The first day in the fourth decade was crisp and bright. Children played out of doors, whipping new tops into dizzying whirls of colour, testing out footballs and skipping ropes, skidding along in carts consisting of orange boxes and old pram wheels.
Cathy lingered outside Bell’s and thought about being good. She had been good for a whole week and, up to now, she had permission to keep Noel. But Noel would go back where he came from if Cathy broke any of the rules. She hadn’t been near Cozzer and Tildy for days, was avoiding involvement in any scheme to improve the Nolans’ quality of existence.
The dog squatted next to his new mistress, thought about scratching his ear, froze with a hind leg in mid-air. He had to be alert. Itching was a cross to be endured so that he could keep his mind on looking after Cathy. She had tied a red satin bow to his collar, and he had spent several hours trying to be rid of the indignity, but this was not the time to indulge in personal grooming. So the dog simply cocked one of his floppy ears and awaited instructions.
Cathy sighed heavily, wondered what to do. She missed Tildy and Cozzer. Mammy had gone along to Dryden Street with soup for Mr Bell, who was Anthony out of school, and with some more soup for the Nolans. Mammy was acting tight-lipped with Uncle Sam, something to do with Uncle Sam not visiting Anthony while he was ill.
The little girl made up her mind at last. She would walk along to Dryden Street and visit Anthony. With any luck, she might just avoid Mammy and bump into the Costigans. ‘Come along, Noel,’ she ordered.
Noel was a grand dog and he knew it. Life had been hard thus far, but he had come through with flying colours, one of which was currently fastened to the length of leather round his neck. The collar itself had taken some getting used to, but he owned a tolerant nature and a degree of self-control. Ignoring three cats and a yappy mongrel, Noel raised his tattered tail and walked proudly with his owner. He needed no lead, because he was so grateful to have shelter and good, solid food that he practised obedience and was almost perfect.
Cathy knocked on Mr Bell’s door, was ushered inside by her mother. ‘Can Noel come in?’
Bridie frowned. This dog of indeterminate origin was the size of a sofa. Unfortunately, she had taken a liking to the thing. It knew how to get round people, how to look sad, happy, mischievous and angelic. It was probably something to do with the eyes being two different colours. The dog’s expression depended on the onlooker’s point of view. ‘He’ll have to behave himself.’
Noel stalked in and parked himself on Anthony’s feet.
Anthony stared down at the strange-looking creature, wondered whether it might have been a rag rug in an earlier life.
‘He’s a very good dog,’ said Cathy cheerfully. ‘He’s not chewed anything since Christmas.’
Bridie suppressed a giggle. ‘He picked on one of Sam’s new slippers, I’m afraid, worried it to death in the back yard.’
‘What breed is it?’ asked Anthony.
‘One of its own,’ replied Bridie. ‘God broke the mould when He saw the state of this article. There’s mountain dog in him – St Bernard or some such kind, but Noel’s a bit of a mixture and he eats constantly. Everyone keeps asking what breed he is. Anyway, he doesn’t bite, and that’s what counts.’
The dog lay flat, squashing most of the feeling out of Anthony’s toes.
Bridie set a tray, placed a bowl of steaming soup next to a spoon and a chunk of bread. She moved the dog by simply giving it a long, hard look, then passed the tray to Anthony. ‘There you are, some nice Irish broth.’ He looked so much better. That foul-smelling brew of Diddy’s had helped to do the trick, it seemed. ‘Now, no going outside,’ she ordered. ‘Billy will be in later, and Diddy’s making a pie for your tea.’ She pulled at the dog’s collar. ‘Away now, Noel. You’re only getting in the way.’
‘Leave him,’ begged Anthony. ‘Let him and Cathy keep me company for a while.’
Bridie left them to it and walked home. She had delivered a pan of broth to Cissie Nolan, who now trusted Bridie sufficiently to allow her into the house. Bridie had discussed with Diddy the idea of getting the Nolans some furniture from the shop, but Diddy had squashed the idea. Anything that wasn’t nailed to the floor in the Nolan household was sold and swilled down Mr Nolan’s throat. Had there been a market for children, he would probably have let all his offspring go to the highest bidders.
Scotland Road looked better today. With frost and a sprinkling of snow, and without the dust that accompanies toil and transport, the area was more attractive. Bridie bustled on towards Bell’s Pledges, her mind fixed on sandwiches, scones and cakes. Today, there would be three visitors. Liam, who had remained absent over Christmas, was to grace the family home with his presence. He would be accompanied by Sam’s cousin and her husband.
Bridie refused to be nervous in the face of this imminent happening. Her hands were trembling because of the bitter cold, she told herself. And the headache was just tiredness, wasn’t it? Of course it was. She wasn’t dreading seeing those awfully cold eyes again. No, not at all. She was just a little run down, no more than that.
Anthony’s house was very interesting. There wasn’t a lot of furniture – just a pair of armchairs in the tiny parlour, a table and chairs in the kitchen, a couple of rugs. But there were hundreds of books. Some were on real shelves and in bookcases, others were housed in orange boxes stood on end to look like cupboards, and many were stacked on window-ledges, mantelshelves and against walls. Cathy dashed about picking and choosing, finally setting on an Atlas of European Countries.
They pored over a map of Ireland. ‘There it is,’ said Cathy triumphantly. ‘Ballinasloe. It’s really spelt B-E-A-L, A-T-H-A, N-A, S-L-U-A-I-G-H-E. With lines over some of the letters. That’s proper Irish. There’s a castle to guard the river Suck and a big quarry nearby where they get the Galway stone. Great big men work there. They have to be strong to break the stuff. Sometimes, there’s an explosion and your feet tremble. I used to pretend I lived near one of those mountains—’
‘Volcanoes?’
‘Yes. They spit fire and rocks.’
She was bright to the point of effervescence. Intelligence shone in her eyes, and she had humour, too. Cathy was like her mother, he decided. Although he had never known Eugene, he guessed that this little one would turn out to be very like Bridie. Bridie. He mustn’t think about the fall of her hair and the arch of her brows. No, he should concentrate on what he did best, should stick to educating children.
He listened while Cathy prattled on about the forge and the church, while she passed on her mother’s opinions about various neighbours. ‘My daddy ran the farm, then he was killed in the machinery. Mammy took over, but the landlord wanted a man to have the place. Mammy told him she could read and count and do as well as anybody, but we were still moved. We lived with Granda. He’s got angry eyes and bushy hair, but he plasters that down with stuff in a bottle. Granda has horses and cows and pigs. I had my own chicken and a dog, but now I’ve got Noel. Granda used to slap me. I think that’s why Mammy said she’d come over and marry Mr Bell. We call him Uncle Sam. Mammy never smacks us and she doesn’t like anyone else slapping us. Anyway, Uncle Sam’s nice because he never shouts and he got Noel for me.’
They both gazed at the animal in question. ‘He’s a size,’ said Anthony.
‘I have to be good to keep him. Mammy says we’re both on trial. But really, I’m the one who has to behave.’
He tried not to laugh. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult. When Tildy and Jimmy want to go . . . want to find stuff for the Nolans, just walk away.’ The child would never walk away from anything. She was an explorer, one of life’s navigators.
Cathy studied this teacher and friend for a moment. ‘Can I do that? Won’t they laugh and call me a baby if I just go off and don’t help to feed the poor?’
Anthony took the child’s hand. ‘Does it matter if they do?’
It did matter. What people thought was important. She was Mammy’s big girl in the house, but when she went outside, she became a little girl who had to remember her mother’s orders and stick to them at all costs. Following Mammy’s orders meant she couldn’t spend time with the Costigans, couldn’t choose or decide anything for herself. Cathy told Anthony about this. ‘I’m to be big and helpful at home, but not in the street.’ She withdrew her fingers from his grip and folded her arms. ‘It’s like being two different girls altogether, one big and one small. I have to remember which one I’m being, and that’s not easy.’
He understood her. ‘Childhood is confusing,’ he informed her. ‘And parents don’t always make the best sense. But your mother has your welfare at heart, Cathy. She wants you safe and sensible. Tildy and Jimmy have had a different life. Anyway, don’t you want to go back to Ireland? Isn’t that what you’d like to do?’
She really didn’t know, and she told Anthony all about it. ‘I like school. I like the shop, and Uncle Sam gives me pennies. Tildy is my friend, even though she’s older and in a different form at school.’ She pondered for a second or two. ‘But I miss Bob and Chucky and the fields. I don’t miss Granda, because I don’t like him. Nobody likes him. If we do go back, it won’t be to Galway, Mammy said. So . . .’ She chewed her lip. ‘So I’d rather stay here than have to go and live somewhere new all over again. It would be Ireland, but it would still be strange.’
The front door opened and Maureen Costigan stepped inside after a cursory little click of fingernails against the wood. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Cathy, then slinked her way into the room and stood in front of the fire. ‘I just came to see how you are,’ she informed the sick man. She smiled to show off her dimples, then fluttered the long, soot-and-petroleum-jelly-coated eyelashes.
Anthony breathed deeply. How much longer would this go on? Maureen was in her last year at school, for which he thanked God, but she was pursuing him relentlessly at every opportunity. During playtimes, she came down from the senior department and ‘helped’ him. ‘Helping’ was sashaying about with inkwells and gazing into his eyes across piles of books. ‘I’m going to have a rest now,’ he told the two girls.
Maureen pounced on the tray, carried it out to the scullery and clattered the pots.
Cathy placed a proprietorial hand on Noel’s head and led him to the door. Sometimes, she didn’t quite manage to like Maureen Costigan. At first, she hadn’t liked Nicky-really-Monica, but Nicky was all right. Nicky had a boyfriend called Graham Pile. Graham Pile had a lazy eye that stuck in the corner next to his nose, but he was kind. When he got his hands on stale or spoiled stock at the bakery where he worked, he always wrapped it up and brought it to the Nolans. But Maureen was selfish and proud.
The little girl said goodbye and went out into Dryden Street. Maureen wasn’t nice. She was usually chasing boys. Tildy was always telling stories about Maureen kissing people in the dark in jiggers and in shop doorways. As far as Cathy understood, kissing should be reserved for members of a family. For a brief moment, she imagined herself embracing one of the boys from school. When her stomach settled, she walked along to a group of children that contained Cozzer and Tildy. Within seconds, she had forgotten all about Anthony and Maureen.
The black-clad man alighted from a vehicle and stood at the bottom of Dryden Street. Anthony was ill, or so he had been told by Aunt Edith. He must go and visit his brother. After all, wasn’t the tending of the sick a part of his ministry? And he rather liked the concept of praying over his prostrate twin. Was he still afraid of Anthony? Liam asked himself as he made his way towards the house. No. All that nonsense should be dead and buried by now. This was 1931, the first of January, the beginning of a new decade. Wasn’t it time to forgive and forget? His mouth curled into a travesty of a smile.
The older O’Brien girl was here with some of those dreadful Costigans. He stopped for a few seconds and watched the group playing an unseasonal game of cricket. It was clear that the Costigan boy had been given a bat for Christmas, as he was dictating and changing the rules to the advantage of his own side. Gas lamps acted as wickets, and a monster of a dog kept running off with the ball. The O’Brien girl spotted Liam, ran towards him. ‘You should be inside,’ she cried. ‘Mammy says you’ve to stay warm.’ The child shunted to a halt. ‘Sorry, Father. I thought you were . . .’ Her words tailed away as she spoke.
Liam ignored the girl, straightened his shoulders and tapped at Anthony’s door. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, he would emerge victorious. If Anthony accepted the attempt at reconciliation, Liam would get the glory. If Anthony would not negotiate, then the priest would still be wearing the halo.
He entered the house. Maureen Costigan was sitting opposite Anthony with a cup and saucer. The host, too, was sipping tea. Liam paused, took in the situation. This strumpet was dressed to the nines and her face was painted. It was plain that she adored the sick man. ‘Anthony,’ he said with a nod, ‘I thought it was about time I paid you a visit.’
Anthony maintained the grip on his cup, but only just. Had Maureen not been here – and he fervently wished her in darkest Africa at that moment – he would have said a few short, sharp words. As things were, he could only sit and hope, however stupidly, that he was experiencing yet another nightmare from which he would wake in a moment or two. Of late, Liam Bell and Maureen Costigan had figured in the less pleasant of Anthony’s dreams.
Maureen rose carefully and placed her crockery on the mantelpiece. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘I’ve been looking after Mr Bell.’ She smiled fondly at the recovering invalid. ‘He’s getting better now.’ She tightened the scarf at her throat and awarded both men a smile that was supposed to be seductive. ‘Ta-ra, Father,’ she trilled. Then she turned to Anthony. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, her tone suddenly husky.
When the young madam had left, Liam placed himself in the chair she had vacated. Like many priests, he treated the houses of others as if they were an extension of the church and presbytery. Even here, where his welcome was not assured, he made himself at home.
‘What do you want, Liam?’
Anthony did not look ill at all. And he had been entertaining that cheap-looking girl, too. ‘I heard you had been sick, so I came to see how you are,’ said the priest.
When his teacup and saucer had been placed on the rug, Anthony rose to his feet. ‘I don’t recall asking for Extreme Unction – when I do need a priest, I’ll send for a real one. And I don’t remember inviting you in.’ His voice was quiet.
‘Do I need an invitation?’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ was the quick reply, ‘because you’ll never receive one.’
Liam remained very still. It didn’t matter. This man could say and do nothing that would have the slightest chance of damaging an ordained priest. ‘That business is long past and best forgotten,’ he said. For much of the time, Liam really did forget the past. Occasionally, he even managed to believe that nothing had happened, that it had all been a strange story that he had read somewhere.
Anthony nodded. ‘It’s long past, I agree. And Val’s long dead.’ He concentrated on his breathing, prayed that he might stay free from one of his coughing bouts. ‘It must be twenty years since you threw me in the river.’ His tone was normal, conversational. ‘I think we were eight when you broke my arm, a little bit younger when you knocked out two of my teeth.’ The clock marked beats of time for a few seconds. ‘And you killed Val five years ago.’
‘Rubbish,’ snarled the hallowed visitor.
Anthony nodded pensively. ‘The police said the same thing. They thought I was in shock. But even if I was in shock, I knew you. I knew you then and I know you now.’
Liam stared straight ahead, seemed to look through his brother. ‘I am only glad that my father and grandmother didn’t get to hear about that foul accusation.’
Anthony laughed, though the hollow sound contained no joy. ‘If my allegation had been empty, you would have run to Dad and told him. You would have been delighted to inform the family about how wrong and how cruel I was, how I had tried to blacken your name with the police. But you kept quiet.’
‘I was a priest,’ snarled Liam.
‘And a murderer. Now, because of your sins, you are condemned to eternal damnation – isn’t that the case? If you go to confession without telling all, if you partake of Holy Communion while in a state of mortal sin – isn’t that a sacrilege?’
Liam continued to stare, but his eyelids blinked slowly. Anthony was saying all these things, but Liam could scarcely bring to mind the sequence of events that had led to the quarrel.
‘You are so sick,’ whispered Anthony. ‘So sick and so evil. You forget, don’t you? If the past is unsavoury, you just file it away in a drawer marked miscellaneous. You genuinely manage to wipe out all the things you don’t need to remember. But I remember, brother. Oh yes, I can’t erase any of it.’
Liam licked his upper lip. He was the priest; he was in charge. The things Anthony spoke of were part of another time, a different life. ‘Anything I have done wrong has been confessed and forgiven,’ he said clearly.
‘Get out,’ snapped Anthony. He leaned over the chair in which his brother sat. ‘Even the pope himself could not absolve a murderer – not without the intervention of state authorities. To be absolved, you would need to confess to the church and to the police. Out, now. Or I’ll find the strength to kick you the length of this street.’
Liam jumped up, staggered back, then threw himself out of the house.
Anthony, his breathing suddenly laboured, sank to the rug and gasped for oxygen. How could the man just walk in here like that? After a minute or so, his heart slowed and his head stopped spinning. As slowly as an old man, he placed his weary bones in the chair. He was cold, chilled to the marrow in spite of a healthy coal fire in the grate.
Icy sweat poured down his face, stung his eyes. Dear God, would he never be free of Liam? He remembered. Oh yes, he remembered, felt the pain in his head, in his arm, felt the water closing over his face. ‘You’ll die,’ Liam had spat before throwing his twin into the Mersey. Anthony had been no swimmer, but a docker had rescued him. ‘An accident,’ Sam Bell had declared while visiting Anthony in hospital.
Girls. The girls had always found Anthony attractive. One by one, Liam had picked them off, had bought them little gifts, had bribed them so that they would change allegiance.
Anthony shifted his head and looked at a pale photograph of the mother he had never known. ‘He came close to rape many times before actually committing it, I’m sure,’ he told the faded picture. Of course, the assaulted girls had not lived in this parish – they had been culled from streets nearer to the city itself.
Liam had needed to be angry. In his calmer phases, he had not been particularly interested in females. Anger gave him false power, aroused him to a semblance of manhood. ‘I should have spoken up then,’ he whispered. ‘Fourteen or more years ago when I heard about girls hysterical and with torn clothes.’ He swallowed painfully. ‘But I didn’t. I was young and ashamed of him. And the Parliament Street girls never spoke up, either.’ He nodded, swallowed a sob. ‘He probably disguised himself, anyway. So clever, our Liam. And it’s too late now.’
He closed his eyes and leaned back. Liam had become a priest for several reasons, none of them sound. Firstly, the priesthood would gain for him the acclamation he required – no – demanded. Secondly, he knew that Anthony would never match this wonderful achievement. Thirdly, Liam was incapable of leading a life that involved wife and children. Fourthly, the cloth would give him power and a degree of immunity. Father Liam Bell was now a worthy cleric. He toiled ceaselessly for the poor of Blackburn, was a guiding light in his parish, was intelligent enough to rise through the ranks – parish priest, Monsignor, bishop.
Anthony’s eyes flew open. God forbid that the creature should ever become a cardinal. Liam had built a fortress around himself. The materials he had used were holy, impenetrable. If Anthony wanted to make a fool of himself by telling the church hierarchy that his brother was a pervert, Liam would ride any such storm without effort.
He stood up, poured medicine into a spoon, gulped down the foul-tasting concoction. It was his inability to warn the world that made him sad and fearful. Liam had taken away everything Anthony had enjoyed or valued, from toys to intended bride. The savage creature had probably placed everything in the one category. The killing of Val would have been no more significant than the loosening of a bicycle wheel. Absently, Anthony rubbed his arm. The upper bone had suffered a green-stick fracture when the bicycle had fallen apart beneath him on Great Homer Street.
Back in his chair, he coughed until his body was weak. He was weak, all right. There must have been something he could have done to impede Liam’s destructive journey through life. He inhaled until the convulsive movements of his chest abated. ‘I could have killed him, I suppose,’ he said aloud. ‘I could have descended to his level. By ridding society of him, I might have saved a lot of grief.’
But although he sat and pondered for hours, he knew he was covering familiar ground and that there was no solution. The fact remained that Anthony Bell was not a killer. The man with whom he had shared a womb was the murderer, but who would believe a tale as tall as that? The answer, as ever, was no-one.
Bridie’s table glowed with pride and silver. She had spent the whole of New Year’s Eve cooking, had risen today at five o’clock in order to set out the feast. According to Diddy Costigan, Richard and Edith Spencer were ‘classy’. ‘She grew into her face,’ Diddy had proclaimed. ‘She wasn’t nice-looking as a young woman, but she’s handsome in her middle years.’ Bridie rubbed an imagined spot from a knife, folded muslin cloths around sandwiches to prevent staleness.
Sam came in and surveyed the scene. ‘Our Edith will think she’s got off at the wrong tram stop,’ he said.
Bridie paused, cake-slice held aloft. ‘Are they coming on a tram, then?’
He shook his head, even managed a faint smile. Bridie was getting to him. In spite of himself, Sam Bell was becoming rather fond of his wife. Had he loved before? he wondered. Had he loved poor Maria? ‘By tram?’ he asked, squashing a laugh. ‘Oh no. They travel by car. Richard’s a doctor, so he has to have his own transport. And Edith does a lot of charity work, takes sick children to Blackpool and helps out at the hospitals.’
‘Are they rich?’ asked Bridie.
Sam considered the question. ‘Well, it depends what you mean by rich. They’ve land. Richard’s dad was a gentleman farmer, and Richard kept the farm on, but it’s run by tenants. They’ve livestock and big gardens. They’ve a sizeable house and no children. Yes, I suppose they’re better off than most.’
Bridie glanced down at her wedding suit. It had come up fairly well after a spongeing, but it wasn’t the height of fashion. She felt a bit shabby, a bit of a country bumpkin. Like many of those who had toiled under landlords, she had an overdeveloped respect for anyone who owned acreage. ‘Do I look all right?’
Sam stared at her. ‘What?’
‘Am I dressed well enough?’
He blinked rapidly. She was lovely, she looked radiant and very pretty. ‘Er . . . yes, you look fine to me.’
Bridie considered her husband’s suit. She had cleaned that, too, but it had seen better days, as had the shoes. ‘Sam, you got married in that, didn’t you?’
He glanced down. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘It’s very old,’ she told him. ‘And you need shirts, too. With the girls and your mother and the shop, I can’t spend a lot of time turning collars.’ She straightened her spine. ‘To be truthful, we all need clothes, Sam.’
He considered the problem. If he gave her everything she wanted, she could spoil and become demanding, even selfish. No, no, she could never be like that. If he refused to listen, she might go back to Ireland. He could not imagine life without her. This was the first day in January, and she had arrived towards the end of November, but his life was so different now. He had not imagined that a second marriage could be so free of stress. There were no neighbours popping in to see to Muth and make a bit of dinner. Snacks of bread and dripping or charred toast were things of the past. He was well-fed, his house was clean, and his mother had found a new lease of life. ‘Get what you want,’ he told her. ‘And for the children, too.’
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘I’ll open an account,’ he promised rashly. ‘At Blackler’s or Bon Marché. Take your pick.’ Deliberately, he sat on the misgivings born of his frugal nature.
Bridie was flabbergasted, but she kept quiet. Back home, she had made her own clothes. The suit she wore at present had been ordered by post through a catalogue. A chance to acquire shop-bought clothes on a regular basis was very attractive.
The shop bell rang and Sam went off to greet the visitors. Bridie fussed with her hair, glanced at the clock and worried about Cathy. Shauna was upstairs with Muth, who had refused to come down until the ‘queer feller’ had been and gone. Cathy was with Anthony. Well, she hoped Cathy was with Anthony. What if the child had gone rooting around the back of Paddy’s Market again? What if she’d become involved in another of the Costigans’ naughty schemes?
The door opened and a tall, thin woman stepped in. She wore a simple black coat over a simple black suit, and everything about her screamed of money. Her shoes were good but plain, and she carried a vast handbag and a pair of kid gloves. ‘Bridget?’ She did not attempt a smile.
Bridie thought about curtseying. Timidly, she held out her hand. ‘Yes, I’m Bridie.’
Edith Spencer grasped the proffered hand and studied the young woman. ‘Do you eat properly?’ she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she swivelled and called to her husband, ‘Richard? Do come in, we are making a draught.’
Sam and Richard entered the room. Like his wife, Dr Richard Spencer was dark, tall and slender. He wore rimless spectacles, a goatee beard and a solid gold albert across his waistcoat. He marched in, shook Bridie’s hand and asked how she was.
‘Fine, sir,’ she managed.
‘Richard,’ he reminded her not unkindly. ‘My wife is Sam’s cousin. Sam’s mother and Edith’s mother were sisters.’ He lost interest and stalked off to correct the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘A whole minute slow,’ he informed his hosts. ‘A life can be saved in a minute.’
Edith removed her hat and coat, pushed the gloves into her handbag, then thrust the bundle at Sam. ‘Get rid of these,’ she said. ‘And tell Aunt Theresa I’ll be up in a few minutes.’
While Richard Spencer settled down with an old newspaper, the two women stood by the table. Bridie felt doubly awkward, because the guest was so sure, so confident. ‘Will I make some tea for you now?’
‘Not just yet, dear,’ replied Edith. ‘Liam will be along soon. We dropped him off lower down the road. He has gone to visit his brother.’
‘Oh dear.’ These words slipped from Bridie’s lips before she could check them.
Edith allowed a dry laugh to escape from her throat. ‘Never mind, Bridget. God alone knows what gets into those two boys, but it’s no worry of yours.’
The tension drained from the younger woman’s body. This lady seemed very nice, full of humour and kindness.
‘You’ve children of your own, I believe. You have enough problems. Oh, by the way, do you prefer Bridie?’
‘Er . . . yes, I do.’
‘Good. Bridie it is, then. Richard?’
The seated man glared over the top of his newspaper. ‘The world is in a terrible state,’ he declared, waving the sheet as if trying to kill it.
Edith lowered an eyelid in a half-wink. ‘Richard does not like newspapers,’ she explained. ‘They make him angry, but he will insist on buying them. He’s a doctor, so he should know how to cure his own disease, but he won’t listen.’
‘One has to keep up,’ said Richard.
Edith winked again at Bridie. Bridie, shocked to see a lady winking, dropped into a chair and waited for the pantomime to continue.
‘A British physicist is splitting atoms,’ said the doctor. ‘Do you know what that means, Edith?’
Edith didn’t know, and she admitted her ignorance readily.
Dr Spencer glared at the daily paper, seemed to blame the inanimate object for all the woes of mankind. ‘Energy,’ he roared. ‘Instant, cheap energy. No good will come of this discovery, mark my words.’
‘Oh, we shall mark your words, dear,’ murmured his wife reassuringly. ‘By the way, Bridget prefers Bridie. Isn’t she a pretty thing? Would you say she’s thin, though? Perhaps cod liver oil and malt, Richard?’
He looked at Bridie over the top of his spectacles. ‘Nothing wrong with her,’ declared the doctor. ‘Good Irish air has been her mainstay. Small bones, Edith. She would not carry weight, so she is better to remain on the slender side.’
Bridie bit her lip. She had been nervous to the point of terror, but now, while the two visitors discussed her physical construction, she wanted to giggle. It was a mixture of relief and hysteria, she told herself as the laughter escaped in spite of her best efforts. She leaned against the table and buried her face in her hands until she cried with the pain of mirth.
‘Look!’ said Edith. ‘You’ve upset this poor child, Richard.’ This statement sent Bridie into further uncontrollable paroxysms, as the poor man had done nothing wrong at all.
The doctor jumped up and came to the table.
Bridie raised her tear-stained face. ‘You make me sound . . . sound like a cow at the . . . oh, saints preserve me . . . at the fair. No, no,’ she shrieked. ‘More like a horse. A horse that’s . . . seen better days and won’t . . . oh dear . . . won’t carry weight. Am I ready to be melted for glue?’
Richard Spencer threw back his head and roared with laughter that seemed too big for his body. Edith joined Bridie at the table and chuckled loudly. ‘Sense of humour, Bridie,’ she declared, delight in her words, ‘that will see you through many a crisis.’
A crisis chose this instant in time to announce itself through the scullery door. A very dirty Cathy was dragged in by the tight-faced Liam Bell, who, in turn, was pursued by Noel. The dog growled, because a stranger was manhandling Cathy.
Immediately, Bridie was sober, though the echo of unseemly merriment seemed to reverberate round the kitchen for several further seconds. ‘Cathy,’ she said finally, her tone carrying more sadness than anger, ‘whatever have you been up to this time?’
Liam glared at his father’s wife. He had heard the conviviality, and was not pleased to discover that Bridie was enjoying life. She was just another jumped-up madam, a creature with her eye on the main chance. Well, he would speak to Dad later, would make sure that Sam realized that this colleen and her brats deserved nothing out of Bell’s Pledges. Dad’s money should go to the Church where it rightfully belonged. ‘This child was with the Costigans,’ he said tightly. ‘I saw her and brought her home.’ He curled his lip at Bridie. ‘She should not be allowed to associate with those dishonest people.’
A coldness entered Bridie’s breast at that moment, as if her inner core tried to reflect the ice in Liam’s face. ‘Children play,’ she informed him. ‘When a child is clean all the while, a mother worries. Little ones learn through play. We can’t expect Cathy to be clean when the streets are dirty and wet.’
‘What they learn depends on their choice of companions,’ spat the cleric.
Bridie decided to ignore him, though she did wonder whether that might be a sin. After all, a priest represented the Holy Father in Rome who, in his turn, embodied the one true Catholic and Apostolic faith. But this Liam had a cruel set to his jaw and a face like a month of wet Sundays. She grabbed the child and pulled her towards the dresser. ‘What were you doing?’
‘Playing cherry-wobs.’
‘She was on a bicycle,’ interspersed Liam.
‘Cherry-wobs?’
Cathy nodded. ‘You flick fruit stones up a drainpipe and when they fall out into the gulley, they hit some other stones and then you win all of them.’ She put a hand in her pocket and pulled out some disgusting cherry innards that looked as old as time itself. ‘They’ve been vinegared and dried to make them last.’
‘With no saddle,’ said Liam.
Bridie tutted. ‘You’re filthy, child.’
‘And no brakes. Her shoes will be ruined.’
Cathy sighed resignedly. ‘I got on the bike after I’d won the cherry-wobs,’ she said. She tried to look at the priest, could not quite manage to meet his eyes. He had very nasty eyes. ‘And I can ride standing up on a horse or a bicycle,’ she declared, mostly for his benefit.
Edith stepped to the fore. ‘You’ll come clean,’ she advised Cathy gravely. ‘But riding on a bicycle with no brakes can be dangerous. Shall we go upstairs to Aunt Theresa’s bathroom and get you clean? Then you can tell me about your adventures.’ She smiled at Bridie, nodded towards her nephew and removed the offending child from the scene.
‘You should keep a closer watch on her,’ said Liam.
Sam bustled in from the shop. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I heard someone knocking on my way downstairs. It was Mrs Charnley wanting her blankets, so I had to open up for her. Of course, she decided she needed a long chat.’ He looked from Liam to Bridie to Richard. ‘Where’s Edith?’
‘Cleaning the child,’ snapped Liam. ‘Catherine wants watching. I found her doing about fifty miles an hour on an old boneshaker of a bike. She shouldn’t be out when you have visitors. That girl needs to be taught some manners. Her mother should be keeping a closer watch on Catherine’s behaviour. The girl ought to have some discipline.’
Sam dropped his chin, thought for a moment. This was one of the many times when Liam was not quite likeable. ‘The little girl’s name is Caitlin, not Catherine,’ he said finally. ‘My wife knows exactly how to deal with the girls.’ Then he raised his head and looked Liam full in the face. Bridie must stay. He wasn’t going to stand still and allow Liam to strengthen the case for returning to Ireland. ‘Things are well in hand here, Liam. So you need not concern yourself.’
Bridie was dumbfounded for the second time this day. Here was Sam sticking up for her after he’d promised shop-bought clothes for herself and the girls. She knew what he was up to but, all the same, he wasn’t a man who parted easily with money. He must value her, or he would not have volunteered to open a clothing account. Also, he was holding his own with Liam, who was usually discussed with reverence and in hushed tones.
Liam Bell’s heart seemed to stand still for a second or two. Something told him not to inform Dad of the visit to Anthony’s house. He had intended to take his father aside at some point, had meant to describe Anthony’s attitude. But this was not the time, Liam advised himself. Not that he had anything to hide or regret. Oh no, he had atoned in full for any little sins he might have committed. Liam’s work was the work of God, so righteousness was on Liam’s side. Nevertheless, he would keep certain things to himself for now.
Noel crept past the dresser and tried to hide himself behind Bridie’s skirt. Because of his size, he failed miserably, so he curled into a tight ball. The atmosphere did not suit him. Cathy had left the room, and he felt the tension.
‘What is that?’ snarled Liam.
Sam sat down in his usual chair. ‘It’s a dog.’
Liam shook his head. ‘All the starving people in the world, and you decide to feed an animal.’
Bridie felt herself heating up. The ice melted beneath the ferocity of her anger, yet she remained outwardly composed. ‘There are things of value in the shop, Father Bell,’ she said. ‘Noel is a guard dog. He earns his dinners.’
‘I know there are items of value here,’ said the priest meaningfully.
Richard Spencer broke the ensuing silence by clapping Liam on the back. ‘Happy New Year,’ he said jovially. ‘Let’s help Bridget – I mean Bridie – by making the tea, shall we? After all, we can’t have the ladies thinking we are completely useless, can we?’
Sam and Richard shuffled about with kettle, teapot and caddy, but Liam Bell remained where he was. He stared hard at Bridie, was momentarily nonplussed when she did not lower her eyes. This one thought she was brave, then. She had travelled all the way from Ireland to get her hands on dad’s money.
Without moving her eyes, Bridie dug in the table drawer. She held Liam’s stare when she spoke. ‘Sam?’
‘What?’ He turned from the fireplace.
‘Here you are,’ said his wife. ‘A little gift to mark the new year.’ She placed a packet of Players Weights on the table. ‘That will save you rolling your own tonight, Sam.’
Edith Spencer sat with Aunt Theresa while Cathy splashed about in the little bathroom. Aunt Theresa looked ages younger than she had last year. ‘Bridie’s done a lot for you.’
Theresa grinned gummily. ‘She has that. Forced me to crawl on me hands and knees to get me dinner. Always left it near the door, she did. Tricked me into getting out of bed.’
Edith kept quiet. Like everyone else, she knew that Theresa Bell’s supposed inability to move about had been born of grief and obstinacy. Theresa had worshipped Anthony. After Liam’s ordination, something major had happened between the two boys. Although no-one knew the precise details of the argument, Edith was not surprised by the rift. Liam had given Aunt Theresa one hell of a life, had made his twin’s days miserable, too.
‘Did you bring the queer feller with you?’
Edith nodded. ‘We dropped him off along the road. He went to visit someone.’
‘That’d be Father Brennan,’ said the old woman. ‘There’s not many houses round here where that bugger could expect the welcome mat. As for red carpets – he’ll see none of them.’
Edith thought about mentioning Liam’s intention to call on his brother, but decided against it. Talking about the past was fine, but there was no point in causing the old woman to worry about any further arguments between her grandsons.
Edith Spencer’s biggest regret in life was that she had never borne a child. Cousin Sam’s wife had given birth to twin boys, then poor Maria had died within weeks. Edith had offered to rear the twins, but Aunt Theresa had kept them. And the boys hated one another. It was such a pity. Where there should have been joy, there had been years of agony. ‘Liam was never easy to manage,’ she said now.
Theresa let forth a hollow chuckle. ‘I never had a minute’s peace. Even before they were weaned, that one wanted more milk, more rocking, more attention.’ Her face softened. ‘Anthony used to just stop where I put him. Eeh, that lad’s a good one.’
Edith fiddled with the cameo at her throat. ‘Sam’s hard to understand. He telephoned Richard and told him about Anthony’s illness, yet he won’t visit him. Whatever happens, Sam seems to stand by Liam.’
Theresa sighed. ‘That’s a Catholic education for you. They have it drummed in that they’ve got to have respect for priests, as if priests are perfect.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But deep down, our Sam knows. He won’t face things, our Sam. Always takes the easiest road, never wants trouble. So he’s sided with what looks like good. But he’s not as daft as he makes out.’
Sam was not daft at all, thought Edith. He had built up a thriving business in an area of poverty, had taken on a capable young wife who would tend him in his dotage after caring for his mother. ‘So you won’t come down for something to eat, Aunt Theresa?’
‘When he’s gone. I’ve no intention of breaking bread with him. Whatever happened all them years ago, it must have been serious. Our Anthony’s never borne a grudge for this length of time before. No, I’ll come downstairs when Liam’s gone.’
‘When he goes, we go with him, I’m afraid.’
‘Then I’ll have my tea up here and I’ll see you next time.’ Theresa pursed her lips for a moment. ‘Edith?’
‘Yes?’
‘We were good mates as well as sisters, me and your mam.’
‘I know that.’
‘I could ask her anything and she’d not let me down.’
Edith kept quiet, sensed that something of moment was about to be disclosed.
‘There’s these two horses,’ said Theresa at last. ‘A brown one and a white one.’
Edith maintained her silence.
‘I want you to take them home with you.’
The visitor nodded slowly. ‘Shall I put them in the front seat of the car or in the back? Or would they be better strapped to the roof?’
Theresa grinned. ‘Don’t start, Edith. I’m not messing now. See, our Sam got paid for taking Bridie on. Her dad’s a miserable old bugger, wanted her out of Ireland and away from her dead husband’s lot – they’re not Catholics. So he gave our Sam these bloody racehorses. From what I’ve heard, they’ve been leading the gypsies a merry dance. Any road, to cut a long story down to size, our Sam’s given Bridie these horses.’
Edith was surprised. She did not think of Sam as a generous type. In fact, the spread downstairs was quite exceptional. In the past, when Edith and Richard had visited at New Year or while on business in Rodney Street, they had been lucky to get a cup of tea and a fish-paste sandwich. ‘Why?’ she asked simply.
The older woman shrugged. ‘Well, for one, Bridie found out about the little arrangement, so happen our Sam’s ashamed. And for two, Bridie’s thinking of beggaring off back to Ireland.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye.’ Theresa leaned forward and dropped her voice to an even quieter whisper. Cathy was singing in the bath, but children had good hearing. ‘That one in there’s running a bit wild.’
‘Cathy?’
‘She’s a bright girl, a bit high-strung, but clever. Bridie doesn’t want the child’s cleverness to be turned to bad ways. A lot of criminals are clever, you know. If some of them in prisons had got a bit of a chance, they’d have used their brains well. Bridie’s scared of staying here, so the horses are Sam’s idea of getting Bridie to stay. She’s horse mad. So’s Cathy. She likes animals, that little girl. Have you seen yon dog?’
Edith nodded.
‘If she loves that thing, Cathy must have a good heart. Anyway, we want these here horses stabled and trained.’
‘I’ll do all I can, of course.’
Theresa patted her niece’s hand. ‘I knew you would, love. Aye, there’s a lot of our Ida in you.’
Edith went to get Cathy from the bathroom. For a few moments, she stood in the doorway and watched the child splashing and laughing, then she lifted her out and enveloped her in a towel. In that moment, while she dried Cathy’s hair, Edith realized how much she would have loved a daughter. Especially one like Cathy.