The Bells of Scotland Road (6 page)

‘A good family,’ said Bridie. ‘They treated me so well.’ Anthony glanced over his shoulder at the mantel clock. He had to get away. He could not imagine this poor girl
being happy in the company of a dried-up pawnbroker. She wanted fields, hills, freedom. ‘I must be going soon,’ he said at last. ‘I’m up with the lark in the
morning.’

She rose to her feet, smoothed the crumpled jacket. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she told him. ‘As long as my girls are safe, I’ll just stay here till . . . your father
comes back.’ She waited for a reply, received none. ‘Do you live over the shop on Scotland Road, too?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve a house here in Dryden Street.’

The clock grumbled, spat eleven times.

Was he married? she wondered. He had come alone to the church, had mentioned no wife. ‘Do you work, Anthony?’

He nodded. ‘I teach.’

‘Ah.’ Bridie paused in the hope of further explanation, was disappointed again. He seemed such a pleasant man, so much nicer than his brother. ‘Well, you go off and get your
beauty sleep, then.’

The door flew inward. ‘It’s like trying to scrape barnacles off the bottom of a boat,’ Diddy Costigan announced by way of greeting. ‘They’re all round the stables
looking at Sam’s new horses. Every one of my lot except Tildy’s sitting down in the gypsies’ parlour drinking cocoa. As for Billy and Sam and your dad,’ she waved a hand in
Bridie’s direction, ‘the three of them’s up to their eyes in hay and horse droppings.’

‘I didn’t know my father had an interest in horses,’ replied Anthony. As far as he knew, Sam Bell’s single and very passionless passion was for angling.

‘Well, he has now,’ snapped Diddy. ‘A very big interest and it’s all over his shoes. Fine bloody bridegroom he turned out to be. Sorry.’ She took a deep breath,
shook her head. ‘It’s not your fault, lad. Go home and have a rest. I’ll see to Bridie.’

Anthony made his goodbyes and left the house.

‘Right.’ Big Diddy eased herself into a fireside chair. ‘Sam said he’d come for you soon and walk you home. God, I can’t wait to get these corsets off and have a
good scratch. I hope you know what you’re taking on, girl. Me shoes are killing me.’ She kicked away the offending articles. ‘Some start you’ve had, eh? Your ring falls off
before you get out of church, then the bridegroom buggers off to see the gypsies. And I’m telling you now in case you haven’t heard – his mother’s a tartar.’

Bridie said nothing.

‘Did he write to you? He said he would.’

‘I had a letter, yes.’

Diddy’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘One? One bloody letter? Was Theresa Bell mentioned?’

‘No.’

‘Or his sons?’

‘No.’

Diddy frowned. ‘Still, I suppose your dad put you in the picture. I mean, Sam’s a lot older than you, and his mother’s nearly as old as God.’ For several seconds, she
stared hard at the visitor. ‘You weren’t told any of it, were you, love? You’ve married a man you don’t even know.’

Bridie shook her head in dismay.

With the air of a conspirator, Big Diddy looked over her shoulder as if reassuring herself about the room’s emptiness, then dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘What the bloody hell were
you thinking of, girl? I mean, Scottie Road’s all right and I wouldn’t let anybody say different, but you’ve left the countryside for this? For him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whose idea?’

‘My father’s.’ That was not the complete truth, Bridie told herself. Lately, she had wanted to put the sea between herself and him. The O’Briens, too, needed removing
from the horizon of her life.

Diddy wriggled and plucked absently at her clothing in a vain effort to ease a particularly troublesome length of whalebone in the hated corset. ‘You’ll be just a skivvy for him and
his mother.’

‘That’s all I was at home once our farm was re-tenanted. When we had to move out, we lived for a while with my father, so I did all the chores for him. Anyway, Da was worried about
my dead husband’s family. They’re Church of Ireland and Da thought they might try to influence Cathy and Shauna.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I’d had enough of Da. He was
desperate when I married Eugene and he never forgave me. So I had to get away.’

Diddy nodded but kept her counsel. She knew a thing or two about Thomas Murphy and a certain female shopkeeper not a stone’s throw away. Dolly Hanson had been ‘looking after’
Bridie’s father for donkey’s years . . . ‘You’ve gone from one slavery to another. You won’t even have a field for your children to play in, Bridie. Young ones round
here are wise before their time. It’s a pity you came. It’s a pity I didn’t get the chance to warn you.’

Panic paid another brief visit to Bridie’s chest, but she dismissed it. For better or worse, she was a wife once more. ‘’Tis done now,’ she told her hostess. ‘No
use looking back and dwelling on what might have been. If my mother had lived, if Da had been a better man, if you had written to me . . . We can’t live while we keep looking back all the
time.’

Diddy dropped her head in tacit agreement, chewed on her thoughts for a few moments. ‘Sam Bell’s not a bad man,’ she pronounced eventually. ‘And he’s not a good
one, neither. Like the rest of us, he’s got his faults.’ Light was beginning to break in the rear of her mind. Horses. Some snippets of conversation were weaving themselves into the
thin curtain that separates the conscious from the subconscious. ‘The horses came about a month ago,’ she volunteered thoughtfully.

Bridie half smiled. ‘Ah, yes. They would be ferried across in good weather and on quieter tides. He takes great care of his beasts. Da’s famous for his horses.’

‘Some were sold on.’ Diddy clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as if trying to restrain herself. Given a chance, she would have clobbered Sam Bell and Thomas Murphy there and then.
‘Two were kept with the gypsies. There’s a stallion and a mare. The gypsies have been walking them miles and paying rent for fields where they could run about a bit. They’re
frisky, like. Specially the grey stallion.’

‘Racers,’ said Bridie. She ignored a flutter of excitement in her breast. Were Quicksilver and Sorrel here? Would she see them again?

‘What?’

‘They’ll be racehorses. Arab–Irish are the best.’

Diddy eased herself out of the chair. ‘Would you like a drop of ale?’

‘No, thank you.’ Bridie had never tasted strong drink.

‘Cup of tea, then?’

‘It’s late. I must go and see to my children.’

The older woman laughed. ‘Our Tildy’s the best baby-minder in Liverpool, queen.’

‘All the same, I’d rather—’

‘Come on then.’ Big Diddy Costigan forced her size seven feet into the size six shoes picked up from St Aloysius’s rummage sale. ‘We’ll walk round to the stables
and get your so-called husband to take you home.’

Bridie hesitated, forced herself to remember the letter. Sam Bell had promised not to trouble her except where the shop was concerned. She didn’t really want to think about bed, could not
encompass the idea of close contact with a man she had only just met. And he was old, with a terrible cough and thinning hair and a very dirty kitchen table.

Of course, there would be the cleaning, shopping, cooking, washing and ironing; there would also be his mother to tend and the girls to mind. Those things were a woman’s lot, part and
parcel of the institution called marriage. Compared to all those chores, the part-time running of a shop promised to be easy. If only he would give her a room of her own. She clenched her fists
into tight knots and prayed that he would not touch her.

Bridie sat slumped in the midst of disaster and wondered whether she would ever be sane again. The walk from Dryden Street to Newsham Street Stables and thence to Bell’s
Pledges had been interesting, to say the least. The actual stables had been closed for the night, so Bridie had been denied the chance to see the two horses. She and Diddy had spoken to the gypsy
whose husband owned the business, had been told that Sam and his companions had left some time earlier.

Flashes of what Bridie had seen outside kept leaping before her mind’s eye like cinema film that jerked its way over sticky spools. She had brought her children into a place of perpetual
motion and constant bustle, it seemed.

She leaned back, allowed her eyelids to droop. Noises from the road continued – people shouting, running, singing. It was plain that every shop in the neighbourhood intended to trade until
midnight. Bridie was frightened, scared almost to death of the Scotland Road folk. They were loud and emotional, as if their feelings dwelt just a fraction of an inch below the skin’s
surface. How easily they laughed, argued, fought. How quick were their eyes and movements, how rushed was their speech.

On hearing that Sam Bell and Thomas Murphy had left the stables before the arrival of Bridie and Big Diddy, the latter had shooed home her own offspring before dragging Bridie from Newsham
Street into the Holy House, then had forced the new immigrant to face the crammed bar with its thick blanket of tobacco smoke and its stench of stale beer.

Bridie closed her eyes and allowed herself a little smile. As long as she lived, she would never forget that moment. Diddy had strode into the hostelry, had pushed aside anything and anyone in
her path. ‘Billy Costigan?’ she had roared. ‘Sam Bell? If you’re in there, get out here. That goes for Thomas Murphy, too.’ For several seconds, silence had visited
the bar.

Bridie’s grin widened. Perhaps the tendency to express sentiments so vigorously might even be fun? Perhaps the people hereabouts were all like Diddy – strong, kind and given to bouts
of laughter? Oh, she hoped with all her heart that she might feel for others what she felt for this first friend.

Well. She tapped the arm of the chair. Here sat Bridie Bell, recently O’Brien, née Murphy, in a room filled with the clutter of travel, in the house of a man whose property she had
just become. The ring was in her pocket. She could not wear it, because it was too big by a mile. If he touched her, she would surely die. If he touched her, she would run away.

Big Diddy Costigan was doubtless a trustworthy soul, as she had produced a key to the back door of Bell’s Pledges. ‘I keep this in case of emergencies,’ she had said. Had the
good woman been unable to gain access to Bell’s, Bridie would have been spending her wedding night elsewhere. Wedding night. She would find her way upstairs in a minute, would seek out her
daughters and her own bedroom and . . . and the old woman. How many rooms? One for Mrs Bell, one for the girls, one for . . . Would she be forced to sleep in the same room, in the same bed as a man
old enough to be her father?

A key turned. Bridie froze, her ears straining towards the shop.

‘Come in, Tom.’ The voice belonged to Sam Bell. ‘Sit on this stool while I find you a drop of good Irish.’ Although the Liverpool accent was present in his language, the
man spoke clearly, was easy to understand.

Bottle and glasses clinked faintly.

‘I hope you’re satisfied.’ These words came from Thomas Murphy. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Sam Bell. After all, she’s young and healthy, strong and able. She works
hard and doesn’t complain. You should be paying me, man—’

‘You wanted her settled,’ replied Bridie’s husband. ‘I mean, it’s not my fault if her husband’s family’s Protestant. And she’s not on her own, is
she? There are two children who’ll want feeding and clothing.’

‘Cathy can help in the shop. She’s a bright enough girl, though she needs a firm hand.’

Bridie’s heart beat feverishly. A firm hand? If anyone lifted as much as a finger, she would surely leave this place and take the children far away.

‘I was all right,’ said Sam. ‘I’d no intention of getting married again. In fact, nothing was further from my mind. I’m set in my ways, you know, getting a bit long
in the tooth for fresh starts.’

‘Too late,’ chortled the Irishman. ‘The bargain’s made and the wedding’s over. You’ve two fine horses out of it, haven’t you? Silver will fetch a pretty
penny once he’s broken properly. And the mare’s as solid as a rock.’

Another drink was poured. Bridie leaned forward in her chair. Da had paid this pawnbroker to marry her. Her flesh crawled as if she had suddenly become infested by some particularly virulent
parasite. Surely to God a father didn’t go about trying to get rid of his only child?

‘John Baker knows all there is to know about horseflesh,’ grumbled Sam Bell. ‘He’s not interested in either of the animals, says there’s no call for them at the
moment.’

‘What?’ roared Thomas Murphy. ‘Of course he’s interested. He’s just acting the part in the hope of a better bargain. I’m telling you, man, Silver will be a
good runner. It’s all in the breeding. And, if you manage to race him without gelding, you’ll have a pension from the stud fees.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’

The two men continued to talk. Bridie, shocked to the core, realized that her father had sunk to depths even lower than she had ever imagined. She had been sold. No, that was not the case, she
told herself. In fact, if she had been sold, then she might have had some idea of her own value. Da hadn’t even managed to give her away; he had paid someone to relieve him of his burden.

With her eyes adjusting to the dimness, she managed to make out the shape of a sofa. The reason behind Da’s moment of hesitation in the church was now as clear as day. He had parted with
two valuable horses, had been reluctant to give away so much. She was worthless in the eyes of her own father, simply because she brought no money in. Horses were, of course, a great deal more
important than blood relatives.

Quietly, she rose and tiptoed across the room. A small case hung open. Little Tildy-Anne Costigan had probably raided this piece of luggage to find the girls’ nightwear. Bridie lifted
boxes and packages, placed them quietly on the floor. The wedding night problem was solved. She would sleep here on the sofa with her coat acting as a blanket. Tears threatened, but she blinked
them back. Da could continue his journey towards hell, but she intended to make the best of an appalling situation.

Sleep did not come easily. When she finally dozed off, she was back in Ballinasloe. The old castle oversaw the ongoings, kept its many eyes on river, market and church. Cattle straggled along
lazily, birds sang, Mrs O’Hara stood outside the forge while her husband laboured and sweated over horses’ shoes. Brendan Gallagher rested against a wall, a glass of dark stout in his
hand.