The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  Shauna dried her tears and sniffed. Mammy was a nuisance. She didn’t understand, didn’t try to understand. Mammy would not die as long as Shauna was with her. If Shauna moved away, then the worst would happen. ‘I’m not leaving you. I told Anthony I wouldn’t leave you. At least he understands even if you don’t.’

  Bridie sighed resignedly, clambered out of the shelter and groped for matches. When the candle was lit, she set about making bandages. Going outside and getting in the way would not be a good idea. She could hear the running, could smell the burning, but she simply carried on with her task while the proper units cleared away the worst of the debris.

  Tildy lay back and closed her eyes. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. As a librarian, she was helping to move valuable books and manuscripts into areas of the civic centre that had been deemed safer. Documents from London had arrived, were to be stored here as a protective measure. London was taking the worst hammering, but would pieces of English heritage have a chance of remaining intact up here?

  There was no safety. Tomorrow – or was it today? – after her stint at the library, Tildy would take one of her twice-weekly turns on the telephones. The frailty of Liverpool’s defences was only too clear to a woman who sat for two nights a week with a receiver clapped against one ear and a wad of cotton wool against the other. While bombs fell and buildings ignited, Tildy screamed, ‘Speak up,’ until the message became audible.

  She courted sleep, could not relax. Mam and Dad were outside somewhere, as were Charlie and Nicky’s Graham. As for Jimmy, he was crawling about on his belly in foreign soil and gore. ‘Remember the turkey?’ she asked suddenly.

  Bridie stopped tearing. ‘Oh, I do,’ she replied.

  ‘Shop filled with Johnny Laskies and hats and fireplaces.’

  ‘And gramophones,’ added Bridie.

  ‘You thought Cathy was naughty, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did.’ Bridie picked up a second sheet.

  ‘She wasn’t. Neither is Shauna.’

  Bridie found no answer. At fourteen, Shauna O’Brien was a blonde version of Maureen Costigan. The exquisitely pretty girl had a following of young men, some of which number wrote as regularly as the war allowed. There were letters from all over the globe, plus a few from the middle of some God-forsaken stretch of mined ocean. A twenty-two-year-old Canadian sailor had pledged to marry Shauna when the war ended. Shauna approved of him because he had volunteered.

  ‘I’m no worse than anybody else,’ said Shauna now. She had a strange accent, half-Irish and half-Liverpool. ‘I don’t steal any more and I’ve ruined no weddings since Nicky’s.’

  Tildy grinned into the semi-darkness. Shauna spoke her mind and shamed the devil. Shauna had a special courage that few seemed to have noticed so far. She had survived several dunkings in the canal, had become an expert at petty theft, was the sort of friend who would do just about anything for a laugh and to protect those nearest to her. All Bridie could see was the bad side. ‘She’s as clever as Cathy,’ remarked Tildy.

  Bridie knew all about that. She also knew that Shauna was a pest. ‘I spoiled you,’ admitted Bridie. ‘And here’s you now, tough as old boots.’

  They carried on making pointless conversation until the all-clear sounded. It was always like this. The worries and fears were not allowed to show in faces or voices, were kept banked down beneath platitudes, silly anecdotes and, sometimes, singing and dancing.

  When the all-clear died away, Bridie ordered the two girls to stay where they were. She stepped out into chaos, heard the shouts, the pounding of feet, saw that the area was well lit by fire. A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Bridie? Are the girls all right?’

  ‘Diddy.’ The older woman’s face was black. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Diddy trembled, gripped her friend’s hand. ‘I’m the only one alive,’ she managed. ‘Twelve dead. Rest Centre. I was out at the back getting spuds. All me mates, Bridie. All me lovely mates, girls from the bagwash.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  Diddy shook her head. ‘Only inside meself,’ she replied. ‘Only where it doesn’t show.’ She sneezed away some dust, ran her free hand across her forehead. ‘They’ve bombed the ciggy factory. Flash Flanagan’s down there seeing if he can save any.’ She achieved a watery grin. ‘He must be all of ninety-five, and he’s digging for bloody victory.’

  Whenever she heard Flash’s name, Bridie thought about Liam. Even now, after ten years, a part of herself continued to expect his return. ‘For tobacco, you mean,’ she said. ‘Come away in till I make you some tea.’

  Diddy shook her head. ‘No, love. I’m going back. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Our Charlie’s in one piece – I’ve seen him. Nicky’s shelter’s still stood up. As for my Billy . . .’ She gazed at all the flames. ‘He’s in the hands of God tonight.’

  Brother Martin Waring had not been to America. After due consideration, he had opted to work in London. At first, Liam had wanted his own way, but Martin had stuck to his guns. America might have been complicated for a man without a birth certificate. Born in Ireland at the turn of the century, Martin had lost all his documentation. ‘They’ll never believe that,’ Liam had sneered.

  ‘Can you think of a better one?’ Martin had asked.

  In 1939, Brother Martin of the Frères de la Croix de St Pierre had returned to the North. Although the brothers’ original mission remained the same, the order had involved itself in offering temporary shelter to those whose houses had been bombed during 1940 and 1941. Martin and his brothers toiled among the human debris of war, feeding and clothing the victims of air raids.

  Brother Nicholas, not quite in his dotage, took it upon himself to ensure that the monks took a few days off from time to time. Many managed to visit family, while others, like Brother Martin, stayed at Tithebarn and took long walks in lieu of a proper holiday. When Brother Martin asked for leave, the senior frère was surprised. ‘Where will you go?’ he asked.

  Martin’s answer had been prepared by Liam. ‘To Liverpool,’ he said. ‘I want to visit some people who used to know my father. As you know, I have no living relatives, but Mr Dorgan was very good to my parents when I was young.’

  ‘Do you know where to find him?’

  Martin shrugged. ‘I’ll take my chances, Brother Nicholas. The city has received some punishment, I hear.’

  ‘Yes.’ The man had never mentioned friends before. Could he really have friends? Within the order, Brother Martin treated everyone with the same cold indifference. He taught with reluctance, seemed content with his own company, had become an exceptional sculptor in wood, retained a magnificent singing voice. Occasionally, Martin made an effort to engage in conversation, but the results always seemed stilted, false. ‘Be safe,’ said Nicholas. ‘And we shall expect you back some time during next week. Of course, you may have difficulty getting there and back. Transport is badly disrupted.’

  ‘I’ll get there,’ declared Martin.

  ‘You certainly will,’ echoed Liam.

  Maureen had discovered over recent years how much she loved the countryside. At the age of twenty-four, she remained a pretty woman, but a streak of silver running right through her hair made her older than her years. She spent most of her free time with Cathy, whom she loved dearly, yet she sometimes opted to walk alone for miles across the moors. While walking, she remembered. She remembered how she used to be, recalled dancing in the streets, singing with old Flash Flanagan, lessons with Fairy Mary, the joyous household in which she had spent her childhood. ‘I will come home, Mam,’ she often said aloud. ‘When I’m ready, I’ll come home.’

  On this bright May morning, Maureen sat on a mounting block and watched the horses. Quicksilver, who was not as quick or as shiny as he used to be, had learned some decorum. With his head over the stable door, he lifted his lip and whinnied at Maureen. He liked her. She often walked about with a pocketful of carrots and crusts from brown bread.

  Sorrel was next door to Silver. A ge
ntle mare and mother to several exceptional foals, she made no noise. If Maureen had carrots, she would surely save one for Sorrel. Along the row, more horses looked out at their visitor. It was a happy stables. Robin Smythe kept everything up to scratch, was content in middle-age to produce winners instead of riding them.

  Maureen jumped down and dug out the spoils. With everything divided more or less evenly, she fed the beasts, felt their warm breath on her hands, stroked their heads. Horses were lovely. They asked for little and gave their all in return. Occasionally, during sadder moments, Maureen found herself moved to tears by their undeniable beauty.

  She wandered off across the fields, picked a few pink-tipped daisies, sat down on a stone and looked at the view. Sooner or later, she was going to make herself recover. Her life was not completely wasted, especially now, because there was much to do while city children needed shelter. But the direction of Maureen’s existence had taken a turn some ten years earlier, and she needed to get back on track. The urge to sing and dance had dissipated. Although Richard and Edith Spencer had offered to have her trained, Maureen’s wish to go into theatre had died. Would it have died anyway? Or was this the work of the man who had attacked her?

  Maureen had killed a baby. For a long time, she had not been able to think straight. Months of her youth had been spent in hospitals, and she retained few clear memories of her time as a patient. But compared to the child she remembered, Maureen Costigan was quiet, withdrawn and joyless. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing,’ she said softly. ‘So it wasn’t a sin.’ Killing the baby had been the worst thing. In her dreams, she often saw a pale child with its arms outstretched towards her. ‘I was ill,’ she told herself yet again. ‘It isn’t a sin if you’re ill.’

  Church was another long-ago memory. Church was the last place she wanted to be, yet she failed to understand why. As a child, she had attended mass each Sunday, had observed the Days of Obligation, had confessed her sins fortnightly like all the other Catholic boys and girls. Then suddenly, everything had changed. He was responsible. That big, dark man had altered the course of Maureen’s life. He should not be allowed such importance, she kept reminding herself. Things happened to people all the time, mostly because of other people, some of whom were bad. A wicked man had done a wicked thing, and Maureen continued to pay for it.

  The sun kissed her face, encouraged her to lift her head, close her eyes and soak in the warmth. She felt safe here among wild flowers and rough grass. Where else had she managed to feel so secure? At Sacred Heart. Yes, that had been a peaceful experience. With Cathy’s education now complete, both girls had left the school. After the war, Maureen would return to Scotland Road and Cathy would go to medical school.

  The sound of distant voices reached her ears. Maureen opened her eyes and saw Anthony Bell with a crowd of children. Like the Pied Piper, he led pupils and evacuees across a moor, stopping now and then to point out something of interest. Cathy’s mother and Mr Bell were lovers. With her second marriage annulled, Bridie Bell would become Mrs Bell all over again once the old Mrs Bell had died. And that, thought Maureen, was a mix-up. Still, most people had now accepted the fact that Bridie and Anthony were destined to be together. Mrs Spencer had been tight-lipped for a while, but even she recognized true love.

  Sighing, Maureen lay down. True love. Had she ever felt that? No, no. As a girl, she had developed a passion for Mr Bell, but, since the attack, Maureen had kept herself to herself. A few youths from the farming community had shown interest, and she had not encouraged them. Now, all who could walk and see straight were away at war. And she didn’t want to be married.

  What was the alternative? she wondered. Would she go home and live with Mam and Dad until they died? Would she stay in Scotland Road and look after Charlie? Would she become an old maid, an object of pity and the subject of gossip at the bagwash? And did it matter?

  Maureen had few talents. She was good at cleaning up after people, had once been a singer and dancer. Her sewing was adequate and her cooking was fair. What could she become? At present, there was enough to do, as the evacuated children required a lot of supervision. But after the war, what would happen? Dr Spencer was getting old, had stopped practising as a doctor. Because of the war, he helped out in emergencies, but he was an old man, was ready to retire completely. Mrs Spencer didn’t really need Maureen. Where would she go?

  ‘I’ve needed Cathy more than I’ve needed Mam,’ she said quietly. Cathy, at eighteen, remained Maureen’s closest friend. Soon, Cathy would go off to university. ‘I’ve got to get home,’ Maureen said. ‘I can’t stay here for ever.’

  Dressed in ordinary clothes, Martin Waring edged his way along the lane. He had seen Liam’s brother in the distance, had heard the sound of childish laughter drifting across the fields. Martin’s head was sore. The headache was not full-blown, but it threatened to erupt at any moment. Something was happening to him. Liam was loud, was pushing himself forward so strongly that Martin imagined himself to be shrinking physically.

  ‘It’s my turn,’ growled the inner voice.

  ‘Not yet,’ breathed Martin. Martin was capable of a degree of self-control. If Liam took over, anything might happen.

  He sat on a tree stump by the wild hedgerow, closed his eyes against a brightening sun. Liam had brought him here. Liam had forced him to ask for leave, had directed him to this village.

  ‘My turn,’ repeated Anthony Bell’s twin. ‘This is my business.’

  The headache broke loose, scattered shards of coloured light across the insides of Martin Waring’s eyelids. Crushed by pain, he stretched himself out on the grass and waited for the inevitable. Lately, there had been several battles between Liam and Martin, but the monk had always managed to keep a rein on the priest.

  Sleep arrived eventually. Liam roared his way into the dream. ‘I’ve been patient,’ he screamed. ‘You’ve had your own way for far too long.’

  Inside the nightmare, Martin Waring was powerless. He seemed to be tied down by ropes, strapped to some unyielding surface that made his back ache. Liam was returning. ‘It had to happen!’ shouted the priest. ‘I am your creator and God is mine. It’s time for me to pay back all who stole from me.’

  As the sun made its journey towards the west, the sleeping man stirred. He raised a hand, fingered the lush beard that covered his lower jaw. A sparrow chirped, scuttered about in the hawthorns.

  Liam sat up, took out a white handkerchief and wiped his face. At last, he was back. At last, his time had arrived.

  Maureen lingered outside the church. It had been her idea to come here. Cathy, who was fully aware of her friend’s antipathy towards places of worship, leaned against the stone wall of St Patrick’s. To her left stood Trinity Street Bridge, an iron structure under which trains puffed their way into and out of Bolton’s main station. On the right, people bustled up and down Great Moor Street, some with shopping baskets, others in uniform, many bearing a canvas or cardboard gasmask container. ‘I looked it up,’ Cathy informed her companion.

  ‘Looked what up?’ Maureen shook slightly, ordered herself to be still. There was something she had to remember; today, she would remember it.

  ‘It’s the feast of St Athanasius.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ answered Cathy. ‘You choose to come back to church on Friday the second of May, so I wanted to know why you had picked today. You must be celebrating the feast of St Athanasius. He sounds Greek to me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maureen lifted her scarf and tied it round her head. ‘Shall we go in?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘It’s up to you. If you decide to go home, I’ll understand.’

  ‘That’s not home,’ answered Maureen softly. ‘I’m getting ready to go back to Liverpool. This is part of it.’ She waved a hand towards the church. ‘I only want to sit in. I can’t go to Holy Communion because it’s years since I confessed.’

  Cathy was concerned. ‘I think he was a bishop.’

  ‘At
hanasius?’ Over the years, Maureen had become used to Cathy’s mercurial mind.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Cathy watched her friend covertly, saw the trembling. Maureen had worked at Sacred Heart for seven years. She had washed and dusted statues, had cleaned classrooms and corridors, had worked in virtual silence amongst the non-teaching sisters. But Maureen had avoided the chapel, had even refused to clean rooms and corridors in its vicinity.

  ‘If I don’t do it today, I never will.’ Maureen swallowed, then took a deep breath. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s say a prayer to that Greek bishop.’

  ‘He might not be Greek.’ Cathy kept her tone light. ‘He could be Russian. Or Turkish.’

  Maureen smiled weakly. ‘Does it matter? He’s dead and he’s holy. That should be good enough for us.’

  Liam had managed to get most of the straw out of his hair. A barn was not the best place to sleep, but it had been better than the open air, he supposed. No-one knew him. He had followed these two girls, had ridden in the same ramshackle bus from Astleigh Fold to Bolton, had stood outside a café to watch them lingering near the church.

  The dark one was Maureen Costigan. She had been punished, seemed to have benefited from the lesson. The other girl was probably the Irish whore’s older daughter. They had landed in clover, these wretched people. Seeing Maureen Costigan had prompted him to dwell on the stole. Was it a stole? Yes. It was in a secure box in the downstairs storeroom. The Irishwoman did not know about it. There was a letter behind a picture in his cell.

  He entered the church, genuflected, knelt in the rearmost pew. Nine o’clock masses on weekdays were not well attended except on Holy Days of Obligation. Even so, St Patrick’s was almost half full, because shoppers often popped into a town centre church. The two girls were about three pews further in and on the opposite side of the aisle. Maureen Costigan was kneeling. The Irish one was seated, one of her hands resting on Maureen’s shoulder. Liam bowed his head and prayed, wished that he could have a parish like this one. Martin would have to go. Liam would clear his name, would return triumphant, would find a church of his own.