Sam Bell sat in his usual place next to the fire. On the table, slices of roast goose and beef were spread on platters covered in muslin, and the room sparkled with polish. In little more than a month, Bridie had changed the place into a real home. She was a worker, all right. She got on with her chores, helped in the shop, dealt very well with Muth and, best of all, she wasn’t a moaner. But, worst of all, she was intending to return to Ireland in order to protect Cathy from the Costigans’ bad ways. Sam was not a happy man. In spite of his firm resolution, he had developed a soft spot for his young Irish bride.
He lit the first of today’s cigarette allowance, drew the smoke deep into his lungs, then coughed explosively. Christmas Day. Couldn’t he allow himself the odd extra ciggy on this festive occasion? No. Moderation in all things had been Sam’s creed so far, and he was getting too old to alter the ways of a lifetime. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then carried on smoking. He would miss her. She was lovely to look at, pleasant to the customers and, most of all, she was good to her husband.
In a few minutes, he would take a walk to the Holy House. Every man in the Scotland Road area strolled along to a pub on Christmas morning for a pint and a gab with his mates. The excuse given for this ritual was that males were keeping out of the line of fire and ‘from under the wife’s feet’. Many sought to anaesthetize themselves beyond the knowledge that their seasonal fare would be egg and chips, while others drank out of habit, just as they did every other day of the year.
Anthony would be here soon. He was probably out in the streets at this very minute, would be watching for Sam’s exit from the house. Today, Anthony would visit Muth. Muth loved Anthony and Anthony loved Muth. The father of the Bell twins shook his head slowly. If only Anthony would make an effort. Liam was a bit on the sharp side, a sober-sided sort of chap, but he was a chosen man. Anthony had little or no patience with Liam, and Sam stood by his ordained son. A priest in the family was a status symbol, something to brag about. Sometimes, though, Sam missed Anthony. Sometimes, he wondered whether he had backed the wrong horse. No. Liam was a good man and Anthony should mend his ways and treat his twin with the respect a priest commanded.
The pawnbroker tapped away some ash and loose tobacco, tried to remember how life had been before Bridie. This was stupid, he told himself. He’d been a widower for years, yet he had grown accustomed so quickly to the comforts of this second marriage. As, indeed, had Muth. Until Bridie had arrived, Muth had stayed upstairs sulking all the time. As soon as Bridie returned to Ireland, Muth would, no doubt, go back to her life of self-imposed solitude, misery and constant whingeing. Living alone down here with his imprisoned mother upstairs held little appeal. The thought of this household struggling to survive without Bridie was not attractive. Sam had even cut down on his fishing expeditions in order to make a go of this new liaison. Up to now, the world had offered few diversions attractive enough to separate Sam from his hobby.
He took another drag of hand-rolled tobacco, looked at the tree Bridie had decorated so prettily. There were bits of tinsel, some baubles, strands of cotton wool snow, and a pretty crêpe-clad fairy with a silver star-topped wand and feathery wings, teetering uncertainly on the topmost branch. A proper Christmas at last. And she intended to go hell for leather back to Ireland after Christmas just because young Cathy had got herself involved on the fringe of a couple of very lightweight skirmishes.
Bridie entered from the scullery with two pans of peeled veg. She stirred the fire in preparation for her cooking, opened the door of the range oven, assessed the time her potatoes would need to roast.
He cleared his throat. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘Upstairs,’ she replied, ‘playing in their room with their Christmas toys. The fire’s lit, so they’ll be warm enough.’
Sam threw his fag end into the grate. ‘You’re sure I shouldn’t go and get that dog? After all, I did make a promise. She’ll be expecting a dog, you know.’
‘There’ll be no need,’ she said. ‘We have a dog at my father’s house. I don’t want to be taking another across on the boat. The girls and the bags will be more than enough for me to manage without running after a dog.’ She hated the idea of returning to Da. But what was the alternative?
Sam Bell broke every rule in his book by lighting a second cigarette while the first was still curling its way towards death in the coals. He didn’t want to beg and plead, refused to demean himself by crawling to this woman or to any person of either sex, for that matter. Yet he needed her to stay. ‘We’re married,’ he said. ‘We should abide by our marriage vows.’
‘I know that. I also know that my daughter is misbehaving. She’s not used to being locked up inside. In Galway, children can have all the freedom they need without stealing and fainting all over the place while people thieve poultry.’
‘She won’t do it again,’ said Sam. ‘I’m sure she’ll settle down in time. Just give it a chance.’
Bridie turned and faced him fully. ‘I can’t take that risk, Sam.’
He nodded pensively for a moment. ‘And you hate living round here, don’t you?’
Her answer astounded both of them. ‘No, I don’t think so. The place isn’t great, what with all those terrible courts and people living so crowded and so poor.’ She lowered herself into a dining chair. ‘But it’s . . . it’s lively. You know, there’s always somebody to talk to. It’s never boring.’ Well, it was often rather boring in here with Sam, but boring was preferable to Da’s ranting. If only Cathy would behave.
She folded her arms as if trying to hold on to her resolution. ‘I can’t have them wild, Sam. It’s not even the fault of Jimmy and Tildy-Anne. They do what they do because it’s necessary while the Nolans starve. But Cathy’s not used to this sort of life and I want her to be honest. We never had a lot of money to spare at home, but we wanted for nothing. In Galway, she would not be tempted into all this stealing and making up of tales. You see, if my daughter turns out wrong, then I will be to blame for it.’
Sam had never been one for the women, yet he recognized that Bridie was one in a million. He’d listened to all the dirty talk over the years, had heard tales delivered by seamen who pretended to have a girl in every port. But Sam Bell was not a lecher by nature. However, this one was a catch. Many men in the neighbourhood were jealous of a man with such a pretty bride. She was lovely to look at, she had a stable temperament, good housekeeping skills and, above all, she was marvellous with customers. ‘Don’t go,’ he managed.
Surprised beyond measure, Bridie stared steadily at the man she had married. There was no harm in him. He had never hurt her or the girls, had always handed over adequate household funds, was even-tempered and . . . and, yes, infuriatingly predictable and set in his ways. She felt a measure of pity for him, yet she could make no promises.
‘Please,’ he said eventually, ‘give it a bit longer.’ What would people say if she went off after such a short time? Would they mock him, accuse him of being too old and worn out for a woman of Bridie’s tender years?
She looked down at her folded arms. ‘Marriage is binding, I know that. But I’ve a duty to my daughters as well as to my husband.’
‘Hang on for another week, then,’ he said. ‘Just till New Year. I’ll talk to Diddy and Billy, see what we can sort out.’ And he intended to acquire that dog, too. He needed an arsenal with which to defend himself.
‘All right,’ said Bridie. ‘I’ll wait a few more days, then.’ She picked up a fork, polished it on her apron.
Sam stood up, threw away his second cigarette and made for the door. Had he been less sure of himself, he might have fancied that he felt love for this young woman. But no. Sam Bell had his head screwed on too tightly for that. Far too tightly . . .
Anthony Bell waited until his father had disappeared into the pub. He blew warmth into his hands, then bent to pick up his parcels. She would like the pearls. He had spent more money on that single gift than all the others put together. He walked, paused, thought about what he was doing, why he was doing it. Perhaps he should swap the labels about and give the pearls to Grandmuth.
He greeted some familiar faces, made his way to Bell’s and knocked. This was ridiculous. How would Bridie explain away the pearls? Dad knew his stuff, could recognize good jewellery at twenty paces. And was this pity that Anthony felt for Bridie? Was he just feeling sorry for a poor woman who had been dragged from her home and deposited here?
When Bridie opened the shop door, he noticed the bloom in her cheeks, colour borrowed from the kitchen where she would no doubt be preparing the festive meal. He shuffled inside, deposited his packages on the counter. ‘Cold,’ he muttered. ‘If my hands weren’t fastened on at the wrists, they’d snap off.’
‘The kitchen’s hot,’ she told him. ‘Come away in till I make you a nice cup of tea.’
Instead of following her immediately, Anthony transposed two labels and ignored the regret in his breast. Grandmuth was going to be happy about the necklace. But Grandmuth’s skin was too old and slack for the wearing of these, the least forgiving of gems. Pearls wanted satin skin and bright eyes. They needed a bare young throat rather than a winter cardigan to show them off. Bridie had perfect skin, lovely hair, beautiful clear eyes. The visitor bit his lip. He was balancing on the brink of a precipice, yet he could not save himself. Was love at first sight real? Was it? Scotland Road on a cold November night, two children clinging to their mammy, a cold-hearted priest in a chilly church . . . He must stop this, he really must.
Bridie basted her potatoes, took a tray of soda bread from the top shelf of the fireside oven. ‘Did you have your breakfast?’ she asked. ‘I’ve butter and jam and this new batch just made. It’ll be great when it cools off a bit.’
‘Er . . . yes, I have eaten. Thank you.’ Anthony felt like a fourteen-year-old boy who lusted after the girl next door. No, no, it was worse than that. It was horrible. His father had taken a bride and he, Anthony Patrick Bell, wanted her. He had wanted her ever since that moment when he had met her out in the street just before the wedding. He had dreamed of her, had thought about her when he should have been doing his job. He had lingered at a window and watched her taming a wild horse with her gentleness and her quiet, unobtrusive confidence.
‘Do you take sugar?’
His cheeks burned. He knew his catechism, knew, understood and obeyed the rules of the church. Consanguinity, affinity and spiritual relationship – those were the qualities that precluded liaisons between the sexes. Even if Dad died, Anthony could never live with the woman of his dreams. He pulled himself together. ‘Just a drop of milk, thank you.’ She had eyes he wanted to drown in. She had a waist he might have spanned with his fingers. She had . . . she had a cup of tea in her hand and he must take it, now.
Bridie put her head on one side. ‘Are you coming down with something?’
He was lovesick. He was a lovelorn loon and no, he didn’t want Dad to die, even if his death would release this lovely woman. ‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘It’s the change in temperature, I suppose. Icy outside, very warm in here.’
‘Oh, keep still a moment,’ she ordered. She stood behind him and peeled off his heavy overcoat. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now, you’ll feel the benefit when you go out.’
Anthony had not intended to go to his father’s wedding. He and Sam had found little common ground in recent years. But Anthony had met Thomas Murphy on the road, and the man had assumed, naturally, that Sam Bell’s son would be attending the service. Then, Anthony had seen her.
‘Did you not hear me?’
Startled, he shook some tea into his saucer. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. Her father was a rat, he mused. Thomas Murphy had been carrying on with Dolly Hanson for ever and a day—
‘It’ll be a chill,’ she repeated. Was he deaf? She placed a hand on his forehead, found his skin hot. ‘Let’s hope it’s not the influenza. You should perhaps stay here with me and your father till I see how you are.’ The devilment had gone out of his eyes. She had noticed that little bit of naughtiness, the tell-tale glistening of the irises in a poker-straight face. This was a joker, not a man of misery. ‘Wait for your da,’ she said again.
He swallowed. ‘My father and I don’t get on.’
‘And I don’t get on with people not getting on,’ she said, her tone firm. ‘Mind, I might not be staying anyway, so you’ll be able to carry on with your little quarrels, won’t you? Yes, when you’re left to yourselves, Muth can stay upstairs and you, your father and your brother can fight like infant boys all the way to kingdom come. I hope St Peter will be pleased to see you.’ She bustled off to find a clean saucer.
Little quarrels? He shivered, took a sip of tea, refused to think about his brother and his stupid, blinkered father. Suddenly, the words she had spoken registered. She was going. He took the clean saucer from her, found difficulty in meeting her eyes. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the scullery for—’
‘No. You said something about leaving.’
‘Ah.’ Bridie sat down. ‘It’s Cathy,’ she told him. ‘She’s away all the while in the company of Jimmy and Tildy-Anne. The last scrape they got into spread as far as the police and a lot of Indians with fireplaces and hats and gramophones.’
‘Lascars,’ he said, fighting a weary smile. ‘Yes, I heard about that.’ He fingered the cup, forced himself to look at her. There was a pinch of white powder on her nose – flour, probably. It was a short nose, but not snub. He wanted to wipe the blemish from a face he found perfect. ‘She’s a brilliant student,’ he remarked. ‘She’ll do well here. The time for young women to succeed has finally arrived. Our teachers at St Aloysius’s are thrilled to have her at the school. She is so well-read, so capable. The fact is that she will make more of herself here than she would in Ireland.’ He felt so awkward, heard his own stilted words, might have been a lecturer delivering a sermon or something very dull, like inorganic chemistry.
Bridie processed the information. ‘Ireland is not as backward as you seem to think,’ she informed him. ‘We do have schools and universities, you know. It’s not all potato fields, cattle and poteen brewing in the stables.’
Anthony’s cheeks were burning again. ‘But there’s more scope here.’
She nodded pensively. ‘Aye, and there’s more people, too. All crammed up together with no air to breathe, all pushed into a crowded classroom and sharing one arithmetic book between two. Did you see those courts? Have you looked at the living conditions in this area? Animals have better shelter.’
‘Of course I’ve seen the poverty,’ he answered. ‘Many of my pupils come from very poor homes.’
Bridie shook her head. ‘It’s terrible,’ she said. ‘And I know why Diddy’s children break the law and the commandments. I understand. But it’s all a matter of what a person wants from life.’
He swallowed drily, took a gulp of tea to oil his throat. ‘Cathy must be given the opportunity to find out what she wants, Bridie. Let her study here and—’
‘It’s their mother who keeps them safe,’ she declared, absolute certainty in her words. ‘While they’re little, parents decide. Perhaps in ten years Cathy may come back. For now, I’m in charge of my children.’
He remained where he was after she returned to the scullery. Bridie wasn’t a bit like Val. Val had been dark-haired and tall, almost willowy. She, too, had been a teacher after training at some dreadful convent in Southampton. When he closed his eyes, he could see and hear her still. ‘We couldn’t talk after nine o’clock, we had to wear a uniform and all our letters were censored.’ Val had taken a strong dislike to all things Catholic after her two years of prison with the nuns. ‘Ladies from hell’, she had called them.
‘Are you all right in there?’ shouted Bridie.
‘Yes.’ So Val had decided to teach at a nondenominational school in Liverpool. That had caused a few ructions among the die-hard Catholics.
‘I’ve a little gift for you.’
Anthony took the proffered package, opened it and found a diary, some pencils and a drawing. ‘Shauna did the picture and Cathy bought the pencils,’ she said. ‘The diary is from me and Sam. It has a real leather cover.’
‘Thank you.’ He gave her the scarf. Grandmuth would love the pearls, he told himself again.
Bridie draped his gift round her throat. ‘Just the thing,’ she told him. ‘It goes with my eyes.’
It did. Val’s eyes had been brown. Anthony had identified the body, because her parents had been too distraught. On this Christmas day, he would go and eat with the family of his dead fiancée. The courts had charged the wrong man, had found the wrong man guilty, had hanged him.
Bridie laid some cutlery on the table. This poor young man was very sad, she thought. He was perspiring and he looked quite ill. There had been no jokes, no laughter. Beneath the tanned skin there lurked a pallor, though twin spots of feverish colour brightened his cheeks.
Anthony picked up the rest of the parcels and announced his intention to visit his grandmother and Bridie’s daughters. He climbed the stairs, tapped at Grandmuth’s door.
‘Come in,’ she ordered.
For a split second, he hesitated. Christmases came and went, and he still remained at loggerheads with his twin and his father. Years ended and began, yet nothing changed. Whatever happened, they had still hanged the wrong man. And Anthony Bell was condemned to live with that knowledge embedded into his mind. Determinedly, he blotted out a mental picture of Val, only to have it replaced by the image of a small blonde woman with flour on her nose.
He ground his teeth for a second or two. Love at first sight? He had loved Val at first sight, after knocking apples from her shopping basket at the fruit market. They had bent to retrieve the Cox Orange Pippins, had both seen stars when their skulls had met. Val. No, no, this was Christmas Day. He must not dwell on the past, must forbid himself to remember the sight of Val’s broken body.
‘What are you doing standing there like a bloody statue?’
He blinked, saw that his grandmother had opened her door.
‘I’ve been waiting,’ she snapped.
‘Sorry.’ He followed her into the room, sat next to her on the bed. ‘I got you pearls,’ he said.
‘Hmmph.’ Theresa Bell folded her arms. ‘What’s up with you? You look as if you’ve lost half a crown and found a bent tanner.’ She loved this grandson. Even though weeks went by between meetings, she knew him like the back of her own hand.
‘Here.’ He handed her the gift.
Theresa opened it, grinned broadly, then sat still while Anthony fastened the necklace for her. ‘They’re lovely,’ she told him.
He unwrapped an anthology of poetry, thanked his grandmother, asked how she was.
‘Yon bloody Bridie’s got me moving,’ she said. ‘Kept leaving me plate just inside the door, made me get out of bed to get the food.’ She sniffed. ‘I like her. I like her kiddies, too. They make a bit of noise, but the house is back to life.’ Anthony might have had children if Val had lived. Theresa could have been a great-grandmother several times over. The idea of a non-Catholic wedding hadn’t worried Theresa. And then . . . and then the lass had gone and got herself murdered.
‘You know she’s thinking of going back to Ireland?’ asked Anthony. ‘Bridie, I mean.’
Theresa scowled. ‘Aye. I hope she stays here, though.’ She watched him from the corner of her eye, saw how strained he looked. ‘Is that job getting you down, lad?’
‘No.’
‘What is it, then?’
He shrugged. Grandmuth was a caution. She had the Scotland Road knack of hitting the nail on the head, and the inland Lancashire tendency to run at a small tack with a lump hammer. Diplomacy had never been Theresa Bell’s catchword. She spoke the truth and shamed the devil, expected everyone else to be as blunt as she was. ‘I’m all right,’ he said.
‘And I’m a monkey’s grandma,’ she replied smartly. ‘Is it Val?’ Anthony’s girl had died in December, so Christmas had not been a favourite time of his for some years.
‘It might be that,’ he said pensively. ‘I’m due at their house for my dinner.’
Theresa inclined her head. If she lived to be a hundred and five, she would never forget that dreadful day. ‘It should be getting easier now, lad. You should be looking for somebody else. No use carrying a torch for a girl who can’t see it, eh?’ She tapped his knee with a bony hand. ‘Find a nice lass and settle down, Anthony. I shall get no great-grandchildren from the queer feller, you know.’
Anthony sighed, made no reply.
‘Go on, then,’ she ordered. ‘If you’ve brought presents for the little ones, you’ll find them playing in their room.’ She watched the slope of his shoulders as he left, noticed how heavy his footfalls seemed. If only he would shape up and pull his life back together. Val wouldn’t have wanted this for him.
Theresa stared through her window and back down the years. Bonny lads, they had been. Even at the start, when they had been weeks old, Liam had commanded the attention. He had cried all night and all day, had fed voraciously, had seemed to dominate the situation right from the beginning.
The old woman fingered her new pearls. By the time the twins had started to walk, Liam’s assumed supremacy had become evident. Anthony had been clouted, knocked down, bitten and bruised. Anthony’s toys were always broken or spoilt or lost. Liam had stolen from the shop, from his grandmother’s purse, from Anthony’s little box of pennies.
Theresa had learned to hope that Liam would improve in time. But he was still an arrogant and unpleasant man. ‘Damn you, priest,’ she snarled under her breath. ‘One day, Father Bell. One day, some bugger’ll come along and mess up your playpen. And I can’t wait for it to happen.’
Cathy loved Anthony. She admired him, enjoyed his company, respected him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. He had brought her a huge box of paints and a story book. For Shauna, he had chosen a doll and a collection of nursery rhymes with colourful pictures. Anthony talked to Cathy and Shauna as if they were adults. He didn’t tailor his language to suit the young; he used proper words at normal speed.
Anthony squatted down and helped the younger girl to build a tower of bricks.
‘Sir?’
He looked across at Cathy and smiled. ‘Anthony when we’re not at school,’ he reminded her.
‘I might forget,’ Cathy said. ‘I might call you Anthony at school.’ She perched on the edge of her bed. ‘That’s if we stay in Liverpool.’
He rose and warmed his hands at a small fire that danced in the iron grate in a corner of the bedroom. Perhaps Bridie was right, when she said he was coming down with a chill, because he felt cold, then hot. ‘Do you want to go back to Ireland?’ he asked.
Cathy thought about the question for a few seconds. She hugged the memory of Ballinasloe, often had dreams that she was running with Bob through fields and streams. But now, she had so many friends. At any time of day, she could go round to the Costigan house and chat with those who happened to be at home. There were always plenty of children outside, and they were all good fun. She enjoyed the company of Tildy, had even taken a liking to the school. ‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to do what Mammy decides.’
He nodded.
‘It’s my fault,’ she said sadly. ‘Because of helping Tildy and Cozzer to get stuff for the Nolans. Cozzer says Jesus is on their side, you see. Jesus knows the Nolans are hungry, so it’s not a sin to take things as long as they’re for the poor. But in confession, Father Brennan gave me three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and said I haven’t to steal any more. I told Father Brennan about Jesus taking the loaves and fishes and never paying for them, but Father Brennan said that was different. He was laughing, too. I didn’t know priests could laugh during confession. He called me a caution. Anyway, I put some money in the St Vincent de Paul box.’
Anthony patted the bemused child on the head, then made his way downstairs. Even at Christmas, the sharp-edged sword of poverty cut into people, made them bleed over the double standards that plagued the Catholic community hereabouts.
Grandmuth had got herself down to the kitchen. She was tucking into a plate of soda bread and strawberry jam. ‘Manna straight from heaven,’ she mumbled through a mouthful. ‘This girl can cook, all right.’
Anthony smiled at Theresa. ‘Who helped you downstairs?’
Bridie’s head put in a brief appearance from the scullery. ‘She helps herself, Anthony. I’ve been bullying her and building her up, you see. She complains about me all the time, says I’m a cruel and thoughtless woman.’
‘That’s why you’ve to stay,’ croaked the old woman. ‘You have to look after me.’
Anthony gazed round the room he knew so well, the place where he had been reared by the frail-looking lady who was currently demolishing a sizeable late breakfast. There was the dresser drawer against which he had been thrown by Liam. On that occasion, a doctor had been brought in to staunch the flow of blood. Anthony recalled how matted his hair had been once the blood had dried. To the right of the dresser stood a locked door behind which Sam Bell stored some of his too-good-to-sell treasures. Anthony had been trapped in there many times, had listened helplessly while Dad and Grandmuth had searched for keys hidden by Liam. To this day, Anthony remained uneasy in confined spaces, especially during darkness.
‘You don’t look well to me,’ announced Theresa.
Dad had always saved things, had never managed to save Anthony from the flailing fists and boots of his twin. Dad hung on to pots and ornaments against the day when they would ‘come back into fashion’, was a wizard at assessing the potential value of inanimate objects. But Dad had never seemed to notice that Liam was odd and extremely dangerous in temper.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Grandmuth.
‘Sorry, I was thinking.’
She placed the plate on a side table. ‘He’s not here any more, love. He can’t cut your head open or take an axe to your toys.’
Anthony shivered.
‘Holy Orders was the only place for him to run,’ said Theresa. ‘He’s not fit for the ordinary life, so he goes about telling everybody else how to live now.’ She sniffed. ‘As if he knows owt. Nasty bugger.’
The door to the shop opened and Sam stepped into the scene. For a split second, he stopped mid-stride, as if uncertain about his next move. ‘Hello, Muth,’ he finally managed. He had thought that Anthony would be well on his way by this time.
Anthony rose to his feet.
‘Stop where you are,’ commanded Theresa. ‘Don’t be dashing off just when you’re getting warm. I’ve told you, you don’t look well.’
Sam pulled on a piece of rope and dragged a large dog into the arena. ‘For Cathy,’ he told his mother.
Bridie entered from the scullery, blew a strand of hair off her face and fixed her gaze on Sam. He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have brought an animal home while she was still making up her mind about the future. She noticed that the two men seemed awkward, reminded herself that her husband and his son were not on proper speaking terms. But for the most part, her attention remained glued to the ugliest piece of canine creation that she had ever seen.
Sam puffed and panted, then fastened the hound to the handle of the storeroom door. ‘Well, what could I do?’ he asked helplessly. ‘The man brought the dog to the pub. I couldn’t ask him to take it away again. Nobody else wanted it, and I can’t say I blame them. It takes some dragging along, the stubborn brute.’
The dog sat down and cast a lugubrious eye around the room.
‘In all my days, I have never seen anything as miserable-looking as yon dog,’ declared Theresa.
Bridie leaned on the door jamb. This unfortunate creature resembled an impossible cross between a tram and a long-haired carpet that needed hanging outside for a good beating. ‘What breed is it?’ she asked, her words emerging strangled.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Sam. It was a huge dog, not much smaller than a Shetland pony. It had one brown eye, one dark-blue, and long ears that flopped all over a permanently puzzled expression. ‘Nobody wants it,’ he repeated.
Bridie pushed another lock of hair from her damp forehead. ‘I’m not surprised. That will eat Cathy,’ she pronounced. ‘And it’ll swallow Shauna whole for its pudding.’ She approached the beast and offered the back of her hand.
Sensing a friend in this cruel vale of tears, the dog licked Bridie’s hand and woofed a polite greeting.
‘I’ll be off,’ said Anthony. ‘I’m expected elsewhere.’ He kissed his grandmother, nodded at Bridie, then left the room.
Theresa Bell stared at the animal. She knew what Sam was up to. He had brought the dog so that Cathy would make a scene about going back to Ireland. He was doing his best to get Bridie to stay, and he didn’t care what means he used. ‘Take it back, Sam,’ Theresa said quietly. ‘It’s not fair. And you know what I mean, son.’
He coughed. ‘The man’s gone home now. He lives over the bridge – miles away. And it’s freezing out there.’
‘If Cathy sees that dog, there’ll be no shifting her,’ said Theresa. ‘Don’t you think it’s time Bridie started making her own mind up, Sam? It’s like the bloody horses all over again.’
Sam shifted awkwardly, curled a hand and coughed self-consciously behind it.
‘It’s all right,’ continued his mother. ‘She knows. Bridie knows you and Thomas Murphy have a habit of dragging dumb animals into things when you want your own way.’ She eyed her daughter-in-law. ‘And if she does decide to stop on in Liverpool, you can give her them papers, Sam.’
‘Papers?’
Theresa sighed heavily. ‘Horse papers. You can let Bridie have them two horses. I’ve not lived this long without knowing you. Oh yes, I know how to deal with me own son. So pin your ears back. You’d best give her the animals, or you’ll have me to deal with on top of everything else.’ She glared at the ‘everything else’ until it squirmed inside its matted brown coat. ‘Your cousin Edith’ll take the horses. She can get them stabled and all that.’
Sam looked at Bridie. So she knew all about it, then. ‘It was your dad’s idea, not mine. I . . . er . . . I’m glad you’re here. You’ve made a difference to me and to Muth.’ He paused for a second. ‘The horses are yours whether you go back to Ireland or stay here.’ He untied the dog’s makeshift lead. ‘And I’ll get rid of this as soon as possible.’
He was a decent man, thought Bridie. He was not much to look at, he was predictable to a point that made her want to scream sometimes, but he had a bit of conscience. If he had a bit of conscience, why wasn’t he more friendly towards Anthony? Anthony was a lovely chap. Well, he was usually pleasant, though he had seemed a bit down in the mouth today.
Sam approached his wife, rope in one hand, a small box in the other. ‘I got you a new one,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s a wedding ring. Brand new this time.’
She couldn’t leave him. Apart from the fact that marriage was for ever, he was trying so hard to please her. But what should she do about Cathy? Perhaps the child needed a lead so that she might be tied up like this stupid great dog.
The wedding band was beautiful. ‘Twenty-two carat,’ Sam said proudly.
Bridie swallowed a pain in her throat. This man was not a husband to her. The marriage had been consummated, just about, but Sam was . . . perhaps he was the father she had never had. There wasn’t much warmth in Sam Bell, but she forgave him for that because he had been a widower for almost thirty years. Yet Sam’s presence in the house gave her a secure feeling, an idea that he would not allow her or the girls to come to any harm. She didn’t know what to say to him, could find no words.
‘And the horses are yours, too,’ he told her.
Bridie lifted her head, looked at Sam, then at Theresa. She had some value after all. The man was standing here, was telling her that he needed her, that she was not a bitter pill sweetened by the promise of riches from racecourses and stud farms. She, Bridie Bell, was worth keeping. ‘Thank you so much, Sam,’ she managed. ‘You have done your best to welcome strangers into your home. Please remember how grateful I am.’
Clearly embarrassed, the pink-faced man glanced down at the dog. ‘What shall I do with this?’ he asked.
Bridie squatted down and allowed herself to be almost drowned by an over-enthusiastic canine tongue. ‘We’ll call him Noel,’ she said, ‘because it’s Christmas.’ She rose, gave Sam the ring and allowed him to place it on her hand. Just as Diddy had said, this was not a bad man, not a particularly good one. ‘The first sign of sun and you bathe this creature, Sam,’ she said with mock-severity. ‘And make sure he stays from under my feet.’
‘Mine, too,’ announced Theresa.
The dog glanced from one to the other, his ragged tail waving to demonstrate a glimmer of hope. They had food. He could smell it, could almost taste it on his lolling tongue. If he bided his time and made no sudden moves, his belly might be filled.
The feasting was over. Sam unbuttoned his belt and leaned back in his chair. It had been a grand day. Roast goose with good gravy, then Christmas pud and brandy sauce. Bridie was a pearl. He looked across at Muth. ‘New necklace?’ he asked.
Theresa fixed him with her small, bright eyes. ‘Anthony got them for me. Remember him? He’s the lad who was here just on dinner-time. I believe he’s a teacher by trade. Think hard, now, it’ll all come back to you. Lived here at one time, he did.’ She sat up and leaned forward. ‘He’s a good lad, our Anthony, well thought of round these parts.’
Sam sighed and closed his eyes. The worst thing about Muth was the fact that she just couldn’t leave well alone. He supposed they were like that, the Bolton folk. Muth’s niece was the same, always speaking up for herself and laying down the law.
‘It’s not right that you don’t talk to your own boy.’
He opened his eyes. ‘He went too far last time,’ he said softly. ‘He should never have thrashed Liam. Yes, he went too far, Muth.’
‘Did he?’ Theresa shook a finger at her only son. ‘He were grieving. He were upset on account of Val.’
Muth was upset too, now. He could tell she was worked up, because her ‘wases and weres’ got mixed up whenever she became excited. ‘Leave it alone, Muth.’
Theresa struggled to her feet. ‘Goodwill to all men? What sort of a Christmas is it when you can’t be civil to a blood relative? You weren’t here when they were little. You were always mithering over the shop and running about buying stuff. You never saw what I saw, Sam. Liam would have killed our Anthony if I hadn’t rattled his bloody ear for him. He’s bad through and through, and you’re as blind as a bat.’
Sam remained in his chair, refused to rise to the bait in any way. Anthony had always been Muth’s favourite. Liam was a wonderful man. He had gone away to a seminary and had kept up with the best of them. Few people realized how clever priests had to be, all that Latin and liturgy and moral law. There had been a scrap or two between the twins when they were very young, but nothing out of the ordinary. Then Anthony had started a terrible fight and he would not make his apologies to Liam.
Theresa Bell loomed over her son. ‘You saw nowt, our Sam. He were allers good when you came home, that sly Liam. Oh aye, butter wouldn’t melt, eh? He were a strong little beggar, forever shoving our Anthony in cupboards and pretending it were all a game. And you pretended too. Because you could never face what he was, and you can’t face what he is to this day. Leopards does not change their spots, just mark my words.’
Sam pulled the tobacco tin from his pocket, took out the last cigarette. ‘Go to bed, Muth,’ he advised calmly. ‘You’re getting worn out.’
The old woman stepped back a fraction. ‘Have I not spent long enough in bed? I stopped up there all them years because there were nowt down here for me, nowt at all. I missed our Anthony. I still miss him. And yes, I will be going up in a minute, because that swine’ll be paying his after Christmas tea visit, won’t he? Oh aye, he’ll be stopping the night with Father Brennan so he can come round here and plague the daylights out of me. Well, just keep him away from my room, that’s all.’
Sam watched his mother making her slow way out of the kitchen. Bridie was upstairs putting the girls to bed. She was a grand woman, a good wife. A lovely dinner and a lovely tea – what more could a man ask? He tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate and answered his own question. A man wanted peace when his belly was full. As for Anthony – well – that one would have to apologize to Liam before he would be welcomed properly again.
The scullery door flew open and brought a draught with it. ‘Sam,’ puffed Diddy Costigan, ‘it’s Anthony. He called in to wish us all the best, then he had a turn at our house and we took him home and put him to bed. He’s burning up.’
Sam sat up straight. ‘Get the doctor.’
‘We have,’ answered Diddy. ‘He said it’s his bronchials.’
Bridie entered from the stairway. ‘What’s happening?’
Diddy told the tale again, then stood and watched while Bridie pulled on her coat.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Sam.
Bridie stopped in her tracks and looked at her husband. She had no idea what the quarrels were about, but she knew at this moment that she could spare no patience for the family feud. ‘I’m off to look after your son,’ she told him. ‘I’ll leave you to do the same for my daughters.’
It was a terrible night. The wind howled in the chimneys, rattled guttering, shunted slates along ill-formed rooftops. Flurries of snow twisted and turned, swirled like miniature tornados and prevented anyone from seeing houses across the way.
‘God’s in a temper,’ declared Diddy. ‘My ma always said that when the weather was bad. May the good Lord rest her.’
Bridie heaped more coal into the parlour grate. Billy had brought down Anthony’s bed and set it up in one of the alcoves that flanked the fireplace. The sick young man slept on a mound of pillows, since the doctor had advised his neighbours to keep him as upright as possible. His breathing was audible, as if it rasped and tore at his lungs in order to find its way out.
Diddy sat by the bed with her knitting. Three doors away, members of her family were enjoying the final hours of Christmas, but Diddy was staying where she was needed. ‘He doesn’t deserve none of this,’ she declared as she stabbed away at a half-formed cardigan in bottle green. ‘It’s always the good what suffer. Have you noticed that, Bridie?’
‘Yes.’ Mammy had suffered, had shrivelled away slowly and painfully. Now, this kind-hearted man who worked hard at educating the poor was desperately ill, too ill to be moved to the fever hospital. Sam hadn’t even bothered to turn up at Anthony’s bedside. ‘What is going on with the Bell family?’ asked Bridie. ‘Why won’t Sam call round to see his son?’
Diddy picked up a dropped stitch and tossed her needlework aside. ‘None of us knows the whole truth. The twins never got on as babies, everybody knew that. Liam used to batter Anthony and break all his toys. He didn’t like Anthony having anything. I’ve heard tell that Liam bought Anthony’s friends by giving them toffee and fruit, stole the money to get the stuff. Devious little swine, he was. And I don’t think he’s much different now.’
Bridie perched on the edge of a fireside chair. ‘It’s more than that, Diddy. It’s bigger and more recent, but not yesterday or even a year ago.’
The older woman gazed at her friend. She had a full set of marbles, this Bridie Bell. She could sense the atmosphere in the Bell household, had worked out that something major must have happened. ‘All I know is there was a big bust-up after Val died. It was probably something Liam said – I bet he was glad poor Anthony had lost his girl, because she was a lapsed Catholic, you see. But I’ve not many details for you, Bridie. The only folk with the truth about what was said are Liam and this one here.’ She waved a hand at the bed. ‘For the first time in twenty-odd years, Anthony turned on Liam and gave him a pasting the likes of which you only see at a bare-knuckle fight behind the market.’
Bridie stared at Anthony’s ashen face. ‘Was Liam ordained when this happened?’
Diddy nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes, he was fully-fledged, all right. Didn’t have his own parish – still doesn’t – but he was attached to St Aloysius’s while he learned the ropes. It was after confession one night. At a guess, I’d say Father Brennan went looking for Liam and found him in the porch with Anthony standing over him. Our Charlie saw some of it. He was the last but one in the confessional box. When he came out to say his penance, Anthony went in. So there was only the twins and our Charlie in church at the time.’
Bridie stood up and poked the fire to life. ‘Isn’t it unusual to have a man confess to his own brother?’
Diddy fixed her eyes on the flames and sighed. ‘I don’t think he went in there for a blessing, Bridie.’
‘Neither do I.’
Diddy frowned. ‘Our Charlie’s slow on his feet – you know what he’s like. He was just outside the church when they rolled out in a ball, both kicking and screaming. Then Anthony picked his brother up and knocked seven shades of everything out of him. Charlie couldn’t do nothing, so he came home as quick as he could and told his dad. And when my Billy got there, everybody had gone. I heard they were in the presbytery, but I’m not certain. Since then, there’s been no love lost.’
‘It’s a terrible situation,’ remarked Bridie. ‘Sam should be here with his sick son.’
‘He’s all for Liam.’
‘I know.’
‘And Theresa Bell’s all for Anthony. That’s why she sulked for so long.’
‘I know that, too.’ Bridie crossed the room and stood over the man who was her stepson. He was in a deep sleep, the sort of sleep that sometimes precedes the end of life itself. She picked up a flannel and wiped his face. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she begged, ‘don’t take him, not at this age.’
Diddy joined Bridie. ‘Look, I’ve some balsam at home. There’s an old girl down Hornby Street who makes it from an Irish recipe. You just stick it in hot water and let the fumes rise till it breaks up the phlegm.’ She sniffed. ‘Strips the bloody paint off your walls at the same time, like. Still, if it does him no good, it’ll do him no harm.’
While Diddy went to do battle with the weather, Bridie settled herself next to the bed and held Anthony’s limp fingers. He was so still. The only movements came from his upper body, which seemed to shake and shiver with each and every breath. She prayed, put all her energy into the effort. He had to live. He was young and strong and clever and good . . . dear God, don’t let him die, she prayed inwardly.
Eugene had lived for a day after the accident. She had sat like this right up against the bed with his hand in hers. There had been no marks on her husband’s face. His legs had taken the worst of it. Had he lived, he would not have worked again, might never have walked unaided.
A tear slid down her face, was followed by another and another until her whole body was racked with sobs. She hadn’t been able to cry. The children had needed her, the farm had needed her. Even now, she remembered standing in the churchyard dry-eyed and numb. Da hadn’t attended the funeral. Da didn’t allow himself to set foot inside any place of worship that wasn’t Catholic.
And here lay a sad young man with no family around him. This wasn’t right, wasn’t human. She wept until she was exhausted. There was something about Anthony that reminded her of Eugene. She tried hard to work out what it was, because her first husband had been fair-haired and solid, not dark and tall like this man. Drier sobs were still coming from her throat while she attempted to find some similarity between Anthony and Eugene. As far as she could ascertain, their masculinity was the only common ground. There was the humour, she told herself. Like Eugene, Anthony had a sense of the ridiculous and didn’t mind making a fool of himself.
Where was Diddy? she asked herself. She mopped the clammy brow again, straightened the bed covers, smoothed black hair away from his forehead. It was probably the mouth, she decided. Yes, Eugene’s mouth had been like this one . . . or was it the chin?
‘Bridie?’
She jumped involuntarily. His dark eyes were fixed on her. ‘Yes, it’s Bridie,’ she said eventually.
‘A drink.’
Bridie placed an arm round his neck and supported him, guided him to the cup in her right hand.
After one sip, he was defeated. ‘Thanks,’ he managed.
Diddy bumbled in, brought cold air with her. ‘It’s always in the last place you look, isn’t it?’ She waved the bottle of balsam.
Bridie bit back a clever retort about things obviously being in the last place where a person looked, then helped Diddy to set up her cauldron and make the brew. After a few minutes, the air was thick with the smells of tar and eucalyptus. ‘He woke while you were gone, Diddy.’
Big Diddy Costigan grinned. ‘That’s a good sign. The stink of this bloody lot should shift him one way or another.’ She walked to the bed. ‘See? He’s breathing easier. You’ve been crying, Bridie. No need for that. This lad has a few more miles in him yet.’ She patted the quilt. ‘That’s right, Anthony. We’ll get you better. Just breathe easy, slow and easy.’
Bridie, too, breathed more freely as the night wore on. While Diddy snoozed in an armchair, the younger woman remained alert to the sick man’s every intake of air. With luck and good medicine, he might just come out of this without getting pneumonia.
Towards morning, he woke again. Bridie was sitting next to him. Her hand rested on his and she was staring straight into his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
She smiled at him. ‘Will you make it after all, Anthony?’
He nodded. While she was in the world, he would surely remain alive. As she bustled about pouring tea and medicine, he kept his eye on her. She was his father’s wife. She was his father’s wife and Anthony loved her.