The Bells of Scotland Road (16 page)

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.

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.