The Bells of Scotland Road (58 page)

‘That windmill’s an eyesore,’ grumbled a member of the deputation. ‘Some child will get hurt up there soon.’

Diddy glanced in the direction of the mill, knew that her own children had been up and down the building since learning to walk. From the top, there was a wonderful view right down to the river
and all the way past the Rotunda Theatre towards Bootle. They couldn’t shift everybody, surely? But in her bones, Diddy knew that it was only a matter of time before the bigwigs turned up
with a yardbrush and a handful of meaningless promises. It would be Kirkby and Huyton, families split up, grandparents miles away, kids heartbroken.

She thought about the schools, those Victorian piles where several generations had learned to read, write and calculate. What would happen to them and to the churches? What about the businesses
hereabouts? The time had come to speak up, she told herself. With a smile plastered across her face, she addressed Mrs Craddock. ‘Nice to see you,’ she said brightly. ‘Last time
you were here was during that scarlet fever, wasn’t it? I remember you bringing fruit for the Nolans.’

Betty recognized Diddy. Mrs Costigan was an ally. She didn’t want to see the area broken up, didn’t trust her elected representatives to do the right thing. ‘Hello, Mrs
Costigan. Dryden Street, isn’t it? Let me see – you’ve a Maureen, a Monica and a Mathilda – am I right?’ Betty prided herself on her grass roots approach.

Diddy looked the men over. Her Billy would make ten times the three of them put together. ‘That’s right, Mrs Craddock,’ she replied sweetly. ‘I know you, Ernie
Boswell,’ she continued. ‘You were in my class at school. Remember when your mam sent you down the ha’penny plunge to get clean?’ She winked at him, then addressed his
companions. ‘His cozzy was an old wool jumper sewn up at the hem with two holes for his legs. He had very thin legs, did Ernie.’ She sniffed, looked at Ernie’s trousers. ‘I
reckon they’re still on the puny side. Anyway, he jumped in the plunge and his cozzy got waterlogged. Came up as naked as a newborn, didn’t you, lad?’ She awarded the unhappy chap
a hefty blow across his shoulders.

Betty Craddock took a sudden interest in a chest of drawers in Bell’s window. Her broad back shook with suppressed glee, but she didn’t like to be seen making fun of folk.

Diddy addressed the delegation. ‘Going to pull us all down, are you? This is a thriving area, you know. There’s none of us’ll go quietly. Can you imagine taking thousands of us
out of here all kicking and screaming?’

Swarbeck made much of checking his watch.

‘Look,’ said Diddy, ‘over there – best piano shop in Liverpool, that is. Then there’s Annie’s Antiques – she gets people from all over the world buying
her stuff. Same with Bell’s.’ She jerked a thumb towards the shop. ‘We work for Bell’s, me, my husband and two of my children. There’s a big future on this road,
because everybody knows where to come for a good deal. You’ll take the belly out of Liverpool if you rip down Scotland Road.’

The men shifted from foot to foot.

Betty turned round, her features back in order. ‘It would be better to make a positive plan to improve and revitalize,’ she said.

Diddy nodded vigorously. ‘You can start with the Comus Street courts,’ she suggested. ‘We’ll take care of our own while you build some decent places. The families can
spread round and double up, or they can go and stop with relatives for a while.’

Betty agreed up to a point. ‘There’s sense in that, Mrs Costigan, though we’d need a better plan for temporary rehousing. But I take your point.’ She sniffed the air.
‘Do you know, I can smell Thorn’s Cocoa Rooms from here. That pudding they make with the sugar crust – I remember having two helpings with custard. Then there’s
Polly’s in Currie Street—’

‘Stuffed heart, ribs and cabbage,’ said Diddy. ‘Tuppence a bowl, all you can eat.’

‘We are not here to discuss menus, Mrs Craddock,’ snarled Swarbeck.

‘What are you here for?’ asked Diddy. ‘For the good of your health?’

A muscle twitched in the man’s cheek.

Diddy rattled on. ‘What about the Gaiety and the Gem and the Adelphi? What’ll happen to the picture houses if there’s nobody here to buy tickets?’

Swarbeck sighed deeply. ‘Mrs Costigan, the density of population in this area dictates that something must be done. The children are in danger. They are begging for food from the dockers,
they hurt themselves leaping across from one entry wall to another, they get drowned in the canal.’

Diddy knew that he was speaking the truth. Jim Clarke, the strongest swimmer in the city, was always being sent for to drag children out of the water. Sometimes, Jim was too late. But however
often the young were told, they still spent time leaping into the ‘Scaldy’, a stretch of waterway heated by the discharge of hot fluids from Tate’s sugar refinery.
‘They’d play wherever they lived,’ she answered. ‘Children are always doing daft things. My Jimmy could have an accident in an empty room – that’s how lads
are.’

‘There are too many children here,’ replied Swarbeck.

Diddy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh well, that’s because we’re Catholics. All we do is booze and breed – didn’t you know? Ernie’ll tell you about that,
because he’s a Catholic.’ She looked at Ernie and Ernie looked at the pavement.

Two boys shot round the corner on bicycles hired from the Penny Rip. For a penny an hour, they had the dubious privilege of travelling at great speed, usually without the benefit of brakes. Any
child who insisted on luxuries like brakes was deemed to be yellow. One rider stopped his progress by colliding with Diddy, sending her reeling against the shop wall.

‘Now, do you see what I mean?’ asked Swarbeck, his eyes gleaming.

Diddy pulled herself together with the help of Betty Craddock. ‘Listen, you,’ she said to Swarbeck, ‘come near my house and I’ll bloody swing for you. Get the places
cleaned up, but leave us where we are.’

Betty held on to Diddy’s arm. ‘Are you all right, girl?’

‘Yes,’ snapped Diddy. ‘But I won’t be if these buggers don’t get back where they came from. Go on,’ she yelled. ‘Back to your big desks and your leather
chairs.’ She nodded at Betty Craddock. ‘It’s all down to you,’ she told the woman. ‘And there’s only one of you.’

Betty smiled. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But let’s face it, I’m a bloody big one, aren’t I?’

Diddy watched the group as they walked away. She tried to see Scotland Road through their eyes, tried to imagine what they would think of her piece of Liverpool. It was a bit smelly, she
supposed. There were children cavorting about on tram tracks, children climbing lampposts and racing about all over the place.

She thought about Astleigh Fold, its quietness, its cleanliness. It was all right for a holiday, she thought, but she couldn’t live there. She needed the trams and the bagwash and the Mary
Ellens. She could not bear to consider the prospect of life without Paddy’s Market and the street entertainers who crowded the area on Friday and Saturday nights. Even drunken brawls provided
a degree of entertainment.

The door of Bell’s flew open and Billy stepped onto the pavement.

‘They’re looking again,’ she told him, her eyes still fixed on the departing committee. ‘Bloody corporation, bloody welfare do-gooders.’

‘Diddy,’ he said.

Something in his voice made her swing round quickly to face him. ‘Billy? What’s happened?’ She had seldom seen her Billy crying like this.

‘It’s Maureen,’ he managed.

‘What?’ She clapped a hand on her chest. ‘Billy? What’s happened – tell me!’

‘She spoke,’ he muttered. ‘Diddy, she spoke. Edith just told me on the phone. Our Maureen’s coming out of it.’

Diddy gathered her thoughts quickly. Maureen had come partway out of her trance before, and Diddy had always hoped for a total recovery. ‘Get our Monica off the market, Billy. I’ll
fetch somebody to look after Mrs Bell while Charlie and Monica run the shop. Jimmy and Tildy can stop at Bell’s, too. We’ll take little Shauna with us. Run down to Hanson’s for
her.’ Dolly Hanson had been taking care of Shauna during Bridie’s absence. It was strange, mused Diddy, how well Bridie got on with her dead da’s bit of stuff.

Diddy’s heart was all over the place. ‘We’re going to see our girl,’ she told her husband repeatedly as if trying to make herself believe the good news.

Before leaving, Diddy went up to see Sam Bell’s Muth. The old woman was standing in the middle of her bedroom, hands reaching out as if twisting and turning some invisible handle.
‘What are you doing now?’ asked Diddy. ‘Florrie Moss is going to look after you for a couple of days while me and Billy go—’

‘You’ll have to speak up,’ yelled Muth. ‘I can’t hear you over all these bloody machines.’

‘What are you doing?’ shouted Diddy.

‘Piecing me ends,’ replied Muth. ‘Pass us that skip of tubes, will you?’

Diddy found herself wheeling an invisible container across the bedroom. ‘Here you are, Muth.’ God forbid that Maureen would emerge from her silence like this, confused and agitated.
‘Florrie’ll do your dinner.’

The old woman’s hands dropped to her side as she paid a brief visit to the present day. ‘No dumplings,’ she said. ‘I can’t be doing with Florrie Moss’s
dumplings. Like bloody lead weights, they are.’

‘It’s all right,’ answered Diddy. ‘I’ve a pan of scouse ready, so our Jimmy can fetch that round.’ She watched for a while as the aged lady carried on doffing
tubes and piecing cotton ends. ‘God forbid,’ Diddy pleaded as she descended the stairs. ‘Please God, forbid.’

Brother Nicholas always felt uncomfortable in the presence of Martin Waring. This lay member of the community was knowledgeable – far too well-read for a man from a
supposedly poor family, a man who had been driven by deprivation into a life of petty crime. Yet there was nothing on which Brother Nicholas could lay a finger. Waring was correct, hard-working and
an eager student. ‘It’s as if you have always been a Catholic,’ he said.

Martin sat bolt upright. He had not been a Catholic, had not even existed until recently. However, Martin had been on close terms with a baptized and confirmed member of the faith, but Liam had
to stay out of things for now. Liam was not yet needed and Martin was forced to stand alone. ‘I have not been a Catholic,’ he replied. ‘But I have read many books about my chosen
religion.’

The senior brother wiped his brow. He had not felt so ill at ease for many years, not since a murder suspect had been arrested just outside the Tithebarn’s walls. His flesh almost crept
beneath the unflinching gaze of this tall, dark-eyed personage. Perhaps the beard had added to the sinister appearance. The man’s hair was as black as jet, while the eyes seldom displayed
emotion of any kind. ‘So, you will receive your baptism tomorrow. Will you keep your Christian name?’

‘Martin John,’ came the swift reply. ‘John for the apostle dearly loved by Jesus.’

‘I see. A very good choice.’ The monk shuffled some papers on his desk. ‘Will any of your family attend the service?’ He kept his tone light.

‘No, Brother.’

‘Oh. What a pity.’

‘Those who are alive are antagonistic towards Catholicism,’ said Martin. ‘In fact, I happen to have relatives who are members of an Orange Lodge. They would not be thrilled at
the idea of my conversion.’

‘Quite.’ Brother Nicholas glanced at the clock, tried to appear nonchalant. ‘Where do you come from?’

‘St Helens.’

The reply was rather glib, thought Brother Nicholas. ‘I know St Helens,’ he said. ‘Which part?’

‘Eccleston.’ Martin’s mind shifted into a higher gear. ‘Latterly, that is. I lived with an aunt for a while.’

‘Near to the park?’

‘Quite close, yes.’

Eccleston was not the poorest area in St Helens. So Martin Waring’s aunt must have been comfortably placed. ‘You stayed with her after your release from prison?’

‘Until I came here, yes. Her husband – my uncle – is a lodge member. I could not have remained in his house.’

Brother Nicholas played for a second or two with the idea of research. Perhaps he should look into the Warings of St Helens. But the aunt might have been from the mother’s side, and names
were always changed by marriage. He sighed. ‘There’s a task for you on Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I want you to accompany Brother Timothy to a school in Bolton. It’s Sacred
Heart. We have been invited to talk to the older girls about our work here. You have a way with words, so perhaps you might like to listen to Brother Timothy. He likes company.’ He coughed.
‘In this case, I think he will be grateful for company. The headmistress is a Mother Ignatius. She has a reputation as a tartar, but she is open to new approaches within the
syllabus.’

Martin swallowed. The name Ignatius was touching a slightly sore spot in his mind. But he could not refuse. Although the term ‘abbot’ was not applied to Brother Nicholas, the man was
the undisputed leader of the
frères
. ‘Gladly,’ Martin replied.

Brother Nicholas nodded curtly. ‘You may return to your duties,’ he said.

Martin escaped from the office and stood in the corridor. Liam knew Ignatius, he thought. But Ignatius did not know Martin, so everything would remain under control.

Mother Ignatius swept along the corridor like a very small black ship in full sail. Girls from the sixth form stood quietly by the walls. They were accompanied by three
postulants and two novices whose education was being completed while they waited to be received into the sisterhood.

Cathy O’Brien, who had toothache and a passionate dislike for algebra, was seated outside Sister Josephine’s office. Sister Josephine was a jill of all trades. She served as bursar,
school secretary, meals supervisor, welfare officer and troubleshooter. Because of her total faith in iodine, Sister Josphine enjoyed a reputation for grievous bodily harm. Girls had been known to
suffer in silence rather than take themselves off to Sister Josephine for first aid. Many opted to drop blood all over the homeward-bound tram rather than choosing to put themselves in the grip of
Sister Josephine and her iodine. Toothache was all right, though. With toothache, you got a bit of cotton wool soaked in oil of cloves. As the good sister did not like to invade the mouths of
pupils, girls were in trust to apply these dressings themselves.