The Bells of Scotland Road (20 page)

Minnie nodded mutely.

‘I’ll kill her,’ declared Diddy.

The atmosphere relaxed immediately. Women left their washing to care for itself while they gathered in a solid knot of support round their old friend. ‘We were frightened of telling
you,’ said Minnie Houghton. ‘With him being so much older than her. I mean, she hangs about with a few of the lads, like, but this one’s a schoolmaster, isn’t he? Oh, I hope
there’s nothing in it.’

Diddy’s eyebrows raised themselves. Anthony Bell was a teacher, all right, but she reckoned their Maureen could fill in a few gaps in his education when it came to the sins of the flesh,
especially those parts of the flesh that should remain hidden. ‘I’ve tried to keep her busy,’ she informed the multitude. ‘Only you can’t be on top of them all the
time, can you? I mean, she does three or four hours a day at Dolly Hanson’s, then there’s school. But I can’t follow her around when I’ve four others. Jesus, what next?
Thank God Anthony Bell’s got more sense than most. He’s one of the few what doesn’t keep his brains in his trousers.’

Sheila Turner decided to throw her hat into the ring. ‘I know Maureen’s a worry, queen,’ she said. ‘Same with my Dorothy. Up the spout at sixteen and no sign of a wedding
ring. You don’t know where to put your face. Shamed to death, I was. It never happened in our day.’

Those whose marriages had been hasty made no reply, but women who had been virgin brides or simply lucky nodded and made sympathetic noises.

Diddy leaned against a sink big enough to bathe a whole family. ‘Right. Who’s seen her and what’s going on? Let’s get at a few facts before I brain her.’

The fractured tale was put together until Diddy had a fair idea of the completed jigsaw. ‘So she’s going in there when she’s supposed to be out with her friends? When she says
she’s visiting, he’s the one she’s calling on?’

A chorus of yeses formed the reply.

‘He’s too nice,’ pronounced Diddy. ‘He’d never say boo to a goose, and that’s the truth. Only he’d be better locking his door. I mean, she’s not a
bad girl, our Maureen, but with her looks she’s older than her years. I’ll have a word. Thanks, girls. But next time, come out with it. I can’t be the talk of the bagwash.
I’d be grey before my time.’

They went about their business, steeping, scrubbing, bleaching, rinsing. While washing hung in the heated drying frames, they appointed guards, did their shopping in turn. Diddy Costigan folded
her sheets, passed the time of day with her comrades. Then she went home to ‘kill’ their Maureen.

Michael Brennan had been a parish priest for almost twenty years, the last five of which he had served at the church of St Aloysius Gonzaga. During his ministry, he had come
across all kinds of people, but he had never encountered anyone quite like the young Father Liam Bell. He could not fathom the man at all, could not place a finger on what it was that singled out
this person. There seemed to be no humour in him, no ability to laugh at or with others. Liam took life far too seriously altogether, would certainly not laugh at himself, would never allow others
to find him amusing.

Liam was perched on the edge of a brown leather sofa, his hands clasped as if in prayer. ‘Have you made up your mind, Father Brennan?’

The older man took a sip of tea, then turned his chair so that he could study the man who wanted to attach himself on a semi-permanent basis to the parish. This priest had been here before, had
brought trouble with him. ‘What did the bishop have to say on the subject?’ he asked.

‘He says I know the area well, which is true, as I was born on Scotland Road. But the final decision is yours. I can assure you that I work hard and take my calling seriously.’

Father Brennan stood up and walked to the window. This was a busy parish, packed to bursting with large families whose problems were manifold. Poverty lurked on every corner, particularly in the
courts where people endured conditions that were almost beyond belief. It was 1931, yet folk hereabouts shared space with all kinds of vermin, sometimes without the facilities to keep their own
bodies properly clean and safe from infection.

Father Brennan was tired. For six months, he had been alone. He said at least two masses a day, heard confessions, took communion to the sick, held confirmation classes, visited the school twice
a week, baptized the newborn, performed benediction services, comforted the dying. Help was needed. No man could keep up the pace, not on his own. And yet . . . He turned and looked at Liam.
‘Did you make peace with your brother?’

‘I tried.’

Michael Brennan remembered the fight. Liam had been newly ordained, had been travelling round Liverpool to gain experience of parish work. Just a few weeks into his own ministry at St
Aloysius’s church, Father Brennan had found the quarrelling twins, had separated them. He had not expected Liam to return here, was slightly bewildered by the bishop’s suggestion. Yet
he did not want to spoil a new priest’s career by advising the diocese of a family dispute that had taken place years earlier. ‘You should raise your hand to no man, Liam.’

‘It was self-defence.’

Michael Brennan nodded. ‘Anthony works in our school. How would it be if I sent you in to take a class?’

‘Civilized enough, I should think,’ Liam replied smartly. ‘We are both professional men. There will be no further trouble.’

The parish priest wished with all his heart that the bishop had made a clean-cut decision. ‘Liam, I can’t say I don’t need your help, because that would be a lie. These are
troubled times. Since the police strike, when our parishioners were accused of looting, rumour has it that the Home Office has spoken about clearing Scotland Road. The houses are foul and the
police have to walk about in threes. I believe we shall witness the break up of the Scotland Road community.’

Liam nodded just once. ‘When the Liverpool police came out on strike, the people round here took advantage. They signed their own death warrant in 1919.’

Michael Brennan took a deep breath. Judgemental – that was the word for Liam Bell. ‘Liam, if you had a wife and children and they were starving, what would you do?’

‘I would not steal.’

‘Then what would you do?’

The younger man shrugged. ‘I’d get work.’

‘And if there was no work?’

‘I would pray.’

Father Brennan sat down again. ‘Prayers are all very well, but a baby screaming with hunger can drive a man to despair. Families must eat, Liam. I don’t condone thievery, but
humankind can be pushed to extraordinary lengths by poverty. The parishioners here require some compassion, some hope. I can’t condemn them to hell for feeding their offspring and keeping
themselves warm, clothed and sheltered. We must not set ourselves on pedestals. We, too, are human.’

‘The commandments are the commandments,’ said Liam.

‘Love thy neighbour as thyself,’ replied Father Brennan. ‘That instruction implies forgiveness and tolerance. Jesus said, “And the greatest of these is charity.” To
work here, you will need to relax your attitude. There are crimes far worse than stealing to sustain life. We are not talking about murder here.’

‘I understand.’

Michael Brennan noticed a slight tic at the corner of the visitor’s mouth. He did not like Liam Bell. Because he did not like him, he knew that he must give him a chance. After all,
wasn’t that what he had just been preaching? ‘I shall speak to the bishop,’ he said. ‘I think a temporary stay here might help you. After all, when you get your own parish,
you may find yourself in a situation not dissimilar to this one. However, if there is any problem between you and Anthony, I shall ask for you to be moved.’

Liam inclined his head. ‘Very well, Father Brennan.’

When Liam Bell had left, Michael opened a bottle of whisky and poured himself a hefty measure. A strange sensation paid a brief visit to his spine, a chill that sent a message the length of his
body and into his brain. There was something very wrong with Liam. He was too correct, too rigid, too decided.

The fire flickered and spat while the cleric gazed into its flames. He emptied the glass, poured in another drop. Sam Bell’s son had come through the seminary with flying colours. He had
gained distinctions in all subjects and at all levels, would soon be on his way to his own living and his own congregation. Too perfect, thought Michael Brennan. Too perfect, too sure and too . . .
cold to be a priest. But it took all sorts to make a world. He finished his drink and went up for a siesta. There were plenty of people on the sick list, so he grabbed his rest while he could.

Big Diddy Costigan needed no visa to enter a house in the Scotland Road area. She had laid out the dead, had nursed the sick, had even delivered twins during an interval at the
Rotunda Theatre. To lock a door against Diddy would have been like struggling to hold back the tides or the sunset. The woman was a valuable ally and a fearsome foe, so she went freely in and out
of homes, shops, churches and places of entertainment.

Without much more than a tap of the knuckles, Diddy entered Anthony Bell’s house. She found him seated by the fire with a pile of books and with Maureen gazing at him from the opposite
armchair. ‘Out, lady,’ commanded the matron. ‘Get yourself home and I’ll talk to you later.’

Maureen’s jaw dropped. ‘You what, Mam?’

‘I said out. And don’t come back in here, neither.’

Maureen stood up and smoothed her skirt. ‘I’m only looking after him.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with him now,’ said Diddy. ‘In fact, if we were all as healthy as him, we’d be in the pink.’ She stood her ground while Maureen left in
a temper and surrounded by a pungent cloud of Evening in Paris.

Anthony grinned ruefully. ‘I was wondering when you would notice,’ he said. ‘But she was safer with me than on the streets. At least we knew where she was.’

Diddy folded her arms. ‘You knew, but I didn’t. I’ll have you know I’ve been the talk of the bagwash,’ she told him. ‘The air was thick with it when I got
there. They’ll need no starch in their collars today – the bloody shirts’ll stand up by themselves. What’s been going on?’

‘Nothing. Maureen just keeps coming in and . . . talking to me. She’s older than her years. She just wants a bit of attention, that’s all. But I knew you’d be worried
about her spending so much time with a crusty old bachelor. At the same time, I didn’t want to be carrying tales to you and Billy.’

He was a handsome man. Diddy tried to work out how completely identical twins could possibly be so different from each other. Liam and Anthony had dark brown hair that just missed being jet
black, brown eyes, straight noses and square chins. They had both grown to approximately six feet in height, were well-made without being weighty, and they even shared some mannerisms, like the way
they walked and held their heads.

‘Diddy,’ he said. ‘I—’

‘Hush, I’m thinking. Has she said anything to you? Our Maureen, I mean. Because I’m telling you now, she’s got big plans and you’re on the agenda at the
moment.’

Anthony sighed. Maureen was only thirteen, so her mother had every right to know about her behaviour. Yet his instinct told him not to betray the young girl. Maureen had tried to hold his hand,
had said how much she liked his eyes, had gone on about what a good teacher he was. ‘She just kept making gallons of tea,’ he replied. ‘I’m thinking of changing my name to
Horniman, because I’m swimming in the stuff.’

Diddy tapped the floor with the toe of a shoe. ‘She’s told Minnie Houghton’s girl that you’re going to marry her when she’s sixteen. Marry our Maureen, that is, not
Josie Houghton.’ Diddy sniffed. ‘I doubt anybody’ll marry Josie, spiteful little cow. Anyway, you and our Maureen are having four bridesmaids, a papal blessing and a do afterwards
at Fairy Mary’s. All the dancing class will be there and she wants a three-tier cake.’ Diddy’s mouth twitched. ‘They’d better hurry up and build us a cathedral,
because St Aloysius’s won’t be good enough for you and our Maureen, will it?’

Anthony, too, was fighting his laughter.

‘I don’t know what to do with her,’ complained Diddy, her tone suddenly serious. ‘She’s getting out of hand.’

‘Exactly what Bridie says about Cathy.’

Diddy nodded her agreement. ‘Yes, but Cathy can’t get herself in the family way yet, can she? Our Maureen’ll have me in my grave, I’m telling you.’

Anthony wondered what to say. He had no feelings for Maureen – no feelings for anyone except . . . No, he was not in love with his father’s wife. It was probably lust and a yen for
the unobtainable. ‘Take it slowly, Diddy,’ he said. ‘Don’t go jumping down her throat and turning her away from you. She’s neither child nor woman. It’s a very
difficult age.’

‘Difficult? Difficult? She’s always been the same, Anthony. I’ll swear she had an eye for the men when she was still in the pram. What if she gets herself in trouble?
She’ll be no good as a singer and dancer with an eight-month belly on her.’

He understood only too well. Girls left school, married young in order to break free from their crowded homes, then went on to create a crowd of their own. It was a self-perpetuating problem, a
downward spiral into which young people continued to jump before they were ready. ‘Make sure she carries on attending the dance school,’ he advised. ‘At least you’ll know
where she is two evenings a week. And she is talented, you know.’

Diddy lowered her bulk into the chair Maureen had vacated. ‘Sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing it all wrong.’ It was funny, she thought, how she could open her heart to this man.
He was educated – a teacher – and he had no experience of rearing a family of his own, yet he had no side to him. Going to college hadn’t spoiled Anthony Bell. Perhaps losing
Valerie had aged him, had made him more accessible than most.

‘In what way?’ he asked.

The visitor leaned back and rested her head. Washing for seven people took its toll sometimes. ‘Well, the way I let them . . . find stuff for the Nolans. And our Jimmy running barefoot
round the docks begging for work, and our Nicky selling stuff on Paddy’s for Bell’s and other junk shops. They’re old, Anthony. They’re only young, but they’re
old.’