The Bells of Scotland Road (11 page)

The younger woman nodded and smiled. She had taken to leaving Theresa Bell’s food on a tray by the door. Nothing had been said on the subject, but the food was disappearing each time. So,
for a bed-ridden invalid, this old girl had a markedly good appetite and the ability to walk, pick up a tray and carry it to her bed. ‘Will we get you dressed and bring you down?’ asked
Bridie.

‘What the hell for?’ Theresa sank onto the bed, this dramatic movement accompanied by a heavy sigh.

‘For a change.’

Theresa fixed her beady eyes on Bridie’s face. In spite of better judgement, she found herself liking Sam’s new wife. She was clean, easy on the eye and a damned good cook into the
bargain. Also, she had brought children into the house, had brought movement back to this place of decay. ‘When I want to come down, I’ll come. I don’t need you carrying me round
like a sack of spuds.’ As ever, she spoke in flat Lancashire tones.

Bridie agreed. ‘Sam wants you up and about again,’ she said. In truth, Sam, still looking for the easy life, preferred to listen to his wife in this instance. ‘Bridie says you
need to move about,’ he had begun to tell his mother. ‘It’ll do you good.’

‘You’ll bloody kill me between you,’ the old lady screamed energetically.

But Bridie was not fooled, not worried. Theresa was eating well, was embroidering pretty squares of cloth, was arguing, had fire in her eyes. She approached the bed. ‘If you can manage, I
want you downstairs. You can sit with Shauna while I help in the shop. Sam’s out, so Charlie’s on his own. This is a very busy time, as you are well aware. Now, shall I dress
you?’

‘Bugger off.’

Smiling to herself, Bridie took this advice and carried the tray back to the kitchen.

‘Mammy?’

Bridie lifted her head and looked at Cathy. The child must have followed her down the stairs. Cathy seemed so pathetic and downtrodden with her shoulders stooped and her hands hanging limply by
her sides. ‘I thought you were supposed to stay upstairs for a while?’

‘Please, Mammy. It’s Christmas. Let me go just outside on the pavement. I’ll be good, I promise.’

Cathy had been deprived of so much. The child had been dragged from her home, had been insulted repeatedly by her grandfather, had lost her daddy, her farm, her animals. ‘All right. Just
for a little while, now.’

When Cathy had left, Bridie gave Shauna some toys, then went through to the shop, saw Sam making his way outside with a couple of cases. She greeted Charlie Costigan, flicked a feather duster
over some books, straightened a row of ornaments. She actually liked the shop, had taken to spending the odd happy hour talking to Charlie and to customers. Charlie, once she had got to know him,
was an angel. He had gentle, knowing eyes, a deep, booming laugh and a good rapport with customers. Bridie spoke to him. ‘Go and get yourself a bite to eat, Charlie. We’ll be open well
past midnight, I shouldn’t wonder.’

He loped out in the direction of home. There would be scouse in a pan, bread in the cupboard. Charlie and his siblings were among the luckier inhabitants of Scotland Road.

Bridie placed herself in the centre of the shop. There were four counters set in a square with two flaps for access. Below the counters, deep shelves held pledges, as did the floor-to-ceiling
storage areas on the two window-less walls. The Penrhyn Street window displayed some new stock – buckets, mops, pans, brushes. During recent years, Sam Bell had expanded into chandlery. The
Scotland Road display was made up of items judged to be antique – old mirrors, statues, brass and steel fire-irons, tea sets. These articles were usually sold to ‘foreigners’,
people from Waterloo, Crosby and Seaforth Sands.

The bell clanged. Diddy Costigan ambled in. ‘I’ve put your goose in the bakehouse,’ she announced. ‘And I’ve made you a couple of bunloaves.’ She grinned at
Bridie. ‘I know the kids have been carrying on, love. Can we talk about it when the festivities are over? We can’t cope with cooking and toss schools as well, you know. So shall I brew
up?’

Bridie nodded. A cup of tea would be most welcome, but first, she wanted to talk to Diddy about something momentous, something other than Cathy’s behaviour. She inhaled deeply.
‘Diddy?’

The large woman paused on her way to the living quarters. ‘That’s me.’

‘I . . . er . . .’

‘Spit it out, girl. It’s Christmas tomorrow, in case you haven’t noticed. There’s no time for messing about. That bloody bakehouse is packed, you know.’

Bridie tried to organize the words. ‘I need some money,’ was the best she could manage.

Diddy laughed. ‘You need money? Try telling that to Cissie Nolan. She’s fourteen mouths to feed and her feller’s drunk all his Christmas bonus before my Billy could get to
him.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘Arthur Nolan’s in the bloody bridewell again sleeping it off. Christmas? It doesn’t mean a thing to them poor Nolan kiddies and their
mam.’

Bridie felt ashamed. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean the Nolans don’t matter, it’s just that—’

‘What do you want it for?’

The younger woman swallowed. ‘Horses,’ she whispered.

Diddy crossed the shop floor with an agility that was remarkable in view of her bulk. She clasped Bridie’s hands. ‘The horses your dad gave to Sam?’

Bridie nodded.

‘Worth a lot, are they?’

‘Yes. Well, they could be.’

Diddy cursed under her breath. She cursed Sam, Thomas Murphy and the family of Bridie’s dead husband. ‘Bastards, the lot of them,’ she murmured.

‘Does everybody round here know?’ asked Bridie.

‘Know what?’

‘That my father had to pay to get rid of me and the girls.’

Diddy hesitated for a split second before wading in. ‘Rubbish,’ she spat. ‘That’s not true. If you’d stopped at home, some bright feller would have picked you
up.’ She gazed at Bridie Bell. ‘You’re the best-looking woman in the whole of Liverpool,’ she advised her companion. ‘Anyway, I’ve told nobody about the horses.
What do you want them for?’

Bridie thought for a few moments. ‘To know what I’m worth,’ she said slowly. ‘To get them trained as runners so that I can show my father his error of judgement. He may
be clever with animals, Diddy, but he knows not one thing about me. I’m easily as good as he is with horses, I must say that.’

The shop door opened, so Diddy went off to make tea while Bridie served. Diddy spoke to Shauna, gave the child a bit of chocolate. Sam Bell and Thomas Murphy wanted whipping, she thought as she
waited for the kettle to boil. Poor Bridie had been treated like a piece of property – no – worse than that, she pondered. The young woman was not even merchandise in the eyes of her
father and her husband. Bridie and her children were nuisances, irritations, things to be passed on as quickly as possible.

‘Diddy?’

The visitor turned, looked at Mrs Bell the younger. ‘What?’

‘I don’t know why exactly these horses are important. They just are.’

Diddy warmed the pot.

‘They were in the wrong, my father and Sam. My father was more wrong than Sam, of course.’

‘I know they were wrong, love.’

‘The horses are my chance of becoming . . . oh, I don’t know.’

‘A human being?’

Bridie smiled. She had known all along that Diddy would understand. ‘But they’re worth a lot more than I’ve got to spare.’

When the tea was poured, Bridie picked up her cup and stood with one foot in the shop and the other in the kitchen. Diddy, silent for once, stirred in several measures of sugar to help her
think. ‘Take something from the stores and flog it in town.’ She waved a teaspoon at one of Sam Bell’s many hiding places – a walk-in cupboard which ran the length of the
kitchen. ‘I know it’s locked, but my Billy could open it.’

‘No.’

‘You what?’

It was difficult to explain, but Bridie could not bear the thought of hurting Sam. He had done her no harm, had taken in her children, had sheltered and fed three strangers. He was wont to
disappear from time to time with fishing rods and net, but that was no crime. ‘Not that, Diddy. Not from Sam. I know he bargained with Da, but my father’s a powerful man when it comes
to persuasion. No, no, I’m not going to turn against Sam.’ She left unspoken the certainty that Sam would never turn against her and the girls. She was developing a respect for her
husband, a tolerance that bordered on concern.

‘What else, then? There’s stuff parked all over this house that’s worth a fortune. It’ll all go to that bloody Liam once Sam pops his clogs. Sam doesn’t know what
he’s got, can’t remember half of it. He’d not miss some bits of silver and jewellery.’

‘I can’t.’

Diddy drained her mug. ‘Where else will you get the money?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve handed over my mother’s locket and both my wedding rings so that Rosa McKinnell won’t sell Sorrel and Silver without telling me first. But the
value of my bits and pieces won’t feed the animals through the winter.’

Diddy’s mouth dropped. ‘Does he know about the ring?’

‘He thinks I lost it with it being so big.’

‘Bloody miser,’ said Diddy. She took a long, hard look at Sam Bell’s bride. ‘You getting on all right with him?’

‘Yes.’

Diddy considered the problem. The horses must have been worth a few bob. Sam Bell didn’t know a horse from an aspidistra. If someone could convince Sam that the beasts were worthless . . .
Even so, Bridie would need a fair sum. ‘Have you no money at all?’ she asked.

‘None,’ replied Bridie.

‘Housekeeping?’

‘I just ask when I need it. But he gives me only a few shillings at a time.’

‘Let me think on it,’ said Diddy. ‘It’ll have to wait till after Christmas now.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘Billy’ll fetch your goose round from the
bakehouse when it’s done. There was a bit of a queue this time. Must be a good sign if a few of us can afford proper meat too big for our own ovens.’ She frowned. ‘If you’ve
any bits of food left over tomorrow, bring it round to our house for the Nolans, will you?’ Diddy bustled off to carry on her Christmas preparations.

Bridie made a mental note to make sure that some ‘leavings’ found their way into the Nolans’ house. Cissie Nolan was that poor, thin woman who had opened her door to Bridie
when Cathy had gone missing on their first morning in Scotland Road. Twelve children. Bridie shook her head and wondered how anyone could possibly manage more than two. She glanced at the clock.
Cathy was out again, of course, had probably forgotten her promise to be good. She was no doubt trailing all over Paddy’s Market with Cozzer and Tildy-Anne.

‘Bridget?’

The young woman froze, then turned slowly. Theresa Bell was fully dressed and standing on the stairs. ‘Muth,’ began Bridie lamely, ‘so glad you’ve managed to get down
the—’

‘No time for all that,’ snapped Theresa. ‘You and I need a bit of a talk together. I’ve got ears, you know. There might be a lot wrong with me, but I’m not deaf,
not yet.’ She frowned deeply, making the channels of age more pronounced than ever in the withered face. ‘It’s time you and me got a few things straightened out, girl.’

Bridie saw Charlie entering the shop, fished around in her brain for some excuse. She didn’t want to talk to Theresa Bell. How long had Sam’s mother been eavesdropping? Had she heard
the conversation between Bridie and Diddy? Meekly, she made her way back into the kitchen.

Theresa Bell limped in, shooed Shauna into the shop. ‘Right, lady,’ she said to her daughter-in-law. ‘I declare this meeting open. Just let me say my piece . . .’

Cathy O’Brien was in her element. Mammy was busy with the shop, with Uncle Sam’s mother and with Shauna. There were no fields to run in, no horses to play with, but
Scotland Road was like a large extension to Bell’s Pledges – full of noises, sights, interesting things and people. In spite of Bridie’s several warnings, Cathy had taken charge
of herself, had grabbed a degree of liberty.

Since her father’s death, Cathy had never imagined herself to be a part of anything. Her mother loved her and was good to her, her clothes were decent and she had a little sister who
wasn’t always a desperate pain, but she had been lonely inside since Eugene O’Brien’s terrible accident. Now, Cozzer and Tildy were beginning to fill a corner of the void in
Cathy’s young heart.

It was Christmas Eve, so excitement hung in the air even here, where many people were too poor for lavish celebrations. The shops were busy, their windows decorated with dabs of cotton wool and
twists of crêpe paper. People stopped for what they called a gab or a jangle, then rushed off to prepare whatever was within their means. The lamplighter handed out toffees, and a silly man
in a Father Christmas suit sang songs and, when he thought no-one was looking, swigged whisky furtively from a bottle.

Cozzer had earned a few pence for carrying oilcloth, and these wages had been squandered in Scouse Alley, a café near the market. Tildy, Cathy and Cozzer had dined oh a feast of scouse
and red cabbage followed by several helpings of syrup cakes. Cathy felt as if her stomach would burst at any moment, yet the memory of those syrup-soaked pancakes was precious. ‘That was the
best thing I ever ate,’ she told her companions. ‘Where do we go now?’ Mammy wouldn’t be looking for her yet, surely?

Cozzer shook his head. They had scoured the pavements outside the Derby, the Gaiety and the Gem cinemas, had found no dropped pennies. Fishing down the grids had yielded a shirt button and a
single miserable halfpenny, and it was too early for drunks. Cozzer was clever with drunks. He would engage them in conversation, help them across the street, then pick their pockets before wishing
them well. Of course, pocket-pickings were for the Nolans. Catholics did not steal, not for themselves, at least, not unless they were starving to death. ‘We could have another wander round
Paddy’s,’ he suggested.

They strolled down Scotland Road, their way lighted by gaslights that flickered unconvincingly, their breath hanging in chill air like miniature clouds. Vans carrying paupers’ parcels
coughed their way up and down the road. On a whim, Jimmy ‘Cozzer’ Costigan stepped out and halted one of these vehicles. ‘Stop!’ he yelled, a hand raised against the looming
van.