied the nun. ‘But prayer is. You must pray for his release from purgatory.’

  ‘I think he’s in hell,’ remarked Cathy. ‘It would be a waste of time to pray for someone in hell. So I’ll tell God that the prayers are for Granda if he’s in purgatory, or for Maureen if Granda’s in hell.’

  Mother Ignatius left the bedroom rather quickly. On the landing, she organized her books and her face, fought back the laughter that bubbled beneath her habit. Transferable prayer? Now, that was an idea to conjure with . . .

  Diddy was beside herself. She wept into her teacup while Edith and Bridie wondered how to calm her. The UCP on Bradshawgate was hardly a good place to cry. Several customers looked at Diddy, then glanced away quickly, embarrassed by the public show of emotion.

  ‘She’s a strong girl,’ said Edith.

  Bridie nodded. ‘Maureen’ll come through this, Diddy. She has your backbone.’

  Diddy sniffed loudly. ‘Her backbone got broken by that filthy bloody man.’

  Bridie lowered her eyes. How much longer would the charade continue? Yet she knew that she could say nothing, because any words she might frame would serve only to deepen her friend’s distress.

  ‘Her mind’s going,’ wailed the big woman. She blew her nose. ‘Only fourteen and she’s acting crackers.’

  Edith patted Diddy’s arm. The shopping expedition had been planned in order to take Diddy away from the h
ouse for a while. Maureen had been left with Anthony, who had promised to take her for a quiet walk. ‘Look, you aren’t alone. Richard and I will do all we can to help Maureen.’

  Diddy took a slurp of tea. ‘You’ve been so good to us,’ she said. ‘I’m grateful, you know. None of this is your fault, but here you are with our troubles in your house.’ She let out a sigh that shuddered its way through grief. ‘I think I’ll take her home, Edith. She should be with her own people.’

  Edith Spencer toyed with an egg custard. ‘No-one knows Maureen here, Diddy. She can have her baby, then she can decide what to do about it. We can arrange an adoption. Richard will look after Maureen’s health. There are your neighbours to consider. Can you imagine how it would be for your daughter? Everyone would be asking questions. Leave her here, please.’

  Bridie agreed with Edith. ‘Living with Edith and Richard is probably best.’

  Diddy looked into Bridie’s troubled eyes. ‘I’m so tied up with our troubles that I’ve given you no thought. I should be working on the market with our Monica. You’ve enough problems, queen, what with Cathy being off-colour and poor old Mrs Bell losing her marbles. Then your dad went and died. Oh, I’m sorry.’

  Bridie stared into her teacup. As well as all the aforementioned, she was having an affair with Anthony Bell. They had made love only once, but she had sinned. When she was with him, she was happy, undeservedly so. He had taught her about joy. She felt the heat in her face, hoped that the two women would not notice. No-one should enjoy physical pleasures as acutely as she did. The sins of the flesh were suddenly real.

  ‘Bridie?’

  ‘Oh.’ She dropped her paper napkin and bent to retrieve it from the floor. ‘Did you say something?’ she asked Diddy.

  ‘Are you ill? You’ve gone all flushed,’ said the big woman.

  ‘It’s warm in here,’ Bridie said. ‘Shall we get some air?’

  They strolled through Bolton, bought groceries, sweets for Cathy and a pair of shoes for Maureen. ‘Her feet swell,’ said Diddy. ‘And she’s months to go yet.’

  Edith tried to hide her concern about Maureen, though she was reaching her wit’s end. The girl was decidedly strange these days, was spending too much time alone in her room. Several times, Edith had found Maureen stretched out on the bed with her face turned to the wall. What did she think about as she lay so still and quiet? Edith had told no-one about the gin episode. Maureen had consumed half a bottle of the stuff, had been found almost comatose in one of the stables.

  They climbed into Edith’s car and began the journey home. Bridie felt her heart quicken as they neared Astleigh Fold. He would be waiting for her. She knew that Anthony would always be waiting for her. Sometimes, the guilt was almost overwhelming. Here she was, twice widowed, recently orphaned and with two children to rear, yet she was happy to the point of ecstasy every time she saw Anthony or heard his voice. When he touched her, she was in heaven. It must not happen again, she said inwardly. This stolen happiness would have to be paid for, she told her inner self. It was wrong to be so joyful.

  ‘Where was God when this happened?’ asked Diddy of no-one in particular. ‘How could he let a baby be made out of my girl’s suffering?’

  Bridie stared at the road ahead and Edith just carried on steering. Diddy had voiced a question to which there was no answer.

  ‘She did nothing to deserve this,’ continued the grieving mother.

  Although they agreed wholeheartedly, Diddy’s companions had no comment to make.

  Martin Waring was taking daily instruction from Frère Nicholas. This was a difficult task, as Martin had to pretend to know very little about the Catholic faith. He was simply a newly released thief who had spent his time in jail among books. As the prison librarian, he had taken the opportunity to read about various Christian religions, and had emerged from incarceration with a burning desire to be received as a communicant within the Church of Rome.

  Following his daily stint of gardening and kitchen work, Martin was closeted for three-quarters of an hour with the senior brother. Professing to find trouble in learning the basic catechism was not easy. After all, his alter ego had sailed through the seminary with flying colours and distinctions at all levels. But he persevered, frowned a lot and mispronounced a word here and there. Acting stupid required a degree of genius that tested even his indisputable breadth of skills.

  He had been at the Tithebarn for three months when he made his first journey outside the property. With a healthy growth of beard, he was completely unrecognizable. In fact, he was often taken aback when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. It was time to sally forth and find out what was happening to Liam Bell’s twin brother. Anthony needed Liam, and Martin was the link between the two. He was beginning to enjoy his new life, took pleasure in his assumed identity. For the time being, Liam was dormant and Martin was in the lead.

  The Frères de la Croix de St Pierre owned several acres of land. They were virtually self-sufficient, seldom needing to venture out to purchase the basic necessities. But in spite of their meticulous husbandry, some things could not be grown on the farm. As a lay brother, Martin was expected to do his share of shopping and, since he was not a monk, he was able to venture forth in ordinary working clothes. Today, he was going all the way to the market in Bolton to search for cheap bed linens. He had assured the fraternity that the prices in Bolton were lower than in Blackburn.

  It was about noon when he reached Astleigh Fold. The sun blazed mercilessly in a cloudless sky, making Martin wish that he could rid himself of his facial hair. But the beard was Liam’s curtain. Liam had been forced to hide for a while behind Martin in order to be safe.

  He walked past Liam’s brother’s cottage, noted that the windows had been thrown open to allow in air that seemed too lazy to stir in any direction. In a field further up the lane, he saw Bridie Bell’s horses grazing lazily, their tails swishing gently against the threat of flying insects.

  Confident that no-one would recognize him, the lay brother folded his arms, placed them across the stile and leaned his weight forward. The rest was pleasurable. He had been working for up to ten hours a day for over two months, was tired as a result of all the physical labour. Yet the back-breaking toil was important, because it was helping to ease him into the character he was planning to become. Liam was no longer necessary except where Anthony was concerned, he told himself frequently. Liam had served his purpose for the present.

  A car passed him. He turned confidently and marked its progress towards Cherry Hinton. It was Richard Spencer’s car, though Edith was at the wheel. A blonde woman sat next to the driver. That was Bridie Bell. Martin had ordered Liam not to worry about Bridie. She was a person of no particular significance, even if she had deprived Liam of his birthright.

  As the vehicle left the lane, Martin thought he saw Diddy Costigan sitting in the rear seat. What on earth were the Spencers thinking of? The Costigans were low-life; they had no place in the elegant setting provided by Cherry Hinton.

  Martin’s heartbeat remained steady. Nothing could anger him, because he was now a lay brother who would eventually become a frère. Liam’s anger was buried well below the newly constructed surface. Liam’s anger would be kept damped down for years, if necessary, until it was required again.

  He walked slowly up the lane. Monks were perfect. Because they aimed for spiritual purity, they were separated from the common run of mankind. The monastic life was simple and severe, its austerity deliberately planned to lead its members towards oneness with God. The brothers were meant to help the fallen without becoming too closely involved in a criminal’s future choices. If a sinner wanted to stay, he could, but there were no restrictions. Lay people came and went, just a handful remaining as permanent lay members or as ordained brothers. All were blessed and forgiven; few were rejected by the order. Martin would be ordained.

  He climbed over a fence and made for the Spencers’ little orchard. When he stood at the edge behind a particularly g
narled pair of apple trees, he could observe the house without being seen. They were all on the veranda, a small, paved area outside the dining room. A dark-haired girl stared absently into the near distance. She was another Costigan, the one who had been dealt with by Liam. Maureen, her name was. The strumpet had once had designs on Anthony Bell. Where was he?

  Anthony came out through the French window. At his side walked Bridie Bell, the Irish whore. Big Diddy Costigan bent over her daughter and offered her something on a plate. The girl refused the food, then Diddy sat down next to her.

  Edith poured tea while Mrs Cornwell fussed about with saucers and sugar bowl. Anthony and Bridie were sitting together. Hadn’t they quarrelled not long ago? Martin recalled a time when Liam had visited Astleigh Fold and the Irishwoman had spoken to him, had criticized Anthony. The supposed argument seemed to have died down, because they looked quite at home in their little cast-iron garden seats. They were in love, weren’t they? Hadn’t that all been written down in a letter behind the Sacred Heart in his cell? Sometimes, remembering Liam’s details was difficult for Martin.

  After half an hour or so, the party began to break up. Maureen Costigan went inside with her mother. Mrs Cornwell cleared the table while Edith had a shouted conversation with a child. The girl hung out of an upper window, her arms waving as she laughed and joked with her hostess. It was Caitlin, the older of the two O’Brien immigrants. The Irish visitors were certainly getting a taste of the good life, it seemed.

  Bridie Bell began to walk towards the orchard, so Martin backed off. He crept through the plum trees and secreted himself behind some light-starved raspberry canes and the bole of an ageing pear tree. She stopped, seemed to be waiting. Martin thought he could hear her breathing.

  Then she turned and threw herself at a man. The man was Anthony Bell. He picked her up and kissed her, swinging her round in a small clearing. Her hair cascaded from its pins and tumbled down her back like a waterfall, the silken waves pouring down until they reached her waist.

  Martin Waring held his own breath. What he was witnessing owned a certain beauty, rather like a properly choreographed pas de deux. These two people were almost fused together, the dark head and the pale, the man and the woman. Limbs folded and melted in the leaf-mottled light until their bodies seemed inseparable.