The Bells of Scotland Road (7 page)

Mammy came along the street, her black skirt sweeping the dust, the snow-white apron starched and ironed, a shawl about her shoulders. She waved at Bridie before disappearing into the
churchyard. Even in the dream, Bridie remembered that her mother was dead. But look, Eugene was coming along on that terrible, bone-shaking bicycle. His blond hair was sticking out in all
directions, and his face was pink after toiling in the fields. Eugene had come back to her!

Bridie ran to him, touched his shoulder, breathed in the scents of the earth that always seemed to cling to his clothing. They would be married tomorrow.

Eugene kissed her, lifted her off her feet and onto the handlebars, took her along the bumpy street and struggled to keep the balance for both of them. She was so happy. She could hear him
laughing, could feel the wind in her face.

She woke, looked around her. Sweet Jesus, what was she doing here? What would Eugene have said about this terrible business? No, no, she wouldn’t cry. From the next room, the room that was
a shop, Thomas Murphy’s voice continued to drone. Wondering what Eugene might have thought and said was a waste of time. Had he lived, she would never have come here.

Sam Bell lit the gas, allowed the flame to glow for a few seconds before turning it down. Bridie was asleep on the sofa, had been here all the time, then. Had she heard? Did
she know that her father had persuaded, cajoled and bribed in order to get someone to take her off his hands?

Big Diddy Costigan breathed down Sam’s neck. ‘You shouldn’t have gone off like that after the wedding,’ she whispered. ‘And I’ve worked out what you and
Thomas Murphy have been up to. Why, Sam? What possessed you?’

The pawnbroker lifted his shoulders a fraction. ‘He wanted rid of her, I suppose. If anything had ever happened to him, her in-laws might have taken charge.’

‘He didn’t plan this out of love, you know.’

Sam nodded.

‘You shouldn’t have done it. It’s bloody evil. I mean, look at her. That girl could have got herself a younger man—’

‘He wanted her away from Ireland.’

Big Diddy dragged the shopkeeper out of the living room and into the small, lean-to scullery. ‘He wanted?’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘What the hell does it matter?
It’s her life, not his. She must have been desperate to get away – desperate enough to fasten herself to somebody she’d never even clapped eyes on. Well,’ she spat, ‘I
hope you get what you deserve, Sam Bell. I hope your horses never break into so much as a bloody trot.’

He pulled away from her. Diddy was not the sort of woman he wanted to cross. She was universally loved and respected. ‘I’ll look after her,’ he muttered lamely.

‘See that you do. Because you’ll have me and Billy to answer to if any harm comes to her or the children. Your card’s marked. We’ll be watching you.’ Her hand
raised itself and the index finger jabbed in his direction. ‘That dad of hers is a rotten bugger. He’s been warming Dolly Hanson’s bed for years – even before his wife died,
I’m sure. This poor girl’s not got a father – he’s more of an excuse. So you make her a good husband or I’ll break your puny little neck. And that, Sam, is a
promise.’ She flung open the door and marched out.

Sam returned to the kitchen-cum-living room. For several minutes, he lingered in his chair next to the range, watched the pretty young woman sleeping. This was his wife. He thought about Maria,
who had given him twin boys before slipping away quietly with pneumonia brought on by the exhausting confinement. He thought about Muth, who had stepped in immediately to raise the motherless Liam
and Anthony.

Sam Bell fixed his eyes on the dampened fire, wondered what the hell he was going to do with a child bride, two female youngsters and a couple of mad, scarcely broken racehorses. He
shouldn’t have listened to Thomas Murphy. The idea of taking on a resident nurse for Muth was sound enough, but marriage was a frightening step. As for horses – well – they had a
leg at each corner. Four-legged furniture was something he understood, but valuable animals were not his forte.

Bridie shivered, muttered something in her sleep. A tear made its way down her cheek. He hoped she wasn’t going to be a moaner. She had been advertised by her father as biddable, strong
and good-natured. The concept of a colleen wailing all over the house was not a happy one.

Silently, he crossed the room and turned off the gaslight. Bed was the best place for a man as exhausted and confused as he was. He checked that all was well in the shop, made sure that every
bolt was fixed. Muth would be asleep by now. A young woman from Wilbraham Street had been instructed to feed and settle the old lady.

Bridie opened her eyes and listened while the man climbed his stairs. She had felt his scrutiny. A proper wife would have followed him to the upper storey, would have been glad to spend the
night next to her husband. But Bridie was not a proper wife. Two horses had entered the bargaining arena. Mr Bell had required a great deal of persuasion, because he hadn’t really wanted to
remarry.

She struggled to her feet, dragged the coat about chilled shoulders. Tomorrow, her new life must begin. But for the rest of this night, she must remain in limbo.

Cathy woke, discovered an elbow in her face. Where was she? Ah yes, they had come on a boat to Liverpool, everyone except Granda had felt sick, then Mammy had been married last
night. The man Mammy had married was very, very old, because a lot of his hair had gone. It was all very frightening. It would have been so much nicer if they could have stayed at home. Cathy
missed her own bed, her dog, her chicken and all the horses. Even living with Granda would have been better than Liverpool, though she had little love for her mother’s father. But she must
try to be a big girl, because Mammy had all to do for Shauna, who was not thriving.

Although a pall of darkness hung in the air, Cathy sensed that this was morning. She kicked out at the other person, who was extremely knobbly and sharp. ‘Take your arm away,
please,’ she implored.

Tildy rolled to one side, hit the floor with a none too quiet bump. ‘Jesus,’ she muttered angrily. ‘You’re worse than our Nicky, you are. No need to throw me across the
bloody room. After I looked after you, too.’

Cathy sat up. ‘What are you doing here? And you shouldn’t be blaspheming. You shouldn’t say Jesus except when you’re praying, and you should bow your head when you say
it.’

‘I’ll say what I bloody want,’ replied Tildy smartly. ‘You’ve hurt me.’

‘Is this your bed?’

‘No, it’s yours. But even if it is your bed, you shouldn’t be kicking me out of it. I stayed with you, didn’t I? Mr Anthony Bell told me to look after you and your sister
– remember?’

Cathy remembered some of it. Mammy had gone to sleep in a corner. The pigeons had been asleep, too. There had been loads of food called spiceballs and ribs, and she had eaten two slices of
something described as bunloaf. A man called Anthony had carried Cathy through the streets. ‘Did you carry my sister Shauna here?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I got in bed with her at first, but she’s a wriggler. So I climbed in with you.’ She shivered. There had been a fire in the corner of the bedroom, but that had gone out
hours earlier. ‘Let’s get dressed,’ she suggested. ‘And I’ll show you round Mr Bell’s shop. Our Charlie works here, you know. He’s me brother and
he’s a clever lad. He looks a bit funny, but he’s all right. Then our Nicky – that’s Monica – runs a stall on Paddy’s Market. She sells the stuff what gets left
over downstairs – stuff what’s not worth much. Me and our Cozzer help out after school, like, if she’s busy.’

Cathy struggled into her clothes. She had often heard people saying that Galway was on the chilly side of Ireland, but this place was surely the coldest in the world. ‘I don’t like
Liverpool,’ she grumbled.

‘That’s all right,’ answered Tildy. ‘Liverpool might not like you. Me mam’s always saying that. They say funny things, don’t they?’

On that score, Cathy was forced to agree. She nodded swiftly, then rubbed her numbed fingers together.

They crept out onto the dark landing. Tildy, who seemed accustomed to the place, took a box of matches from a small table and lit a gas lamp. ‘There’s the new electric
downstairs,’ she informed her companion. Tildy pointed out the doors on the opposite wall. ‘Old Mrs Bell’s in there,’ she whispered. ‘You have to go through her room
for a bath. There’s a real bath with taps. I stop with old Mrs Bell sometimes when Mr Bell goes off fishing.’ She sniffed. ‘Me mam says fishermen are the most boring people in the
whole world. He is a bit boring.’

Cathy, who was trying hard not to be even more scared, spoke up. ‘Your mammy says a lot of things.’

‘Well, she’s always right. Me dad says she’s always right.’

‘My mammy’s clever too.’

‘Good,’ beamed Tildy. ‘They’ll be fit for one another, then.’ She pointed out Mr Bell’s room, which was next to his mother’s, then gave her attention to
another pair of doors alongside the room in which Shauna still slept. ‘Used to be two houses. That’s why there’s a lot of rooms. Me mam says Mr Bell’s minted. Anyway,
that’s a storeroom and that’s another storeroom.’

‘What’s minted?’ asked Cathy.

‘Got a lot of money. No rent book. He bought this place outright. He’s got millions of stuff, millions and millions. There’s these bedrooms packed to the ceiling, things in the
roof,’ she pointed to a trapdoor above her head, ‘a storeroom in the back yard, one next to the kitchen and another under the stairs. Some people pawn things, and some people sell them
to Mr Bell.’

‘What’s pawn?’

Tildy sighed in the face of such stupidity. ‘On a Monday when there’s no money, you take stuff to the pawnshop – clothes and boots and wedding rings. Then, on a Friday when you
get paid, you redeem the things. Don’t ask me what redeem is – it’s a word for getting your clothes back.’

Cathy pondered for a moment. This girl was very, very quick-mouthed. It might be best not to mention that the nuns at home talked about redeeming souls by the grace of the Holy Ghost. It was all
very bewildering, but she did not wish to appear stupid, so she bit back a comment about the pledging of an individual’s inner spirit.

They creaked their way downstairs and into the shop. Tildy had been right – the shop did have electric light. Cathy wondered briefly about this miracle, spent a few seconds clicking the
power on and off. Then, finding herself in an Aladdin’s cave, she followed Tildy round Sam Bell’s kingdom. There were bicycles and bicycle lamps that worked when the pedals turned.
There was a wigwam, a box of lead soldiers, a set of drums and a box of football rattles.

‘This is the music department,’ Tildy pointed to a dusty corner. ‘That’s a cornet, trumpet, mandolin, guitar, zither.’ She stabbed a bitten, black-rimmed fingernail
at the exhibits. ‘He’d have pianos, only they won’t come through the door. He had bagpipes once and our Cozzer borrowed them. Sounded like a load of cats getting
tortured.’

Cathy wandered about looking at rugs, tin baths, bedsteads, chamber pots, butter dishes, hair clippers, gramophones, stock pots and fish kettles. At the front of the shop there was a huge window
filled with all kinds of booty from sewing machines to cricket bats.

Tildy joined Cathy at the window. ‘That’s Scotland Road out there.’ There was a kind of pride in her tone. ‘The other window on the side looks out at Penrhyn Street. He
keeps smaller things on show there, and new buckets and all that. The stuff with tickets stuck on,’ she swept a hand around the shelf-filled walls, ‘they’re all pledges and
they’re kept away from the rest. Nobody can buy them while there’s a ticket stuck on. But when your ticket runs out, he can sell your pledge.’

Cathy nodded thoughtfully. ‘If you have no money when the Friday comes.’

Tildy grinned. At last, her attempt to educate Cathy seemed to be paying off. ‘The dockers’ll be walking past in a minute. They work on the ships, loading and unloading. Me
dad’s a docker. It’s Friday, so this shop’ll be busy tonight when people start picking their pledges up. They’ll want their best suits and shoes for mass on Sunday. Mr
Mellor’s teeth’ll be under the counter somewhere. He only has teeth at weekends.’

Cathy’s stomach rolled cavernously as she thought about the poor, toothless Mr Mellor. ‘I’m starving,’ she decided. ‘The boat made me feel so sick, I thought
I’d never be hungry again. But I am.’ As if underlining her words, Cathy’s stomach rolled again magnificently.

Tildy knew all about hunger, though she had seldom appreciated it first hand. ‘Come round to ours,’ she said. ‘Me mam’ll have the porridge ready.’

The younger girl hesitated. ‘What about Mammy? She won’t know where I’ve gone.’

‘Don’t be worrying. Your mam’ll still be in bed.’

‘Where? There was no bed for her in our room.’ At Granda’s, Mammy had shared a room with her daughters.

‘With Mr Bell, of course. Married people stay in the same room. Did you not know that?’

Cathy shrugged, blushed, hated her own ignorance. ‘I know, I know. I’d just forgotten, that’s all.’

‘Never mind.’ Tildy was the eternal optimist. ‘You’ll get used to it, girl. Come on, let’s go for some breakfast.’

Bridie was beside herself. During the night, she had made her way upstairs, had managed to get about by lighting her path with a candle. The girls and Tildy Costigan had been
fast asleep, so she had returned to the comfortless sofa to rest her travel-wearied bones. And now, at seven o’clock in the morning, one of her daughters seemed to have disappeared into thin
air.

Shauna moaned in her mother’s arms. ‘Want Cathy. Where she gone?’

Bridie tutted, threw open a door, peered into a room filled with bulky shapes. The next bedroom was the same – piled high with junk, no sign of occupation. ‘Are you hiding in
there?’ she asked fruitlessly. Then, in a room opposite the one assigned to Cathy and Shauna, Bridie finally found humanity of a kind. ‘Who’s there?’ croaked a rusty
voice.

Bridie hesitated, placed Shauna on her feet and advanced, the candle held before her like a very frail defence. ‘I’m Bridie,’ she said. ‘And Cathy’s gone missing,
so I’m—’