The Bells of Scotland Road (12 page)

A woman alighted. ‘Boy, you will be killed,’ she announced.

Cozzer eyed the charitable person. ‘Have you done the Nolans?’ he asked. ‘Dryden Street, twelve children.’

She nodded. ‘We left the food with Mrs Costigan.’

‘Just as well,’ commented Cozzer. ‘Else Mr Nolan would have sold it for beer.’ He stepped aside and allowed the Goodfellows to continue their gargantuan task of feeding
the destitute.

‘We’d best go home,’ said Tildy. She jerked a thumb at Cathy. ‘Her ma’ll be wondering where she is again. And we might have to go down Limekiln to the
bakery.’

Cozzer shook his head. ‘Me dad’s picking our bird up. Let’s go to Paddy’s.’

‘Why is it called Paddy’s?’ asked Cathy. ‘Mammy says it’s St Martin’s Market.’

As they ambled along, Tildy instructed Cathy on the origins of Paddy’s, told her about destitute Irish immigrants who had clothed themselves with stuff bought second-hand at the market.
‘Everybody knows about it,’ pronounced Tildy airily. She prided herself on her standard of education, most of which had been gained by listening to her mother. ‘On ships, they
call the main gangway Scotland Road. Even on the big liners what go all round the world. If you’re lost, a sailor tells you to go up Scotland Road, then bear port or starboard. That means
left or right.’

Paddy’s was crowded. People milled about, some with purchases in mind, others just passing time and waiting for that magic moment when the Scotland Road butchers and fruiterers would be
panicked into auctioning off their stock. Many a Christmas roast would be acquired at the last minute by folk whose purses were slim to the point of emaciation.

Cathy lingered near Nicky Costigan’s stall. Nicky was trying to do business with a man who looked very strange. He was wrapped in several layers of clothing, and was wearing no less than
six hats. Cathy understood the need for all the jackets and woollens, but was defeated by the sight of six precariously balanced bowlers above a brown, sea-weathered face and huge black eyes.

‘What Johnny pay?’ asked Nicky.

Cozzer grabbed Cathy’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘They’re only Johnny Laskies.’ He pointed to a long row of dark-skinned men, one of whom was struggling to
carry what looked like a whole fireplace. ‘Them in the middle of the line has the money,’ he informed Cathy. ‘So’s they never get robbed. They’re no use to us, not for
the Nolans.’

But Cathy was riveted to the exotic sight.

‘His Master’s Voice,’ the seaman told Nicky.

Nicky walked to the front of her stall, winked at her siblings and pointed to a gramophone. ‘His Master’s Voice,’ she said. ‘Two shillings, Johnny.’

Johnny shook his head, miraculously failing to dislodge the heap of hats. ‘Libby’s Milk,’ he replied.

‘This not Libby’s Milk, Johnny,’ said Nicky slowly. ‘This from Bell’s shop. Mr Bell not stick Libby mark on gramophone.’

Cathy’s jaw hung open. How on earth could this man fail to distinguish a tin of milk from a gramophone?

Tildy nudged her female companion. ‘Shut your mouth, you look soft,’ she advised before offering an explanation for this strange scenario. ‘Some stallholders have found labels
on milk tins that look a bit like His Master’s Voice. They cut them out and stick them on gramophones. Johnny’s just being careful. Aren’t you, Johnny?’ she asked the Indian
sailor.

Twin rows of perfect teeth smiled down on Tildy and Cathy. ‘Johnny careful,’ he agreed.

Cathy was finally dragged away by Cozzer and Tildy. ‘Six hats,’ she muttered. ‘And gramophones and bicycles and somebody’s fireplace.’

Tildy nodded sagely. ‘All bought for tuppence and sold for a fortune when they get home. Like me mam says, that ship’ll be low in the water tonight.’

They wandered on, listened to a band playing carols on foo-foos, strange little wind instruments out of which the locals produced improbably beautiful music. Cozzer took a comb and paper and
joined in, made a fair stab at it. ‘He’s getting a foo-foo for Christmas,’ said Tildy. ‘Then he can join a proper band.’

A fight broke out in front of an improvised coconut shy whose owner had used weighted coconuts. Police arrived, missiles flew, and strong language filled the freezing air. Cozzer dragged his
female charges out of Paddy’s and through the narrow jiggers towards home. Then a thought struck him. ‘I’m going to get them a bird,’ he announced.

Cathy, who was still reeling from the adventure on Paddy’s, leaned against somebody’s back gate. The jiggers were awful places, narrow alleys running between back-to-back houses. The
tiny yards were so close that children could climb on the walls and leap across from gate to gate. The rubbish-filled middens stank, even in cold weather, and the droppings of dogs were not easy to
avoid in the darkness.

‘I’m going for a bird for the Nolans,’ repeated Cozzer.

‘Where from?’ asked Tildy scathingly. ‘Top of the Liver building?’

‘Shut up, you,’ ordered Cozzer.

‘I’m older than you.’

‘And I’m a lad,’ snapped Cozzer.

Cathy said nothing. It was hard to judge the time, but it felt late. Mammy would be angry, she felt sure. And this was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, her dog would come. Uncle Sam had promised a dog
for Christmas. ‘I’d better go home,’ she said.

‘Scared?’ asked Cozzer.

‘No.’ Cathy turned up the collar of her coat.

‘She is,’ announced Tildy.

‘I’m not.’

‘Prove it,’ challenged Cozzer.

Cathy was becoming very uncomfortable. She knew about the Costigans trying to help the Nolans, had heard all about their dad’s efforts to take money from Mr Nolan before he could drink it.
Mr and Mrs Costigan turned a blind eye when things appeared magically, things that the Nolans could use. ‘How do I prove it?’ she asked.

Cozzer thought for a moment. ‘You can get Mr Marks out of his shop for me.’

Cathy squirmed.

‘How does she do that?’ Tildy wanted to know.

‘I’m thinking.’

The two girls waited while Cozzer thought. Tildy, who was used to being in trouble, didn’t mind for herself. No matter what happened, no matter what she and Cozzer did for the Nolans, Mam
and Dad would forgive them. But on Cathy’s behalf, Tildy was concerned. ‘Mrs Bell won’t like it,’ she whispered to her brother.

‘She won’t know,’ he answered.

‘She will,’ insisted Tildy. ‘She’s one of them people that know things just by looking at you.’

‘Don’t talk so soft,’ he advised.

Cathy moved from foot to foot, wished the cold would go away, wished the smells would go away, wished Cozzer would go away and stop involving her in all his naughty activities—

‘I’ve got it,’ he declared triumphantly.

‘God help us.’ Tildy sounded just like her mother.

‘Tildy can have an accident,’ proclaimed Cozzer.

‘Thanks,’ said the proposed victim.

‘Just pretend,’ he said. ‘Lie on the floor outside the shop, then Cathy can go in for help and I’ll run through, grab a chicken or something and leg off home.’

‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Tildy. She dug her elbow into Cathy’s side. ‘Don’t start on about blaspheming,’ she reminded her friend. ‘That was praying. If
we’re going on one of our Jimmy’s adventures, we’ll need the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost and every saint that ever drew breath.’

Cathy, too cold to mind about blasphemy, kept her counsel.

‘Come on, then,’ said Cozzer. ‘And you can stop calling me Jimmy,’ he advised his sister. ‘Else I’ll call you Tildy-Anne.’

Cathy followed the two miscreants through the alleyways until they reached Great Homer Street. This was awful. She had to go into a shop and tell lies so that Cozzer could enter the same shop
with a view to stealing. And it was Christmas. Surely sins committed at Christmas were worse than any other sins committed at any other time? It was Jesus’s birthday. ‘It’s
Jesus’s birthday tomorrow,’ she muttered.

Cozzer, whose hearing was acute, pushed Cathy against a shop window. ‘Jesus turned water into wine.’

Cathy sniffed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘And he pinched five loaves and two fishes to feed the poor.’

‘He did not steal,’ insisted Cathy.

Cozzer was adamant. ‘It says nothing in the Bible about Jesus paying for that bread and them fish. He just grabbed the stuff for the poor. And that’s what we’re
doing.’

Defeated by Cozzer’s undoubtedly flawed logic, Cathy followed the Costigans into their life of crime.

Bridie opened the shop door, looked left into Penrhyn Street, right into Scotland Road, saw no sign of her older daughter. This was getting well beyond a joke. Her husband was
out selling gifts while his mother sat in the kitchen waiting for a private word. Bridie turned, closed the door, glanced at Charlie. He was making out a ticket for a customer who was pledging
blankets for the wherewithal to buy a Christmas dinner. This woman’s family would eat, then freeze to death, thought Bridie.

Charlie laboured on, a corner of his tongue peeping from the twisted mouth. While he wrote with one pen, two others followed suit, the trio being joined by a length of wood. This time-saving
invention allowed for the simultaneous production of three copies – one for the customer, one for the records and a third to be stuck to the pawned item. ‘Can you manage?’ Bridie
asked.

Charlie stopped writing, nodded at his boss’s new wife.

Bridie Bell dragged herself back to the kitchen. Shauna was leaning against Sam’s mother’s chair. ‘Sing it again,’ begged the child.

Theresa Bell delivered a reedy rendition of ‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ for the umpteenth time, then sent Shauna to help Charlie. ‘Well,’ she said to Bridie, ‘have
you run out of excuses yet? This meeting’s been adjourned five times.’

Bridie sank onto the sofa. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

Old Theresa sucked her top teeth. ‘Horses,’ she said eventually. ‘All I know about horses is they fetch milk and coal and trouble.’ She sniffed meaningfully.
‘There’s more bookies’ runners round here than fleas. What do you want with horses?’

Bridie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

‘Can you ride?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Tell me all about horses, then.’

The younger woman opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She felt like a child on her first day at school, all awkward limbs and no brain power. This old dear would probably tell her son all
she had heard while skulking on the stairs. And Cathy was still missing, too—

‘Cat got your tongue?’

They had no cat, though a dog had been promised to keep Cathy quiet. ‘The horses are at McKinnell’s stables,’ she managed at last. ‘A mare and a young stallion. He could
be used for stud, because he’s got good papers. They’ve Arab blood, so they’ll make fine runners with the right training.’

Theresa leaned forward. ‘And who’s going to teach them? Were you planning on exercising them, up and down the bloody tram tracks?’

Deflated, Bridie snapped her mouth closed.

‘Good job you know me, then, isn’t it?’ Without pausing for an answer, she continued, ‘Our Edith,’ she said carefully, as if addressing an infant, ‘me
sister’s girl – Sam’s cousin. She might be some use after all. Great big lanky thing with ideas above her station. Married a doctor, she did. Got a lot of land over towards
Bolton. She’ll know somebody who knows somebody. I think they own some stables, if my memory serves me right.’

Completely at a loss, Bridie let the old woman drone on.

‘I’m a Boltonian meself,’ announced Theresa Bell proudly. ‘I found a good man, a Liverpool man, but he died young like all good folk seem to do. It was Cedric – my
husband – who moved us here. A sea captain, he was, very handsome.’ The old face seemed to cloud over. ‘He drowned. Sam was only a lad at the time, and my sister –
Edith’s mam – invited us to go and live with her. Oh aye, I’m not from round here, you know.’

Bridie had noticed the difference. Theresa’s speech was broad and flat, easier to understand than the Liverpool accent. Until today, Mrs Bell Senior hadn’t had much to say for
herself, but now the words flowed like a burst dam.

‘I’m a Lancashire lass,’ grinned Theresa. ‘But when Cedric died, I stayed round here, took his bit of money and opened the shop. It was only a little place then, just
enough to keep me and Sam. Course, our Sam had ideas. Bought two houses and knocked them together.’ She stretched the thin neck and nodded just once. ‘This is my business,’ she
said softly. ‘Not his. I started it. I worked in it year in and year out. I brought the two kiddies up when their mam died, God rest her.’

Bridie waited while the old lady collected her thoughts.

‘She’ll be coming New Year’s Day.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Bridie wondered how Sam’s dead wife would manage to visit in a week’s time.

‘Not Maria. Our Edith. I’ve just told you, haven’t I? I had a sister. She’s dead now. And me sister had a daughter called Edith and they always come at New Year, Edith
and Richard. Nice enough man, usually has his head in the clouds or in a book. Happen they can look after the horses. Oh, there’s some money under a loose floorboard next to my bed. Take it
and welcome.’

Bridie held her breath. Why was Mrs Bell helping her?

‘He’s boring,’ pronounced Theresa.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Sam. Your husband. He’s boring.’ With this damning pronouncement made, Theresa closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.

He was boring, thought Bridie. Every night, he sat in the same place and went through the same ritual. Ten small pieces of paper were always laid out on a wooden tray in front of him. Into these
ten papers Sam Bell measured crumbs of tobacco which he flaked between his palms. When the cigarettes were rolled, he smoked one, then put the other nine in a tobacco tin for the following day.

On Mondays, Sam cut his toenails before going up for a bath. He was proud of his plumbed-in bath. It was in a small cubicle off his mother’s bedroom. On Tuesdays, he had his hair cut at
Razor Sharpe’s. Eddie ‘Razor’ Sharpe trimmed a microscopic amount from the fading tonsure’s edge and gave Sam a proper open-blade shave and a hot towelling.

On Wednesdays Sam Bell did his accounts, then on Thursdays he deposited his takings in the bank at the corner of Dryden Street. He went to confession every Friday night, to the pub on Saturdays,
to mass and benediction every Sunday.