The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said the child.

  ‘No, but I do,’ answered the mother. In that instant, Bridie made a bold decision. Cathy would stay here with her dog. As soon as the illness cleared, Cathy would go to Scared Heart and get an education. She needed love, organization, a timetable. Scotland Road was a fine community, but Bridie wanted a better life for this special child. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said now.

  Cathy dried her eyes. ‘I do try,’ she replied, the blue eyes rolling dramatically. ‘But it’s very boring except when I go for my long walks. Uncle Richard says I have to be a patient patient. Mother Ignatius is seeing to my education.’

  ‘Don’t you like her?’

  Cathy shrugged. ‘I hate the wart, but she’s fine underneath. She’s teaching me.’ Then the little girl remembered about Maureen out in the hallway with her head bleeding. ‘Please let Maureen be all right,’ she said. ‘We shouldn’t be talking about our own selves,’ she chided her mother gently. ‘Not while Maureen’s hurt.’

  Bridie pulled the child close. ‘Cathy, I love you so much,’ she said.

  They heard the ambulance arriving, continued to sit together until the vehicle pulled away. Shauna would be missing her mammy, Bridie mused, and Muth needed watching. But first, Bridie had to remain in Astleigh Fold until Maureen was better. Or worse. Scotland Road must wait a little longer for the pawnbroker’s widow to return.

  Nineteen

  Bridie Bell watched Robin Smythe as he led Quicksilver through the bathing pool and into the refurbished paddock. Rippling muscle in the grey’s flanks reflected rays of a morning sun, while the horse tossed his head as if responding to an ovation. Silver was growing used to applause. Irish colts had made their mark on English racecourses in the past, but not until 1907 had Orby placed the sign of the shamrock on the Epsom Derby. Greys were rare winners, too, so Silver, with his eyes flashing and his tail erect, seemed to realize how thoroughly remarkable he had become. It was 1932, and Quicksilver had more than quadrupled his own value by running like the wind with the purple-and-silver-silked Robin in the saddle.

  The horse’s triumph was now Bridie’s. Silver had romped home in several races, had left a huge gap between himself and the field a couple of weeks earlier at the Epsom Derby. ‘I’m rich,’ Bridie mumbled to herself almost incredulously. ‘And you,’ she mouthed at the horse, ‘are no shabby little grey.’ Silver had been compared with Gustavus, a horse of the same colour who had secured first place in 1821, though Gustavus, short in leg and neck, had taken the racing community by storm after his unexpected win. But Silver was a champion right down to the bone. He acted like a superior being, seemed to have been born with a sense of his individuality. Silver was a natural monarch.

  Bridie smiled at the jockey, glanced down at the little fob watch pinned to her blouse. Eight o’clock. In a few moments, she would return to Cherry Hinton for breakfast.

  Robin brought the horse to his owner. ‘There’s a queue a mile long for this chap.’ He stroked the stiff, silver-white mane. ‘Though I think you should be less hasty, Mrs Bell. It’s a bit early to let them settle to breed. You could make a fortune racing these two.’

  She shook her head. A widow for almost a year, she had become an astute businesswoman, but she drew the line at running her horses into the ground. Sorrel, who had performed solidly and successfully in Lancashire and Yorkshire, would be matured for breeding. Silver was to be the backbone of the Cathshaw Stables. As a stud, he was worth his weight in platinum.

  Robin leapt down from his high horse and became tiny again. He looked far too frail to be stablemaster, but few mounts had ever bettered him in the war of the wills between horse and jockey. He was ready to abandon the circuit, was preparing to invest time and money in Bridie’s venture. Bob Cross, who had died a happy man at a Chester meeting, was to be replaced by this diminutive character. ‘The house needs fumigating before I can move in,’ he told his partner. ‘There are newspapers there from 1885, and I’m sure Bob must have fed the mice. They’re almost tame.’

  Bridie laughed. Bob probably had looked after his vermin.

  ‘And how’s Cathy?’ asked Robin.

  Bridie chuckled again. ‘Strangely enough, the young madam is happy, though she’ll be the death of me, Edith and several of those poor nuns. And the trouble we had persuading her to go to Sacred Heart. She loves it, has the school near to riot, always questioning and disagreeing with everything. Richard says she’s a genius, but I know better. She has the wisdom to become a very clever woman – manipulative and cute. But she’s no Sophocles. Says she’s going to be a doctor, may God help and preserve us all.’

  Robin released the horse and watched as he ambled off in search of food. ‘And Shauna?’

  Bridie’s face was instantly sober. Shauna was five, had started attending school and was a different kind of trial. She was determined to have her own way at all times and at all costs, was given to tantrums and displays of temper. She was currently in the care of Nicky Costigan and her mother, Diddy. ‘She’ll improve with keeping, I suppose,’ replied Bridie. She prayed that Shauna wasn’t causing too many problems on Scotland Road while in the care of good friends.

  ‘You’re hard on her,’ commented the little man. He was now a close enough friend to make such remarks.

  Bridie nodded thoughtfully. She had favoured Shauna, had always loved her too much. The child was spoilt and ill-mannered, was capable of a petulance that had never been a part of her older sister’s make up. Bridie had named her stables Cathshaw, had altered a letter from Shauna’s name, had put Cathy first. She must remember to keep on putting Cathy first, because poor Cathy had been forced to grow up so early. ‘Shauna continues difficult,’ she said eventually.

  ‘She’ll alter,’ said Robin.

  ‘She’d better,’ answered Bridie. She made her goodbye and began the walk back to the house. Richard and Edith had sold Bridie their stable for a ridiculously low price, but those good people would be repaid. They had done so much since Sam’s death, had cared for Cathy, had welcomed Bridie, Shauna, Diddy and her brood for holidays.

  Bridie, Edith and Richard were due to visit Maureen this afternoon. Maureen was locked away again in a secure wing of the Good Shepherd Catholic Asylum just outside Manchester. Augustinian nuns and lay nurses were doing their utmost to help Maureen regain her equilibrium, though the results of their labours were not yet encouraging. During the past eighteen or more months, Maureen had shrivelled into herself, had spent a great deal of time in the asylum. The girl was terrified, had been traumatized to the point of breakdown by her unwanted pregnancy.

  ‘Oh, Maureen,’ muttered Bridie, ‘come out of it, for goodness sake. Don’t let him win.’ She stopped in the orchard, listened to the crying and fussing of wood pigeons. Even now, Bridie could not think about that fateful day without feeling sick. In her mind, there was a picture of Maureen’s blood pouring, spreading, soaking into the Oriental rugs and staining dark-red the cement between marble tiles. It had been a hard landing for the distraught girl. She had not regained consciousness after three days, had been confined to bed for weeks, had suffered a messy miscarriage while sitting with her leg in plaster. And in all that time, Maureen had uttered not one solitary syllable.

  ‘Diddy, my friend,’ breathed Bridie as she watched a blackbird carrying worms for its young, ‘how you tried.’ Month in and month out, Diddy had stayed near her daughter, returning to Liverpool only when her presence was absolutely essential. The Scotland Roaders, in spite of their own poverty, had dug deep to send fruit and little gifts for Maureen. Diddy had prayed, cajoled, shouted and pleaded, but Maureen had remained silent. The girl’s quietness had been broken only by her screams. Bridie pictured Maureen sitting in her bedroom, rocking, wailing, howling.

  ‘Maureen,’ muttered Bridie now, ‘you can do it. I know you can face it.’ She prayed to Our Lady, to St Anthony of Padua, to St Jude, to Thomas who had doubted, to God Himself. An orchard was surely as near to God as any
where, wasn’t it? But would the heavenly host listen to a woman who was carrying on with the son of her dead husband? Their love had been consummated only twice, but it was still a sin. However, there were worse faults than hers and Anthony’s. Father Michael Brennan was always saying that.

  There was Liam. There was Liam who had put Maureen where she was, who had murdered his brother’s fiancée, who had disappeared completely from the face of the earth. Even Africa had thrown up no sign of the man when Father Brennan had written to the various missions.

  Cathy ran through the trees and hugged her mother. ‘Isn’t it great?’ the child beamed. ‘Everyone at school wants to be my friend because we won the Derby. I’ve even heard the nuns talking about it. They say, whenever they have visitors, “There’s Caitlin O’Brien whose mother bred the Derby winner.” Do they like their pool?’

  ‘Yes, they seem to.’ Bridie believed in the strengthening power of water where horses’ legs were concerned. ‘Sorrel would like to swim, I think, but we’re digging no deeper, or we’ll be coming up in Australia. Have you eaten?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘So has Noel, but it wasn’t his dinner. He’s in disgrace again for eating Uncle Richard’s bacon. Aunt Edith has banished him to his kennel.’

  Bridie grinned. Edith had a soft spot for the leggy mongrel, and had probably given him a huge bone to gnaw for the duration of his sentence. Noel had never stayed in his kennel for more than an hour, because Edith was soft-hearted and Noel could howl like a wolf. If only Edith would try to like Shauna. There was something about Bridie’s younger daughter that made Edith Spencer’s hackles rise, though she fought to hide her distaste. ‘Will you stay here while we go to see Maureen?’

  Cathy’s face was immediately sad. ‘Bring her home, Mammy,’ she pleaded.

  Bridie placed a hand on Cathy’s cheek. ‘We can’t, Cathy. She’s not ready yet.’

  ‘But it’s been a long time. And there’s no baby to worry about now.’

  Bridie thought about the little soul whose life had ebbed out of its mother’s broken form. Liam’s child was long dead. Perhaps that was for the best, though it was a pity all the same, because the unborn baby had done no wrong at all. Even so, Bridie shivered when she imagined how a child of Liam’s might have turned out. ‘No, there’s no baby,’ she replied.

  ‘But Maureen’s still waiting for it,’ said the little girl.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Cathy blushed. Listening to adult conversation was one of her hobbies. ‘Uncle Richard thinks so.’

  It was difficult to tell. After months of silence, no-one really knew what Maureen was thinking. She had suffered little or no discernible brain damage, was able to read, sew, dress, eat, clean herself. Tests for deafness had been used, and the young woman was certainly alert to noise. Diddy had talked to her for endless hours, as had Bridie, Edith and Richard, but none of them was able to elicit any response. Over and over, each had told Maureen that the baby was no more, that she had only to ask for what she needed, that she could come home whenever she was ready.

  ‘She doesn’t want to come out of that place,’ said Cathy.

  Bridie, who considered her daughter to be too old in the head, ruffled the girl’s blond curls. ‘Cathy, we can’t know what she wants until she speaks. And she’ll speak when she feels the need.’

  While her mother went inside to eat, Cathy paid Noel a visit. He was licking his lips over a huge bone. ‘I have a plan,’ said the child to the dog.

  The dog listened, chewed things over, crunched his way through to the marrow.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Cathy. ‘Will I do it, Noel?’

  The dog woofed and carried on crunching.

  Although Maureen Costigan appeared to be in a state bordering catatonic trance, she was very much aware of her surroundings. When her environment became too much for her, she simply retreated, took herself back to another life, a different time inside her head. Sometimes, she was dancing and singing outside the Rotunda, her audience entranced as she postured and performed the actions to her little ditties. It was her grandmother who had taught her songs from the old country, pretty Irish airs whose rhythms were tapped out by the shoes of queuing theatre-goers and by the percussion section of Uncle Flash’s one-man band.

  Maureen had been in and out of the asylum for a long time, or so everyone kept telling her. There was Mam, who always brought pasties and soup, then Dad, who just sat and held Maureen’s hand. Sister Paul Mary, whose long legs covered the whole ward in fifteen steps, was always telling Maureen to pull herself together. Sister Agnes, who needed nineteen or twenty strides to clear the room, was more understanding. She would sit by Maureen’s bed and whisper to her, ‘Maureen, I know you’re hiding. It’s safe now. You can come out. But you’ll not come out till you’re ready, will you?’

  Sitting very still and saying nothing was the secret. Little could happen to someone who made no mark. If she didn’t move, she would not be noticed. If she wasn’t noticed, then the bad thing would never happen again.

  There was a tap in the washroom that dripped constantly. Others found it annoying, but Maureen liked the sound of water. It was clean, gentle, peaceful. The drip-drop often matched the beating of her inner mechanism. A man with spanners had tried to take away the irritation, but it always returned to keep Maureen company.

  Some memories were unpleasant; some memories were beautiful. When the nastier times plagued her, Maureen would empty her mind and sit motionless in the green moquette chair next to her bed. Water plopping from the tap helped to clear her mind. Then the nicer pictures usually arrived, snatches of childhood, or an orchard, a proper fountain and green lawns. A child with hair like dark honey, a very leggy dog, roses on the teapot, a tall, thin lady and her tall, thin husband.

  A man on a horse. Falling, falling, blood on a stone. Banister railings, a marble floor, colours in the carpets, falling, falling. Was it dead? Was it really dead? Her hands pressing into her belly, feeling and prodding, searching for that hard knot of evil. Keep still. The tap dripping, dropping, a moquette chair, green. Sister Agnes, nineteen or twenty strides, Sister Paul Mary, fifteen. If she stayed as still as possible, she would be all right.

  Riding in the boot of a car was not as simple as Cathy had expected. Also, there was the problem of getting out unnoticed, which was going to be no mean feat. Banking on Richard’s slight tendency towards absent-mindedness, she had placed herself between the petrol cans and spare wheel before attaching a string to the boot handle. With the aid of this, she held the door in a more or less closed position while being bumped and jostled all over the place. Had Uncle Richard checked his boot, she would have been discovered before leaving Cherry Hinton.

  It was a long ride along the Manchester Road, and Cathy was becoming quite bruised by the lumps and holes in the road’s surface. From time to time, she felt like jumping out when the car stopped, but she had come this far. If she gave up, all her agony would have been for nothing. So she gritted her teeth, hoped that she still had a full complement of incisors and molars, and prayed that she would arrive at the Good Shepherd with most bones intact.

  At last, the car stopped and the three adults got out. She could hear their feet crunching on gravel as she extricated her numb hands from their string prison. Now, the real problems would start. She didn’t know where she was or how to get home, and she had no idea of where to look for Maureen.

  Fortunately, the weather was good, so those patients who were trustworthy and calm were taking tea on the lawn. Cathy saw her mother sitting at a table with Aunt Edith, Uncle Richard and a dark-haired girl wearing a plain blue dress and a grey cardigan. So far so good, thought Cathy, though she didn’t know what to do next. She had planned – rather vaguely – to hang around after Mammy and the others had left. Once alone, she would have been able to scour the place and find Maureen. Getting home would have been another job, though her sketchy idea had been to alert a nun and ask for someone to telephone Cherry Hinton. But hidi
ng until everyone had left was going to be the hard part.

  She skirted the pathway, followed a line of privet hedge, finally arriving at a place that was almost opposite the table where her family sat. Uncle Richard was holding Maureen’s hand while Aunt Edith spoke to the girl. The nuns had scraped back Maureen’s hair and tied it with a ribbon. Maureen looked older than Mammy.

  So. There were a couple of possibilities, Cathy supposed. She could stay here until the party had left, or she could show herself now and take the consequences. What would the nuns do if they found her later on? she wondered. In Cathy’s experience, nuns always did the right thing. She remembered ruefully how she had fought against going to Sacred Heart, how scared she had been of the sisters. At the end of several family meetings, Cathy had been persuaded to try the school for a year. And she loved it, though the nuns were so terribly correct. If these nursing sisters found her before she found Maureen, she would be despatched with haste. It was perhaps better to stand up now and be counted.

  Slowly, Cathy rose from her hide. The bushes had been cut quite low, and she was able to see over their tops, just about. Now Mammy was holding Maureen’s hand and Uncle Richard was doing the talking. Poor Maureen simply stared ahead as if dreaming. Her eyes were dull, reminding Cathy of a house with no lights, a place where no-one lived. It was really sad. She would cry in a minute, she really would. Maureen used to be so pretty, so alive . . .

  Cathy raised a hand above her head and waved. Nobody reacted, so she lifted up both arms. Everybody seemed to have gone blind, because not one of them took the slightest notice. A nun pouring tea just carried on pouring, while a second nun doled out little sandwiches and cakes. Cathy’s stomach rumbled angrily. She was starving. If she didn’t get something to eat soon, she would probably faint from lack of nourishment and catch anaemia all over again.