The Bells of Scotland Road (70 page)

The hammer-wielder spoke up. ‘Only doing me job,’ he grumbled.

‘As were Herod and Pontius Pilate,’ she answered smartly. ‘And they won no medals. The schools here have been excellent. They have bred a generation of successful
people.’ She dragged her elder daughter into the frame. ‘See this one of mine? She’s a doctor. She started off here at Father Brennan’s school. My other daughter spent most
of her school years at St Aloysius Gonzaga, and she now runs her own business with other Scotland Road people out in Canada. There is no better grounding anywhere. So they’re destroying
it.’

‘There will be new schools,’ said the BBC man.

‘Not like these,’ replied Cait. ‘Schooling here has been strict and old-fashioned, none of your Maria Montessori learn-if-you-feel-like-it and never mind the spelling. And the
streets have a soul of their own.’ She pushed past her mother and grabbed the arm of a reporter. ‘Write this down,’ she insisted. ‘Those who have gone ahead are not happy.
You can give them all the bathrooms in the world, gold-plated taps and tiled walls. But they’ll still miss their homes.’

The door opened. Billy Costigan stepped into the street. ‘My wife will be just a minute,’ he said.

Reporters gathered round him, threatened to swallow him up. Since his illness, Billy had shrunk in stature, was stooped and tired.

Father Brennan raised his voice. ‘Get away from that man,’ he shouted.

‘Billy! We’re here, Billy!’

Everyone swivelled round to see an army marching up the street. They had come from council estates all over Liverpool to watch Diddy and Billy’s last stand. The news people backed off
hurriedly to save their precious equipment from the advancing troops. Billy mopped his face with a hanky, then turned to watch his wife closing the door.

‘What about your furniture?’ asked Anthony.

‘They can have it and welcome,’ snapped Big Diddy. ‘We might as well have everything new while we’re at it.’ She smiled at her dark-clad daughter. Maureen looked so
pretty in black. ‘You’re quiet, girl.’

Maureen hugged her mother. ‘You’ll be fine.’

‘Will I?’ asked Diddy.

While the crowd jeered and cheered, Diddy’s suitcases were loaded into a waiting car. As she left the street for the last time, Diddy did not look back.

The phone rang. Cait, forced back into the present day, answered. She replied to questions, replaced the receiver, sat with elbows on the desk, chin in her hands. Diddy Costigan had died
suddenly within weeks of leaving the house in which she had been born. Billy, older and frailer than his years, had lasted a further six months.

Cait looked at the images of Edith and Richard Spencer who had left her all their worldly goods. She lived at Cherry Hinton, kept the stables going, drove daily to her work. How good the
Spencers had been, how kind and loving.

Sam stared out of the next frame, watch-chain pulled across his chest, a trilby hiding the threatening baldness. Cait did not remember him in great detail, yet she always smiled when she saw his
picture. It was like greeting an old friend after a long separation. Sam had given her Noel, that grand, mixed-up dog who had lived to be almost fifteen.

She picked up a tiny snap of Grandmuth, the wonderful lady who had died in the Blitz. ‘Get yerself outside of a bowl of porridge every morning, love. It’ll stick ter yer ribs and
keep you well-lined for winter.’ Grandmuth had been full of advice, full of a gentle sort of wickedness.

Last of all, there was Mammy and Anthony. A love such as theirs was a rare specimen. During their marriage, there had been few cross words and buckets of laughter. Cait closed her eyes, saw
Mammy running through the fields with sixty-odd evacuees on her heels. She saw Anthony watching Mammy, as if he would die without the sight of her.

Dr Cait O’Brien sniffed back a drop of moisture. Mammy had died just weeks earlier, and Cait’s grief had been weighted down beneath mounds of work. Tomorrow, she would visit the
graveyard where the lovers shared their final rest. Since Anthony’s death, Mammy had been fading away, had breathed her last while sleeping. ‘I bet you were dreaming of him the night
you died,’ Cait told the photograph. ‘I miss you, Mammy.’

She walked to the window and looked down on the lawn where voluntary patients strolled, played ball games, sat reading or knitting. Another part of Cait’s life was over. The future
promised to be different, though her love of animals and the urge to travel would keep her active, no doubt. Cait had never married, had never found her Anthony. Perhaps living in the shadow of so
blissful a relationship had encouraged her to higher her standards. Mr Right had not appeared. ‘I’m an old maid,’ she told herself aloud. ‘And talking to myself. Perhaps I
should stay on here and book a bed.’

In the centre of the desk stood the clock that was her farewell gift from the staff. It ticked away the seconds of its new owner’s life, chimed when it touched five o’clock.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘One more little job, and I’m out of here.’

Her step was light as she made her way along the corridor. Retirement was going to be an adventure, a test of her ingenuity. Twenty-four hours in each day, and she intended to fill them. There
was her sister in Canada, there were nieces and nephews, places she had longed to see. She intended to ‘do’ America and Canada next year. Then there was Europe, Asia, Africa. She would
see New Zealand, Australia, the five oceans and every sea on earth. Life was just beginning, she reminded herself.

Cait pushed open the door of a single room. ‘Brother Martin?’

He was at his prie-dieu, the hood of his blue-grey habit hanging down his back. The rosary clicked between gnarled fingers, while his lips moved in prayer. ‘A moment, Doctor,’ he
replied. At the grand age of eighty-four, Martin Waring continued to work and pray daily.

Cait turned, nodded and smiled at the nun in the corner. Brother Martin allowed just two visitors – Cait and Sister Margaret Mary. The latter was polishing some fine wood carvings while
she waited for the brother to finish his prayers.

He rose eventually, smiled at Cait. ‘So we are losing you today,’ he said. ‘You will be missed.’ He went to a shelf and picked up a wooden figure. ‘I made this for
you,’ he said. ‘Enjoy it in good health.’

Cait took the gift. It was an owl with its wings widespread as it landed on a branch. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

Martin picked up a knife and carried on working. In all his years as a patient, he had given little trouble. Liam did not visit him any more; Liam had disappeared beneath layers of drugs and
treatments. Brother Martin was allowed tools for five hours each day, and he handed them back in good order each afternoon.

Sister Margaret Mary stood up and placed the finished work on the shelf. She took Cait’s hand in hers. ‘God bless you for all the good work you have done, Cait.’

Cait knew that she was going to cry. ‘Sister, I’ll be in touch with you and with Brother Martin.’

‘You’ll be in our prayers,’ said Margaret Mary.

The two women said their goodbyes to the patient, then went out into the corridor. Cait stroked the smooth wings of an owl which had been carved by a murderer.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ said the nun.

Cait rubbed away the tears with a cuff of her cardigan. In the face of Sister Margaret Mary, the doctor saw all that she had loved and lost. ‘Keep well,’ she said.

The woman who had been raped by Liam Bell, who was Martin Waring’s only visitor, swished her black-clad way towards the hospital exit.

‘They had guts and they had love,’ murmured Cait.

Margaret Mary turned in the doorway. ‘Ta-ra, queen,’ she said, laughter in the words.

‘Ta-ra, Maureen. I’ll be seeing yer!’

THE END

Ruth Hamilton is the bestselling author of twenty-five novels, including
Mulligan’s Yard
,
Dorothy’s War
,
The Judge’s Daughter
,
The
Reading Room
,
Mersey View
and
That Liverpool Girl
. She has become one of the northwest of England’s most popular writers. She was born in Bolton, which is the setting for
many of her novels. She now lives in Liverpool.

Also by Ruth Hamilton

A Whisper to the Living

With Love from Ma Maguire

Nest of Sorrows

Billy London’s Girls

Spinning Jenny

The September Starlings

A Crooked Mile

Paradise Lane

The Dream Sellers

The Corner House

Miss Honoria West

Mulligan’s Yard

Saturday’s Child

Matthew & Son

Chandlers Green

The Bell House

Dorothy’s War

The Judge’s Daughter

The Reading Room

A Parallel Life

Mersey View

Sugar and Spice

That Liverpool Girl

Lights of Liverpool

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For their help, cups of tea and many kindnesses, I thank the following:

Mr Billy Holden of Kirkby

Mr Don Carroll of Bootle

Ms Sue Bose of Lydiate

Mr M. Moran of Bootle

Mrs Elizabeth Bamber of Retford, Nottinghamshire

Mr Charles Rouane of Walton

Mrs Terri Nairn of Runcorn

Mrs Anne Burton of Bootle

Mrs Veronica Coppin of Runcorn

Mrs M. Kirkland of Halewood

Mrs Eillen Airnsworth of West Derby

Mrs Dora McClelland of Kirkby

Mr Terry ‘Mac’ of Croxteth Park

Mr F. J. Till of Freshfield

Mrs Julia Banks of Norris Green

Mr and Mrs George of Runcorn

Mr Billy Furlong of Liverpool 11

Mrs Josie Murray of Huyton

Mr and Mrs Adlam of Croxteth

Mr and Mrs Tom Atherton of Toxteth

Mr and Mrs John Nelson of Melling

Mrs Bella Moran, address unknown, of Liverpool

Mr Terence Baines of Kirkby, whose story ‘Me Poor Mam’ and rentbooks from 1908 to the 1950s (Kennedy and Baines families, Dryden Street) have been in my possession
for twelve months. It was a pleasure and a privilege to read his work and to handle these special documents.

A very special thankyou to Eileen Weir of Crosby, who visited many of the above on my particularly agoraphobic days.

Many thanks to my cousin, Cavan Sexton and his wife, Hazel, of Abbots Ann, Andover, Hampshire. Their very professional knowledge and understanding of horse racing proved
extremely valuable.

I must apologize to T. Walls, owner and trainer, also to F. Lane, jockey. These two people were involved with the actual winner of the 1932 Derby. I beg pardon, too, of April
the Fifth, the grand horse who did all the really hard work.

A
UTHOR’S
N
OTE

Scotland Road is a real place. A few buildings remain, widely spaced like remnants in a lower jaw after brutal dentistry. There are not many houses, yet the pubs were packed on
the afternoons when I visited the road. I wondered where all those people had come from. Do they make a daily pilgrimage back to the old neighbourhood?

Although I have adhered to some street names, the parish of St Aloysius Gonzaga is a figment of my imagination. I decided not to use actual churches as I wished not to offend members of existing
religious communities. St Aloysius was the patron of my house at school, so I chose him as a good man who would not mind if I pinched his name.

After attending mass at St Anthony’s on Scotland Road, I have to say that I have never seen a more beautiful church. Like a miniature cathedral, it is perfectly maintained by a proud
congregation whose friendliness and openness were much appreciated.

As a result of my advertisement in the
Liverpool Echo
, I met many ex-residents of Scotland Road. Eileen Weir (my researcher – thanks, Eileen) and I were privileged to meet a number
of people whose roots were torn up by the clearances. We talked to teachers, tradespeople, men from the Merchant and Royal Navies, soldiers, social workers and many more. All of these had received
their education in the excellent schools around Scotland Road.

These days, we hear and read much about deprivation. Socio-economic factors are cited repeatedly as the guilty parties when people take a wrong turning in life. Scotland Road suffered a poverty
that has been stamped out, thank God. Yet out of that happy squalor emerged successful and law-abiding citizens whose standard of education is superb. Their eyes light up, sometimes with pleasure
and often with tears, when they talk about their beginnings.

I am not a Scouser, though I have lived in and around Liverpool for more than half my life. This, my ninth book, is the first based in the city I have come to love. It has been a pleasure to
meet and correspond with such wonderful, vibrant men and women, to hear about the wash-houses, Scouse Alley, Paddy’s Market, the Scaldy where children swam, the Mary Ellens with their baskets
of fruit, the penny dip, cherry-wobs, molasses taken from a moving cart, Lascars balancing six bowlers on their heads while carrying a fireplace and several wind-up gramophones back to their
ship.

While writing
The Bells
, I have laughed and cried. As a ‘foreigner’, I can only do my best to depict an area in which I never lived. Forgive my mistakes as I try to portray a
way of life in which family was all.