The Bells of Scotland Road (53 page)

‘Let them wonder,’ he replied.

She folded the cover back and reached out for him. The lassitude she felt seemed to have dulled the sensible side of her mind. She wanted and needed him, and the love was now a part of the need.
It was all the one thing, she told herself. Anthony was Anthony and Bridie was Bridie. And whatever existed between them was another of those signs on a road they were destined to share.

Anthony held her for a long time before kissing her. She was vulnerable and precious and he could not bear the thought of her regret. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

She stared hard into his face. ‘Sure is something we can never be, Anthony Bell. But I love you and I need you and we have to start somewhere. And we know that Sam won’t mind.
Sam’s blessing is good enough for me.’

Father Michael Brennan pursued the shambling figure of Flash Flanagan across Scotland Road, musing on the miracle of the tramp’s survival. Flash looked neither right nor
left, simply stepping into the road and waving grimy hands at anything that dared to come near him. When the offending article was a tram weighing several tons, Flash treated it with the same
contempt he showed for horses, carts, motor vehicles and steam lorries. He was a true king of the road, allowing no respect for any obstacle in his path.

‘Flash?’ yelled the priest.

The old vagrant took no notice. He had a bellyful of scouse and red cabbage, and he was on his way to perform on the corner of Penrhyn Street. A passing Mary Ellen might throw him a penny or an
apple, and the ‘girls’ returning from the bagwash were always ready to stop for a bit of a jangle about the price of fish.

He parked his cart, took out a pair of battered marionettes and started to pick at all the tangled strings.

‘Are you deaf?’ asked the priest.

Flash sniffed. ‘That is not one of my afflictions, not yet,’ he replied. ‘Though a drop of whisky would help my cold.’

Michael took a shilling from his pocket. ‘You are supposed to contribute to the support of your pastor,’ he complained. ‘But it seems to be working the other way, doesn’t
it?’

Flash shrugged, struggled with a knot. ‘How do these things manage to get all tied up?’ he moaned. He threw the puppets into the cart and fished around for the components of his
one-man band.

‘Flash, you know and I know that a piece of Father Bell’s vestmentry is missing. His room, the church and the whole presbytery have been searched. We must find that stole,’
said the priest.

Flash eyed his adversary. They’d had a few run-ins in the past, he and Father Brennan. The priest should have been more understanding. In Flash’s opinion, they were two of a kind,
since each of them depended on others for their subsistence. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he said. ‘I gave it to Sam and I’ve not seen it since. And I promised Sam
I’d say nothing. You wormed things out of me, Father Brennan.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Did you hear that, Sam? I done me best.’ He returned his attention to Father
Brennan. ‘A priest lost it in the first place, so a priest can bloody well find it.’

Michael squared up to the beggar. ‘Listen, Flash. Sam must have said something about his intentions—’

‘He said nothing,’ yelled Flash.

Some children who had been dangling twine down a grid stopped and stared at the two men. Their ‘angling’ had yielded nothing, so they decided to watch the priest and the tramp for a
while.

‘Go away,’ said Father Brennan.

‘Bugger off,’ yelled the tramp.

‘He sweared,’ said a little girl with a torn dress and hair like a bird’s nest. During school holidays, the younger residents of Scotland Road got a bit untidy. ‘He
sweared and it’s a sin.’

‘Your dad’s always bloody swearing,’ said a boy in odd boots.

‘He’s not,’ answered the girl-child angrily. ‘He never swears, my dad.’ The urchins backed off, then began to creep closer again.

Michael gave his full attention to Flash. ‘Look, poor Sam mentioned nothing about the stole to his lawyer,’ he whispered. ‘But surely, when you left the article with him he
gave you some idea of what he intended to do with it?’

‘No.’ Flash clattered his cymbals to the ground. ‘I’m dead serious now, Father. I don’t know what he did with it. It’ll be in the shop somewhere, or in the
house. Can’t his missus look for it? And why won’t the police try to find it? I can answer that one – they don’t believe any of it. They never believe me. They never believe
nothing I say, contrary sods.’

Michael Brennan sighed. ‘They don’t believe me or Anthony Bell, either.’

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 house 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.