Maureen blessed herself, sat down next to Cathy and waited for the service to begin. She watched the altar boys preparing for mass. ‘It’s incense,’ she whispered to her companion.
‘What?’
Maureen turned and looked Cathy full in the face. ‘The reason why I’ve never been to church is incense. Sometimes, I could smell it at your school, especially near the chapel.’
‘It is a bit sickly,’ agreed Cathy.
Maureen bit her lip. ‘Father Brennan probably had it on his clothes, too. I wouldn’t take Holy Communion when I was in hospital the first time. The Good Shepherd was the same. Nuns kept on tormenting me about mass, but I couldn’t go. It’s the incense. It was on . . . on him.’
Cathy felt a tingle in her spine. ‘The one who—?’
‘Yes.’
A man in front turned and frowned at the girls. Talking in church was not encouraged.
Cathy ignored him. ‘Do you know who it was?’
Maureen sighed. ‘He was big. He was strong and he stank of incense. I think he was a priest.’
Cathy’s hands curled into tight balls of tension. ‘Father Bell?’ she asked quietly.
Maureen nodded. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was strangely calm. ‘I think it was Father Liam Bell.’
Twenty-two
Diddy Costigan stood in the centre of Bell’s Pledges, her arms folded beneath a whalebone-supported bust of immense proportions. In the open doorway, several women were squashing their way into the shop. ‘Bertha Thompson?’ barked Diddy. ‘What the bloody hell’s up with you this time?’
Bertha, elegantly decked out in steel curlers, scarf, slippers and her husband’s old grey mac, made her way towards Diddy. ‘It’s everywhere,’ she said. ‘Not just in Liverpool. There’s food riots down in London.’ She lifted a hand and pointed towards the road. ‘There’s talk of the army taking over.’
‘What army?’ asked Diddy. ‘They’re all fighting abroad in case you haven’t noticed.’
Molly Barnes, ex-prostitute and ex-runner of the Welcome Home, stepped in with her contribution. ‘Some say it’s worse than what we’ve had,’ she declared. The bombing of the Welcome Home had been taken as a personal insult. No-one had been hurt, but Molly had developed a degree of paranoia since losing her house. ‘They say the whole country’s like this, all burst water mains, hardly any gas, millions dead and thousands of houses flattened.’
Big Diddy nodded. ‘What a shame,’ she said. ‘What a shame that you lot have nothing better to talk about.’ Inside, Diddy felt a degree of empathy with Molly Barnes, because Hitler seemed to be on the same side as Liverpool corporation. If this caper carried on, there’d be very little left for the council to demolish.
Alice Makin thrust her large personage onto the scene. ‘There’s a rumour that Hitler’s landed,’ she said gloomily. ‘Them with blond hair and blue eyes’ll be kept alive for breeding purposes. The rest of us have got no chance.’
‘Hitler? Here?’ Molly Barnes’ eyebrows shot towards the ceiling.
Diddy sniffed one of her more meaningful sniffs. ‘He’s here all right,’ she said.
Silence fell.
‘I’ve seen him,’ Diddy continued. ‘Sold him a full set of Crown Derby this morning. He was very pleased, even though one of the cups was cracked. He said danker-churn – I think that’s thanks – then I said heil Hitler and gave him a cup of tea. He’s gone down to Champion’s for a bed. I told him it’d cost him sixpence, but he wasn’t bothered.’
‘I’m serious,’ insisted Alice.
‘So am I,’ said Diddy, her tone grave. ‘He came in at the landing stage this morning. The Mersey’s full of submarines and there’s a couple of thousand soldiers goose-stepping up the dock road as we speak. Flash Flanagan’s entertaining them, then there’s a welcome party with jelly and custard this afternoon.’
Alice Makin waved a fist at Diddy. ‘Don’t you start, girl. I’ve had enough of you and madam as it is. I ran a decent business till Fancy Knickers started lending money.’
Diddy drew herself up. ‘If you mean Mrs Bell, the proprietress of this establishment, like, she is doing her ablutions.’
Alice frowned. ‘Gone to church?’
‘Ablutions, not absolution,’ said Diddy with mock-patience. ‘She’s having a wash. All right?’
It wasn’t all right. The people of Liverpool saw devastation wherever they looked. Understandably, they believed that every part of Britain was receiving the same savage treatment. ‘What if he has landed?’ asked a thin woman in a torn frock. ‘What if it’s over, Diddy?’
Diddy Costigan shook her head and tutted sorrowfully. ‘Listen, girls, get down to the water and have a look at the Liver Birds. There was talk earlier on of an ugly little bugger with a moustache. He climbed the building and he’s trying to strap an engine to one of our birds. Sounds like Hitler to me. Sounds like he’s trying to get back to Germany.’
Alice Makin relaxed. ‘Are we talking daft?’ she asked of no-one in particular.
‘Yes,’ replied Diddy. ‘And that’s what that evil little sod wants. We’ve Haw-Haw on the wireless going on about riots on Scotland Road. He said we’d tied white flags to our chimneys. Do you know what the German pilots really saw on the chimneys?’ The women shook their heads.
‘Chambers. Guz-unders. Piss-pots, girls. Some soft sod decorated the empty houses with them. And that’s what it’s all about. There’s no food riots, no martial law, no giving in and—’
‘Mrs Costigan?’ It was a young voice. The congregation parted to allow the boy in. He strode across the floor and handed the dreaded piece of paper to Diddy. ‘Sorry, missus,’ he said.
Diddy trembled. The telegram in her hand shook like a leaf in a gale. All around her, the women closed ranks and hemmed her in. They created this wall of support instinctively, as many had received visits from telegram boys in recent months.
Finally, she opened the envelope. ‘Missing,’ she breathed.
‘Missing’s not dead,’ said Alice.
‘I can read,’ snapped Diddy. ‘Now get out and do what you should be doing. Hitler can take a running jump.’
Alone, the large woman allowed a few tears to wash her face. Jimmy. A real tearaway of a lad, a typical Scottie Roader with his quick wit and quicker movements. No, they wouldn’t get Jimmy. Jimmy was a fighter, a stayer, a good boy.
Bridie came in. ‘What was the commotion?’
Diddy shrugged. ‘Jimmy’s missing. You’ve to go down William Moult and pick up some dressings. Deliver them to all the first aid posts. See if they’ve any spare gas masks – that soft lad of Mary Johnson’s has dropped his in the canal.’
‘I’m so sorry, Diddy.’
‘He’s not dead. He’ll be looking for something to eat. He was never any good on an empty stomach.’
Bridie watched her friend drying away the tears. There was nothing she could say, nothing anyone could say these days. Children were dying in their beds; shelters, hospitals, churches and homes were being battered and burnt nightly. Each person hereabouts could quote names and addresses of many dead friends, acquaintances and relatives. Words were no use.
Bridie touched her companion’s arm, then went out to do her own war work. The telegram made everything more meaningful, because the fight had to carry on for the sake of all those in the forces. Soldiers, sailors and airmen looked into the face of death every moment of every day. As she picked her way over rubble and across stretches of firehose, Bridie squared her shoulders. The Germans must not win.
She stopped and watched while the remains of a house were pulled down by firemen, saw children playing in debris, noticed women queuing for food. In spite of all the mess, Scotland Road continued alive and as well as could be expected.
Maureen sat as still as a stone on the train. Cathy, pink about the face after arguing, slumped next to her friend. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ she said hopelessly. It was too late now. They had stood for twenty minutes in Trinity Street Station beneath
posters saying CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES and IS YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY?, but Maureen had refused to listen to Cathy’s argument. ‘Aunt Edith was screaming at me on the phone,’ Cathy added. ‘She said she was going to send Anthony after us.’
Maureen sighed. ‘Get off at the next stop. I didn’t ask you to come with me, Cathy.’
‘But I couldn’t let you take off on your own like that. The trains aren’t running properly. You might have got lost.’
‘I won’t get lost.’ Since smelling the incense, Maureen had been strangely content. It was easier now. She knew the identity of her attacker and she was about to see the police. ‘He wants locking up,’ she muttered.
Cathy leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘How can they lock him up when he’s been missing for ten years?’ Maureen must be mistaken, she thought. Liam was a priest. But why had he run away so suddenly? Why did Mammy and Anthony talk about him in hushed tones? Cathy felt sure that her mother was afraid of Father Bell. Even so, how could an ordained man do such a thing to Maureen?
‘He ran because of what he’d done,’ replied Maureen. ‘My dad’ll kill him. That’s if my mam leaves enough of him for my dad to kill.’
‘If they find him.’
‘They’ll find him,’ Maureen’s tone was almost serene. She sat back and wished the train onward, willed it to keep going until it reached Manchester, prayed that a Liverpool connection would arrive. She had to get home, had to face the past, had to help her family to survive and find a future.
‘My mother will not be pleased to see me,’ said Cathy. ‘She’ll have plenty to say, I’m sure.’
‘Then go back.’
‘No.’
Maureen listened to the train as it clattered about on its tracks. It went slowly, as if expecting to be derailed by some previously unnoticed broken rail. ‘I know what I’m going to do with my life,’ she announced. ‘I’ve made my mind up.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll have to tell Mam and Dad first. But I decided this morning. You’ll be the third to know.’ She turned her head. ‘You’ve been good to me, Cathy O’Brien. Sometimes, looking at you was what kept me sane. You see, I had to get away from home, but I needed to be safe. Really, I don’t know how I would have managed without you.’
Cathy groaned inwardly, thought about her mother. It would be, ‘Oh, now I’ve the two of you to worry over,’ and ‘Why did you not have the sense to stay with Edith and Richard?’ Mammy was a quietish soul, but she was capable of being quite angry in the face of foolishness. ‘You would have managed,’ Cathy told Maureen. ‘You would have found somebody to talk to.’
Maureen was not too sure about that. After her attempt at suicide, after the baby had died, Cathy had become her touchstone, her contact with reality. That baby had been Father Bell’s. The dread of going near a church had been born on a terrible night many years ago, when she had smelt incense on his clothing. ‘All along, I knew some of the truth,’ she said now. ‘And I couldn’t face it.’
Cathy wondered what would happen when Maureen’s truth finally came out. She felt sure that her mother and Anthony were already suspicious of Liam. He was seldom discussed in Cathy’s presence. Even Aunt Edith and Uncle Richard showed a marked unwillingness to talk about their ordained second cousin.
The Costigans were probably unaware of the identity of Maureen’s attacker. Had Diddy known his name, she would have plastered it all over the county. What would happen when Maureen finally spoke up? Cathy shivered. It would be like trying to find a ghost, because no-one had heard from Father Bell in ten years or more.
‘He’s sick,’ said Maureen.
‘Father Liam?’
Maureen nodded. ‘He must be sick to do what he did.’
Cathy squirmed. Being related to Liam, albeit by a marriage which had since been annulled, was not a comfortable state of affairs. And Mammy would marry Anthony after Grandmuth’s death, so Mammy would continue to be a Bell. Cathy shuddered inwardly. ‘Does that mean you forgive Father Liam? After what you went through?’ Maureen’s hospital years had been so thoroughly miserable.
‘I don’t know.’ That was the truth. Maureen didn’t know what to feel any more. The deep anger had dissipated along with the lingering smell of incense in St Patrick’s church. There was a peace inside her, a contentment of spirit that she had not expected. ‘It’s really funny,’ she said. ‘Not funny to laugh at, but queer – you know? As if it all happened to somebody else. Or perhaps it happened to a different me. Yes, I think I’ve changed. But he has to be found, Cathy. He has to be stopped. If he did that to anybody else, I’d blame myself.’
‘Yes, I understand that.’
They reached Manchester, only to discover that no trains were going on to Liverpool. The derailment of a goods wagon was to blame. Maureen and Cathy sat in the Ladies’ Waiting Room. Cathy wondered why a request to save empty Brylcreem jars had been placed in an exclusively female area. It was probably because women were in charge of the war, she supposed. Women made bombs and bullets, drove tractors, built aeroplanes and tanks, saved Brylcreem jars.
It was noon. Cathy’s stomach grumbled like a threatening storm. She read through a leaflet entitled your home as an air-raid shelter, glanced around at all the grim faces of those who hoped for trains. There was a silence in the room, a kind of quiet acceptance. Women had become professional waiters, Cathy mused. They waited for sons and husbands to come home, stood for hours in lines outside shops, waited for the sound of an all-clear. During war-time, a woman’s whole life was a waiting room.
‘Go back,’ whispered Maureen. ‘Your journey isn’t really necessary.’
Cathy flicked through a thin copy of War Illustrated, scanned a guide for the woman at home and the man in the street.
‘Go home,’ repeated Maureen.
‘I am going home. I’ve as much right as you to visit Scotland Road.’
‘What if something happens?’
Cathy turned the page, found that she was being invited to give an extra penny a week to the Red Cross. Bile Beans were advertised to anyone who wanted radiant health and a good figure, then Rodine claimed to do away with rats and mice. ‘Something happens every day. Look.’ She showed her companion a picture in the magazine. WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE was printed next to a cartoon of Hitler. ‘Here’s the one who started it. He probably blew up the railway track, which is why we’re sitting at the station.’
A woman in the corner spoke up. ‘We could be here all day,’ she said gloomily. ‘Come dark, we’ll all have to go in a shelter.’ She picked up her shopping basket. ‘I’m off home,’ she announced to no-one in particular.
Maureen touched Cathy’s arm. ‘We’ll have to try for a lift.’
‘No. Let’s give it another hour or so.’
The older girl frowned. A sense of urgency was brewing beneath the calmness. After all these years, it seemed silly to be in a rush, but she simply had to get home. ‘Let’s go for a cup of tea,’ she suggested.
As the two girls left the waiting room, a bearded man shrank back into the shadows. The station was crowded, buzzing with talk and movement. He watched while Maureen Costigan and the Irish whore’s daughter entered the refreshment room. Soon, very soon, his time would come.
Liam Bell folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. He was in no hurry, no hurry at all.
Bridie was used to explosions. She sometimes wondered how she had managed to believe that Scotland Road was noisy. When newly arrived from Ireland, she had found the area almost unbearably busy with all its trams, carthorses, lorries and people. But now, in May 1941, she was beginning to know about real noise.
This latest blast was awesome. There had been talk of a ship in dock carrying explosives and weapons. Rumour had become part and parcel of everyday life, with the result that many exaggerated statements about defences, fallen planes and bombs went unheeded. On this night, however, all who lived in Liverpool knew about the Malakind. She burst wide open, scattering huge sheets of meta
l across miles and lighting a very easy path for the Luftwaffe.
The attack from the air was prolonged and merciless. No sooner had the Malakind exploded than the bombers intensified their onslaught, wave after wave of them dropping incendiaries and bombs onto Liverpool, Bootle and Seaforth.
Tildy sat up, poked a finger into her ear, then stretched her arms. She peered at Bridie’s face in the candlelight. ‘What was that? It’s nearly shaken me out of my cage.’
‘A ship, I think. Probably the Malakind – I heard it had arms in its hold.’
Shauna clutched her mother’s arm. ‘Will they get us tonight, Mammy?’
Bridie dropped her chin and said nothing. Shauna should have been away from all this, should have stayed with her older sister in Astleigh Fold. It was probably quiet up there. Bridie had not spoken to Cathy or to Edith for a day or so, because the telephone had suddenly stopped working.
She felt a trembling in her bones as a bomb rattled window-panes, ordered herself not to chide Shauna about being here. If they died tonight, she did not want her last words to Shauna to be angry or critical. ‘With God’s help, we’ll survive,’ replied Bridie. She thought about Muth in her bedroom, nearer to the Lord, nearer to the Germans and to death. ‘Lie down,’ Bridie told the girls. ‘The shelter will save us, please God.’
Anthony. While her young companions slept, Bridie allowed her tears to spill. If only he were here with his arms around her. She could almost sense the touch of his hands, was able to recall the scent of him. Fiercely, she clung to the shadow of the man she loved. He was safe, she told herself. Cathy was safe, too.
Shauna, whose sleep was never as deep as Tildy’s, moaned. Bridie heard the crashing of glass, felt the ground quivering beneath the mattress. How did Germany manage to have so many planes? A loud cracking sound was followed by the noise of masonry tumbling nearby. It was so close, not much more than a hair’s breadth away. The air in the room thickened as plaster parted company with the walls. Someone shouted, pounded on a nearby door, shouted again.
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 50