The Bells of Scotland Road (63 page)

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.’

‘Athanasius?’ 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.

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.’

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.’