The Bells of Scotland Road (34 page)

A couple of Mary Ellens approached him, their baskets empty after a long day’s toil. They swayed when they walked, as if still balancing the panniers of fruit on their heads. Each wore a
long black skirt with loose pleats, and a dark shawl around her shoulders. ‘Hello, Father,’ they chorused. ‘How’s business?’

’Fair to middling,’ he replied, as always. ‘How’s yours?’

‘Picking up,’ laughed the nearest. ‘Picking up all we’ve dropped before the kids pinch it.’ They sallied onward, their pace unhurried, boots slapping the pavement
rhythmically.

He crossed Scotland Road, saw a fight going on outside the Prince of Wales, stood with his arms folded until the warriors separated, shame on their faces because their priest had seen them
brawling.

In the Throstle’s Nest, he ordered a pint of ale and sat on a stool. Where was the man? And for how much longer could he, Father Michael Brennan, PP, follow his second in command around
the streets? There were other matters waiting for attention, like sick people to visit and sermons to write.

Molly Barnes plonked herself next to him. Molly was a lovable woman of easy virtue whose looks had faded. So she was off the streets now and running a home for girls who worked the city centre
and the dock road. ‘I’ve come to thank you,’ she said, her face broadened by a smile. ‘For lending us your Father Bell.’

Michael took another sip of beer. Molly was not the best company to keep, because she paid little attention to personal hygiene. Her idea of social acceptability was to spray herself liberally
with cheap perfume. This did not disguise the scent of unwashed flesh; it merely added to the unsavoury bouquet of aromas that battled with each other for dominance as they rose from her clothing.
She had mentioned Liam. He would take his time, get what information he could from this lady. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Molly downed her gin and stared into the empty glass. ‘Father Bell. He’s working at the Welcome Home.’ She was very proud of her establishment. It provided a safe haven for
those who wanted a rest from the weariness that accompanied prostitution. The little nest had been lent to her by a charitable organization. ‘The committee’s very pleased with
me,’ she boasted. ‘I’ve got two married off and four who’ve gone back to their mothers.’

Michael placed his glass on the counter, tried to appear nonchalant. ‘How long has Father Bell been involved?’ he asked. ‘I seem to have forgotten.’

‘Oh, just a couple of weeks. He prays with us after tea when he can, when he’s got time, like.’

He prays, thought Michael. Afterwards, he prays over them. The priest suppressed a shudder. ‘Does he help in any other way?’

Molly pouted while she thought. Powder had caked and settled into the network of fine lines around her eyes and mouth. The lips were brightly painted, looked as if they had been in contact with
the blood of some recently killed animal. ‘Well, he talks to the girls, advises them on how to try and get a proper job. Sometimes, he brings bits of fruit and cake. I mean, he’s a
sobersides, but he does his best.’

Michael bought another gin for Molly, finished his pint, then left the pub. Liam Bell was working with prostitutes. He heard Anthony’s voice, went through all that Father Bell’s twin
had said. According to Anthony, Liam had associated with street women before, though he had hardly helped them. Dear God, what could a very ordinary Irish priest do about this mess? Should he go to
the bishop? What could he tell the primate of Liverpool? That there was a possibility that Liam Bell had the makings of a mass murderer? Anthony could have been wrong, for goodness sake.

He went back to the presbytery and sat in the living room until the daylight faded completely. Tonight, he did not want to see Liam. He climbed the stairs, undressed, donned his pyjamas and lay
on the bed. The more he pondered, the further from an answer he seemed to travel. He would sleep on it. He would sleep on it for the third night in a row.

Soon, Maureen and Diddy would return. If . . . if Liam had attacked Maureen, would the child recognize him? And would Liam finish the job in case she did remember him? Or had Liam been innocent
in the first place?

He heard sounds from downstairs, knew that his right-hand man had returned from his evening of charitable work among the women in the Welcome Home. With a heavy heart, Michael got up, collected
his rosary from a side table and knelt at his small prie-dieu. He looked up at the Virgin Mary, asked her to intercede on his behalf. ‘This is too much for me,’ he told her.
‘Please stop him – if it is him. And if it isn’t him – stop whoever it really is.’ He said a decade for Maureen, another for Liam, then one for himself.

The stairs creaked. Father Brennan was not a fanciful man, but it occurred to him that he might be sharing a house with an ogre. He swallowed his own fear, said his last Glory Be, then climbed
into bed. At times like this, it was better not to think.

Through the wall that divided the two front bedrooms, he could hear the young priest moving about. Tomorrow, he would ask about the Welcome Home business, would try to discover Liam’s
motives. Fat chance of that, he pondered as he drifted towards sleep. An innocent man would not react to questioning. And a guilty man would not react, either.

It was another way of life, Bridie thought as she took a sip of water from a crystal glass. Dinner was served in the evening at Cherry Hinton. The midday meal was called lunch,
then afternoon tea consisted of thin sandwiches, small cakes and tea from a china pot. Mrs Cornwell did the cooking, while a woman from the village cleaned the house. Occasionally, the
woman’s daughter helped with housework, too, but Edith Spencer preferred to preside and serve at her own table.

Edith was a wise woman. Although she was proud of home and husband, she had chosen not to forget her beginnings. She appreciated her staff, but she liked to feel that she was running the
household. After the main meal, dishes were usually left for the cleaning staff to clear away and wash, though the mistress of Cherry Hinton sometimes helped and hindered her employees in the
kitchen.

The tattered dog known as Noel was allowed to wander the house as freely as he wished. With Edith and Richard, there were few rules, so every guest felt important and welcome – even
Cathy’s disgraceful mongrel was treated with respect. This was a valuable house and a happy home. The Spencers had found that elusive happy medium between house-pride and sociability.

Cathy and Shauna’s meal had been served earlier, and the two little girls were in bed. Around the oval table in the dining room sat Diddy, Maureen, Edith, Richard, Bridie and Anthony.
After soup, there was roast lamb with homegrown baby potatoes, fresh peas and carrots. On the sideboard lingered Milly Cornwell’s speciality – a huge apple and cinnamon tart with a jug
of custard sauce.

Bridie, who had been placed opposite Anthony, kept her eyes on her plate. Being in the same village was hard enough; eating a meal with him was torture. Even with her eyelids lowered, she could
see him, as if the image had imprinted itself permanently on her brain. Another reason for not looking at him was the devilment in his eyes – he was quite capable of making Bridie giggle at
the most unfortunate times.

‘Bridie?’

She forced herself to answer him. ‘Yes?’

‘More potatoes?’ he asked.

She shook her head. He had made the word ‘potatoes’ sound like forbidden fruit in some biblical garden where snakes played in the trees. People would begin to notice, she thought.
Her cheeks were warm and she was having difficulty swallowing food. Any minute, he would crack a joke about people who couldn’t stay on a horse.

‘Your bump’s gone down nicely,’ he told her.

Ah yes, here came the teasing. She attempted no reply.

‘That was quite a tumble,’ he continued.

Bridie raised her head and looked straight at him. ‘Did you ever notice that it’s always the people who can’t do something who criticize others for doing that same thing and
making a small mistake?’

He placed his knife and fork on the plate. ‘Somewhere in what you say there must be logic,’ he mused.

Bridie held his gaze levelly for a second, then carried on eating. He was a child, she told herself. All men were children, especially those who made eyes at women across tables.

Diddy broke the spell. ‘That’s the best bit of meat I’ve tasted in ages,’ she told the hostess. Diddy loved being here. If Maureen could just be all right, this would
turn into a holiday to remember. Her heart missed a beat, because Maureen might be staying on at Cherry Hinton. Still, this was a decent place, wasn’t it? The Spencers were rich, but they had
few airs and graces. If you used the wrong knife, nobody was bothered. ‘Maureen’s enjoying it – aren’t you, love?’ At least the girl was eating now.

Maureen smiled at Richard. He had been wonderful with her. He had sat with her for hours explaining why she felt sad, what she could do to make herself better, how she should take a bit of
exercise every day. He had asked no questions, yet he seemed to have cleared her mind. She had started going for walks, and the scar on her face had begun to fade. Dr Spencer was a good man.

Diddy burped politely behind a snow-white napkin, made herself sit still while Edith collected plates and put them on the sideboard. Diddy had been allowed to sew, but was forbidden to do any
other chores. She was growing fond of Edith Spencer, had ceased to feel awkward in her company. Edith was just an ordinary woman who had married well and enjoyed sharing her good fortune.
‘I’ll get used to this, you know,’ Diddy chided playfully. ‘When I get back, my Billy’ll have to wait on me hand and foot. And Sam’ll have to do the same for
Bridie. Won’t he? Bridie? Have you dropped off to sleep in the middle of your dinner?’

Bridie jumped. ‘Were you talking to me?’

‘I was,’ said Diddy. ‘You’ve a head full of straw these days. It’s all horses, isn’t it?’ She caught Anthony staring at Bridie. Oh, surely not? Diddy
sat back thoughtfully. She recalled how Bridie had cared for Anthony during his illness, remembered the expression in the young man’s eyes when he had looked up at his nurse. Could these two
be falling in love?

Maureen was quite comfortable in Anthony’s company. The schoolgirl crush had died, had been throttled to death by a cruel stranger. Anthony was nice to her, and that was an end to it. He
didn’t interrogate, didn’t try to baby her. Anthony was just another decent man like Richard Spencer.

Diddy broke into her portion of tart. That wasn’t the heat of a summer evening staining Bridie Bell’s cheeks, as spring was still in the air. No, it was something else altogether.
She hoped it hadn’t happened, hoped it would never happen. Life in the Bell household was complicated already. Yet Diddy’s heart, already made heavy by her daughter’s tragedy, was
saddened again, because Anthony and Bridie seemed so right for each other. Had the circumstances been different, they might have made an ideal couple.

Richard spoke to Diddy. ‘Well, we’re all friends here, so I’ll just get it said. We have already mentioned to Diddy that Edith and I would like Maureen to stay on for a while.
The country air is doing her good, and we should perhaps consider Maureen’s inner well-being. She is safe here.’

Diddy suffocated the pain she felt whenever she considered losing one of her children into that gaping maw called life. She glanced at her daughter. ‘What do you think, love?’

Maureen lifted her head. ‘I want to stay.’

The big woman sighed. It had to start some time, she supposed. Charlie would always be at home, bless him, but the others would start leaving one by one. Monica was courting Graham Pile, now
Maureen was thinking of staying on here. Still, Jimmy and Tildy-Anne could be in Dryden Street for a few years yet. ‘All right, Maureen.’ She turned her attention to Richard Spencer,
apportioned him a watery smile. ‘Give her something to do, though.’ Maureen had been destined for the stage. Diddy remembered pawning many house-hold items repeatedly just to keep up
the dancing lessons. Now, all that seemed to have come to nothing.

Dr Spencer nodded reassuringly at Diddy. ‘Maureen is going to help Mrs Cornwell. Mrs Openshaw from the village is getting old, so your daughter can step into her shoes – once Maureen
feels a little better, that is.’

‘I am better,’ declared Maureen. She tossed the black curls. ‘He’s not going to win,’ she went on, her voice lower. ‘What he did to me was awful, but I
can’t let it finish my life.’

Bridie watched Anthony’s facial muscles tightening. She hated his pain, almost wished that he would simply carry on with his teasing and joking.

‘The dancing lessons can be resumed eventually,’ said Edith. She reached along the table and patted Diddy’s hand. ‘She will gain strength, my dear. There’s the
physical pain and the mental anguish. The attacker took control of Maureen’s life, deprived her of her own decision making ability for a while. Richard has explained all this to Maureen.
That’s what takes time to heal, you see. Physical hurt is easier to mend.’

Maureen felt the blood rising to her face. ‘I just want to thank everybody for being so good to me,’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without all of you.
Even the little girls helped by being there and chattering like they do.’

Bridie smiled encouragingly. Maureen was a different person. She remembered the Maureen she had met after the wedding, that shallow and beautiful girl who had seen the world as her own personal
playground. This had been a terrible way to grow up, though. She noted that Anthony was still looking grim, because he was certain that his brother had been the cause of Maureen’s misery.

When the pudding dishes were empty and after everyone had groaned at the thought of cheese, coffee was served in the drawing room by Mrs Cornwell. She bumbled about on sore feet, smiled benignly
upon ‘her’ family. She had taken to Maureen, was glad that the young woman might be moving in. Cherry Hinton was a happy house. The Spencers were good employers, careful to ensure the
welfare of their staff, and Maureen deserved a bit of luck.