The Bells of Scotland Road (59 page)

Mother Ignatius ground to a halt. ‘Why are you here, Caitlin?’ she asked.

‘Toothache, Mother.’

‘Since when?’

Cathy raised her eyebrows and thought. ‘Since lunch-time, Mother.’

‘I see.’ The nun rattled her rosary, put Cathy in mind of one of those ghosts in
A Christmas Carol
. Marley. Marley had rattled his chains. ‘What are you missing?’
asked Mother.

‘Algebra,’ whispered Cathy.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Algebra, Mother.’

‘Ah.’ Mother Ignatius put her head on one side. ‘So. It’s algebra that gives you trouble, is it not?’ The algebra was probably the cause of the child’s
toothache.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what, Caitlin?’

‘Yes, Mother.’ The trouble with nuns was that they always demanded their full title. Sometimes, they could be quite pleasant and friendly, lulling their charges into a sense of
security that was usually false. Because as soon as a girl slipped into normal speech, she was dragged over the coals because of a missed ‘Mother’ or a forgotten
‘Sister’.

‘Do you really have toothache?’ asked the headmistress.

‘Yes, Mother. It’s a pre-molar coming through before the milk tooth has fallen out.’

Mother Ignatius squashed a smile. Young Caitlin had been at Richard Spencer’s medical books again. ‘You will ask Miss Cookson for extra algebra homework. It is important that you
keep up.’

Cathy didn’t care about keeping up, since most of the girls in her class were two years her senior. She could always repeat a year. Mammy was rich now, because she had bred the Derby
winner and—

‘Do not make the fatal error of becoming complacent,’ said Mother Ignatius. ‘It is so easy just to sit back and think that everything will come easily for the rest of your
life. I have had clever little girls in my school before. They sometimes burn out as quickly as a firework. You must strive, extend yourself, reach for better and better results.’

Cathy swallowed a sigh. ‘Yes, Mother.’

‘And don’t sit all hunchbacked. You’ll end up with a curvature of the spine.’

Cathy had read about curvatures. According to Uncle Richard’s bone book, a curvature was more likely to be something a person had from birth. But she closed her mouth, straightened her
shoulders and decided to shut up. Often, silence was preferable, as few of the nuns admired a clever-clogs whose knowledge went beyond the school curriculum.

A sixth-former giggled and won one of Mother Ignatius’s steely glares. The headmistress looked along the rows of star pupils, fifty young women who were hoping for university places or a
chance to go to teacher-training colleges. ‘The two gentlemen we expect will be coming from a monastery. Their order is called
Les Frères de la Croix de St Pierre
. Translate,
please.’ She prodded her nearest victim.

‘The Brothers of St Peter’s Cross, Mother.’

Mother Ignatius continued. ‘They work to help all those who have sinned. We have all sinned, have we not?’

‘Yes, Mother,’ chorused the girls.

‘But some sinners offend the state as well as God. Stand still, Gloria Baker. You will never be awarded a place at Oxford if you carry on fidgeting. Now, where was I? Ah yes. Men who leave
prison are often sad souls. Their families may have moved on or rejected them. So they need a place where they can sort out their future plans. The brothers provide such a place. Work like theirs
is admirable.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘You will listen carefully and you will ask intelligent questions when the lecture is over.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Carry on into the hall. Sit still and wait. You may talk quietly amongst yourselves once you are seated.’

‘Thank you, Mother.’ The twin crocodiles set off at a sedate pace along the corridor.

Mother Ignatius returned her attention to Cathy. ‘Do not avoid algebra,’ she said gravely. ‘Algebra is the basis of all logical thought.’

Although Cathy disagreed, she smiled brightly. ‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Mother Ignatius?’

The nun turned to find two men in blue-grey habits making their way towards her. ‘Brother Timothy?’ she asked.

‘Indeed,’ said the plumper and shorter man. ‘This is Brother Martin, Mother. He is a lay member of our house.’

Martin nodded curtly. He had chosen to wear the uniform of a monk for two reasons. Firstly, he wanted to be anonymous because of Liam. Secondly, he was supporting a brother on a mission to
spread the word.

Mother Ignatius swept an arm in the direction of the school hall. ‘Our sixth formers are waiting for you,’ she told the visitors.

Brother Timothy smiled at Cathy. ‘Toothache?’ he asked.

She nodded, kept a hand against her cheek.

‘This little one would be too young for our lecture, I suppose,’ chuckled Brother Timothy. ‘So Brother Martin and I must cope with your older girls.’

Mother Ignatius rattled her beads again. ‘Caitlin O’Brien’s mother owns the winner of this year’s Derby,’ she told the monks.

Martin blinked slowly. Liam knew Caitlin O’Brien. Those horses should have belonged to Liam’s father. And this was the daughter of the Irish whore. She, her sister and her mother had
deprived Liam Bell and the Catholic Church of their rightful inheritance.

‘Shall we go?’ asked Timothy.

Mother Ignatius remained at Cathy’s side for several minutes after the men had disappeared. Sister Beatrice was in charge now, and she would be introducing the
frères
to
their audience. The headmistress fixed her eyes on a large statue of the Sacred Heart. The nightlight was burning low in its red glass container. She would change it in a moment.

A door opened to reveal the large, cheery face of Sister Josephine. ‘Ah, Caitlin,’ beamed the happy woman, ‘toothache, is it? Come away in now till I find my oil of
cloves.’

The door closed.

Mother Ignatius was not a fanciful person. Although the day was warm she shivered in her summer-weight habit. A glance at the thermometer reassured the chilled lady that the temperature was in
the mid-seventies, yet she remained cold. In her mind’s eye, a pair of dark eyes glowed dully, almost malevolently, above a lush growth of beard.

Mother glanced towards the hall where her sixth formers were currently in the company of the one who owned those eyes. Silly, she told herself inwardly. She was far too busy to be standing here
shivering in the heat.

She renewed the flame beneath the statue, then carried on with her duties. Having accused many of her pupils of day-dreaming, she was not allowing herself to be guilty of the same misdemeanour.
But the pores on her arms remained open for much of the afternoon.

Monica-usually-Nicky Costigan looked almost beautiful in her borrowed frock. With excitement staining the pale cheeks, she lived up to her five feet and two inches by walking
proudly on this, her last hundred yards as a single girl. The small wedding procession made its way up Scotland Road towards the church, while bystanders placed their shopping on the pavement,
clapped, cheered and whistled at the bridal party.

Nicky, at eighteen, was about to embark upon a new life with Graham Pile, the love of her dreams. She progressed slowly towards the future, not because of reluctance, but so that all around
would get the chance to ooh and aah over the wedding dress. Mam had drawn the line at allowing Mrs Bell to buy a new outfit for Nicky, but Mam hadn’t been able to prevent Edith Spencer from
sending over a borrowed one from Bolton. The last girl to wear this lovely piece of silk was now a person of substance who had married a foreman in a textile mill.

Alice Makin narrowed her eyes and took a furtive swig from a medicine bottle. The medicine was a passable breed of gin that had been decanted into a container bearing the legend All Fours Cough
Cure. Beside Alice stood Molly Barnes, the retired prostitute whose life was now devoted to the running of the Welcome House. A few of Molly’s girls lingered behind the two women. Molly
turned to them. ‘See?’ she said. ‘You can get yourselves a proper man and a proper church wedding if you change your ways.’ She prodded a very tall girl. ‘Lily –
what have you come as?’

Lily shrugged. Knowing what to wear was one thing, but having nothing beyond working clothes was another problem altogether. She had rummaged through her sparse wardrobe, had come up with a
pea-green blouse and a tight black skirt. Her make-up was toned down to include scarlet lips and a smaller than usual dab of rouge on each cheek. ‘I’ve got nothing else,’ she
replied.

Molly decided that Lily might fit in very well with a travelling circus troupe, though she said no more. Encouragement was the thing. She had to be positive, had to boost the morale of her
lodgers and find them proper jobs.

Alice Makin took another swig of disguised gin. ‘It’s Bells to the left and Bells to the right,’ she grumbled. ‘With a few Costigans in between.’ Alice’s
business had suffered because of the Bells. Since Sam’s death, Mrs Bridie Bell had set herself up as a moneylender. The difference between Bridie and Alice was a matter of interest.
‘Ruined me, she has,’ mumbled the huge woman.

Molly Barnes flicked an eye over her companion. ‘If you don’t stop this daytime drinking, you’ll be waking up dead,’ she commented, her tone not unkind. ‘Mrs Bell
doesn’t go doubling their payments if they run short of cash,’ continued Molly. ‘And that’s why they all borrow off her instead.’

‘It’s the interest what keeps me alive,’ moaned Alice, her treble chin trembling with indignation. ‘She can afford to lend cheap, ’cos her old man left her a bloody
fortune and she makes a packet with her stud farm.’

‘Shut up,’ said Molly. ‘If you’ve nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.’

Alice grunted, then swallowed more ‘cough medicine’. Her business had dwindled to a mere trickle. ‘Bloody upstart,’ she cursed quietly. Still, Bridie Bell would be
getting her eye wiped any day now. Alice had whispered a few choice words into a few choice ears, because it wasn’t right. Nobody else seemed to bother about Bridie and Anthony Bell, but
Alice’s long-ignored religious knowledge was being used at last. The bold Bell trollop and her stepson were going to be knocked off their high horses, even if those horses had been racing
certainties.

Molly Barnes, a true romantic at heart, smiled tearfully as she watched the ongoings. Bridie Bell’s two daughters were bridesmaids, as was Tildy-Anne Costigan, but there was no sign of
Maureen. The girls looked lovely in their little blue dresses, though Tildy was making a pig’s ear out of the proceedings by waving and yelling at everyone she recognized.

Billy Costigan walked tall, his elder daughter by his side. Diddy would be waiting in the church with Bridie, the whole of Dryden Street and Sam’s mother. Sam’s mother was slipping
away into a world of her own, but she remained a caution. Maureen should have come, he told himself. She was doing all right, was working at the Sacred Heart school alongside young Cathy.

Nicky groaned. ‘Slow down, Dad. Let them all see my frock.’

Billy obliged. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘I must have quickened up without thinking.’ He measured his pace to suit hers. Their Maureen would not go near a church. She
hadn’t been to mass since . . . for three years or more. As a patient at the Good Shepherd, she had screamed and created when the nuns had tried to get her into chapel. At Sacred Heart, the
sisters knew about Maureen’s strange aversion, so they never asked her to attend services. Maureen cleaned corridors, emptied bins, replenished ink and chalk supplies, polished furniture. She
lived with Cathy at Cherry Hinton, worked for Edith and Richard, seemed unable to wind down, was always, always on the go.

Nicky waved to her friends. ‘Look, Dad, there’s Sarah Millington. She’s getting married next month.’

‘Very nice, love,’ replied Billy. Maureen hadn’t even been invited to this wedding. She hadn’t visited Scotland Road for over a year, seemed happy and fulfilled where she
was. Happy? he asked himself inwardly. Would his little girl ever be happy again? But this was a joyful occasion, he reminded himself. Determinedly, he relegated Maureen to the back of his thoughts
and led his older daughter up the aisle.

Michael Brennan took a bite of cake, then brushed the crumbs from his stock. The wedding had gone very well, and the reception was loud enough to wake the dead. A ceilidh band
played Irish jigs while the populace whooped and clattered about all over Fairy Mary’s dance floor. Mary Turner herself was well gone. She had consumed large amounts of alcohol and was giving
lessons in Irish dancing, a feat made difficult by limbs which were suddenly disobedient.

‘Look at her,’ smiled Anthony Bell, ‘she’s enjoying herself.’

Fairy Mary was a dignified woman who usually stuck rigidly to tap, ballet and ballroom. However, the Irish blood in her veins was responding to the energetic music, so all thoughts of propriety
had disappeared fast.

Michael Brennan cleared his throat. ‘How’s the job?’ he asked his companion.

Anthony, depending on lip-reading, smiled. He was enjoying his work in Astleigh Fold. The only fly in the ointment was the fact that he and Bridie were not together permanently. He nodded
towards the exit, opened the door and went out to the landing.

Michael joined his friend.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Anthony. The priest was redder than usual about the face, was twisting and turning the glass in his hand. ‘Michael?’

The cleric shrugged, swallowed the last of his cake. ‘There’s been a slight problem,’ he said. This was not the time, but when would he see Anthony again? ‘People
hereabouts know about you and Bridie. These things do have a habit of getting out.’ He sighed heavily, his head shaking slowly from side to side. ‘The diocese has been on to
me.’

‘Oh yes?’ Anthony pushed back his shoulders, waited. Let them all think what they liked, but he and Bridie had made love only twice. Anthony had been celibate for almost three years,
but that was his own business, his and Bridie’s.

Michael shrugged, as if trying to make light of his difficulties. ‘Bridie still comes to Communion,’ he began.