The Bells of Scotland Road (54 page)

‘It’s warm in here,’ Bridie said. ‘Shall we get some air?’

They strolled through Bolton, bought groceries, sweets for Cathy and a pair of shoes for Maureen. ‘Her feet swell,’ said Diddy. ‘And she’s months to go yet.’

Edith tried to hide her concern about Maureen, though she was reaching her wit’s end. The girl was decidedly strange these days, was spending too much time alone in her room. Several
times, Edith had found Maureen stretched out on the bed with her face turned to the wall. What did she think about as she lay so still and quiet? Edith had told no-one about the gin episode.
Maureen had consumed half a bottle of the stuff, had been found almost comatose in one of the stables.

They climbed into Edith’s car and began the journey home. Bridie felt her heart quicken as they neared Astleigh Fold. He would be waiting for her. She knew that Anthony would always be
waiting for her. Sometimes, the guilt was almost overwhelming. Here she was, twice widowed, recently orphaned and with two children to rear, yet she was happy to the point of ecstasy every time she
saw Anthony or heard his voice. When he touched her, she was in heaven. It must not happen again, she said inwardly. This stolen happiness would have to be paid for, she told her inner self. It was
wrong to be so joyful.

‘Where was God when this happened?’ asked Diddy of no-one in particular. ‘How could he let a baby be made out of my girl’s suffering?’

Bridie stared at the road ahead and Edith just carried on steering. Diddy had voiced a question to which there was no answer.

‘She did nothing to deserve this,’ continued the grieving mother.

Although they agreed wholeheartedly, Diddy’s companions had no comment to make.

Martin Waring was taking daily instruction from
Frère
Nicholas. This was a difficult task, as Martin had to pretend to know very little about the Catholic faith.
He was simply a newly released thief who had spent his time in jail among books. As the prison librarian, he had taken the opportunity to read about various Christian religions, and had emerged
from incarceration with a burning desire to be received as a communicant within the Church of Rome.

Following his daily stint of gardening and kitchen work, Martin was closeted for three-quarters of an hour with the senior brother. Professing to find trouble in learning the basic catechism was
not easy. After all, his alter ego had sailed through the seminary with flying colours and distinctions at all levels. But he persevered, frowned a lot and mispronounced a word here and there.
Acting stupid required a degree of genius that tested even his indisputable breadth of skills.

He had been at the Tithebarn for three months when he made his first journey outside the property. With a healthy growth of beard, he was completely unrecognizable. In fact, he was often taken
aback when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. It was time to sally forth and find out what was happening to Liam Bell’s twin brother. Anthony needed Liam, and Martin was the link
between the two. He was beginning to enjoy his new life, took pleasure in his assumed identity. For the time being, Liam was dormant and Martin was in the lead.

The
Frères de la Croix de St Pierre
owned several acres of land. They were virtually self-sufficient, seldom needing to venture out to purchase the basic necessities. But in spite
of their meticulous husbandry, some things could not be grown on the farm. As a lay brother, Martin was expected to do his share of shopping and, since he was not a monk, he was able to venture
forth in ordinary working clothes. Today, he was going all the way to the market in Bolton to search for cheap bed linens. He had assured the fraternity that the prices in Bolton were lower than in
Blackburn.

It was about noon when he reached Astleigh Fold. The sun blazed mercilessly in a cloudless sky, making Martin wish that he could rid himself of his facial hair. But the beard was Liam’s
curtain. Liam had been forced to hide for a while behind Martin in order to be safe.

He walked past Liam’s brother’s cottage, noted that the windows had been thrown open to allow in air that seemed too lazy to stir in any direction. In a field further up the lane, he
saw Bridie Bell’s horses grazing lazily, their tails swishing gently against the threat of flying insects.

Confident that no-one would recognize him, the lay brother folded his arms, placed them across the stile and leaned his weight forward. The rest was pleasurable. He had been working for up to
ten hours a day for over two months, was tired as a result of all the physical labour. Yet the back-breaking toil was important, because it was helping to ease him into the character he was
planning to become. Liam was no longer necessary except where Anthony was concerned, he told himself frequently. Liam had served his purpose for the present.

A car passed him. He turned confidently and marked its progress towards Cherry Hinton. It was Richard Spencer’s car, though Edith was at the wheel. A blonde woman sat next to the driver.
That was Bridie Bell. Martin had ordered Liam not to worry about Bridie. She was a person of no particular significance, even if she had deprived Liam of his birthright.

As the vehicle left the lane, Martin thought he saw Diddy Costigan sitting in the rear seat. What on earth were the Spencers thinking of? The Costigans were low-life; they had no place in the
elegant setting provided by Cherry Hinton.

Martin’s heartbeat remained steady. Nothing could anger him, because he was now a lay brother who would eventually become a
frère
. Liam’s anger was buried well below
the newly constructed surface. Liam’s anger would be kept damped down for years, if necessary, until it was required again.

He walked slowly up the lane. Monks were perfect. Because they aimed for spiritual purity, they were separated from the common run of mankind. The monastic life was simple and severe, its
austerity deliberately planned to lead its members towards oneness with God. The brothers were meant to help the fallen without becoming too closely involved in a criminal’s future choices.
If a sinner wanted to stay, he could, but there were no restrictions. Lay people came and went, just a handful remaining as permanent lay members or as ordained brothers. All were blessed and
forgiven; few were rejected by the order. Martin would be ordained.

He climbed over a fence and made for the Spencers’ little orchard. When he stood at the edge behind a particularly gnarled pair of apple trees, he could observe the house without being
seen. They were all on the veranda, a small, paved area outside the dining room. A dark-haired girl stared absently into the near distance. She was another Costigan, the one who had been dealt with
by Liam. Maureen, her name was. The strumpet had once had designs on Anthony Bell. Where was he?

Anthony came out through the French window. At his side walked Bridie Bell, the Irish whore. Big Diddy Costigan bent over her daughter and offered her something on a plate. The girl refused the
food, then Diddy sat down next to her.

Edith poured tea while Mrs Cornwell fussed about with saucers and sugar bowl. Anthony and Bridie were sitting together. Hadn’t they quarrelled not long ago? Martin recalled a time when
Liam had visited Astleigh Fold and the Irishwoman had spoken to him, had criticized Anthony. The supposed argument seemed to have died down, because they looked quite at home in their little
cast-iron garden seats. They were in love, weren’t they? Hadn’t that all been written down in a letter behind the Sacred Heart in his cell? Sometimes, remembering Liam’s details
was difficult for Martin.

After half an hour or so, the party began to break up. Maureen Costigan went inside with her mother. Mrs Cornwell cleared the table while Edith had a shouted conversation with a child. The girl
hung out of an upper window, her arms waving as she laughed and joked with her hostess. It was Caitlin, the older of the two O’Brien immigrants. The Irish visitors were certainly getting a
taste of the good life, it seemed.

Bridie Bell began to walk towards the orchard, so Martin backed off. He crept through the plum trees and secreted himself behind some light-starved raspberry canes and the bole of an ageing pear
tree. She stopped, seemed to be waiting. Martin thought he could hear her breathing.

Then she turned and threw herself at a man. The man was Anthony Bell. He picked her up and kissed her, swinging her round in a small clearing. Her hair cascaded from its pins and tumbled down
her back like a waterfall, the silken waves pouring down until they reached her waist.

Martin Waring held his own breath. What he was witnessing owned a certain beauty, rather like a properly choreographed
pas de deux
. These two people were almost fused together, the dark
head and the pale, the man and the woman. Limbs folded and melted in the leaf-mottled light until their bodies seemed inseparable.

He felt no anger. The control he had over Liam was total. When the lovers pulled away from the embrace, Martin realized that their relationship had advanced well beyond this single lingering
kiss. These people knew one another in the biblical sense. He must keep the information to himself. Liam was going to find out eventually, of course, but Martin felt no need to wake the dormant
ghost just yet.

They left the orchard, the woman turning towards the field where her horses grazed, the man striding off in the direction of his cottage. It was half past one.

When a few minutes had passed, the intruder stepped out from his hide, diving back quickly when he heard someone else approaching. He flattened himself against the ground, tried to breath
quietly and evenly. Weeds and grasses swished as the person came near. A couple of dry twigs snapped, then all movement ceased. ‘No!’ cried a female voice. ‘I won’t have it,
I won’t.’

A heavier person arrived. Martin could hear the laboured breathing, had guessed the identity of the woman before she spoke.

‘Go away, Mam,’ yelled Maureen Costigan.

‘You’re making yourself ill,’ wheezed the girl’s mother.

Martin’s fingers closed around some foliage. He listened intently while mother and daughter argued. The subject under discussion was the younger female’s pregnancy.
‘Look,’ said Diddy, ‘there’s nothing we can do except wait. You can’t get rid of a baby, Maureen. It would be murder.’

‘I won’t have it. I’ll kill myself, I will, I’ll—’

The sound of a none too gentle slap reached the eavesdropper’s ears. So. The girl was going to have a child. Anthony’s? he wondered. Or could it be Liam’s? Hadn’t Liam .
. . ? No, priests didn’t have babies.

The Costigans walked away, each sobbing and wailing and stumbling towards the house.

When all was quiet, the lay brother sat up and dusted his jacket. Moss and bits of dried grass clung to the fabric, and there were greenish stains on a lapel. He brushed and scraped, rubbed at
the discoloration with a handkerchief. Anthony was with Bridie Bell. They were probably sleeping together, the stepmother and her stepson. And Maureen Costigan was trying to get rid of an unborn
child. Liam would have to be told eventually, but it was best not to dwell on such matters just yet. Baptism, confirmation and ordination were more important than these stupid people.

Pleased with all he had gleaned, he walked out of the orchard and towards the lane. The newly acquired knowledge would be useful one day, he told himself. For Liam, it would be vital. With his
pulse as steady as a rock, Martin Waring gathered his thoughts and checked the money in his small leather wallet. He was going to buy the unbleached cotton sheets that were a part of the
brothers’ constant penance. Liam’s news would keep.

Bridie Bell and her stepson lay on the rug. They did not touch one another, yet their intimacy would have been apparent to any witness. There was a languor about them, a total
at homeness that spoke volumes about the depth of their relationship. Within a very short space of time, each had found a soulmate.

‘She’ll kill herself,’ said Bridie.

‘No, I think she’s too strong for that.’ He stroked a blonde tress which had fallen across his chest.

‘Maureen thinks she’s carrying the child of a devil,’ continued Bridie. She could tell this man anything and everything. He would never judge her as stupid or hysterical.
‘While she cannot blame the poor little creature, she will never welcome a baby who was made by rape.’

‘God help her if and when she finds out the identity of her attacker.’ Anthony sighed heavily. ‘What an unholy mess. You and I know his name, as does Father Brennan, as does
Richard Spencer. We can prove nothing at all, so we keep quiet. The police are doing precious little to find him. They think we’re all mad.’ Occasionally, Anthony hung on to a thread of
hope, an insane desire for Liam to be innocent. It was a hopeless hope, he told himself yet again. Liam was ill; Liam was dangerous.

Bridie closed her eyes and wished away a threatening headache. Sometimes, she felt Liam Bell’s presence, had even looked over her shoulder a few times as if expecting to find those dark,
expressionless eyes staring at her and right through her. ‘Diddy’s beside herself. She told me last night that she was praying for a miscarriage. She’s been down to St
Patrick’s in Bolton to ask forgiveness because she’s willing her own grandchild to die.

‘Everything’s such a mess,’ she groaned. ‘Maureen wants an abortion, but she can’t have one.’ She looked at him. ‘I want you and I can’t have you.
It’s all so wrong.’

‘You and I are in the wrong, I suppose. I have to agree with you on that score,’ he admitted. ‘But I won’t let you go free, not ever. In fact, I’m thinking of
having you fitted with a ball and chain.’

‘But we’re hurting no-one,’ cried Bridie.

‘Your daughters may be damaged by our love,’ he whispered. ‘Not yet, but eventually.’

It was different, Bridie told herself. Her sin was born of love, not hatred. Anthony’s sin, too, had been committed for love. Yet he was right about Cathy and Shauna. ‘How am I going
to tell my daughters that their stepbrother is my lover?’

‘That’s a big question, and it’s not our concern yet,’ Anthony said. Their main aim must be to steer clear of Liam. ‘You know, I can feel him today, as if
he’s just around the corner. Weren’t you cold in the orchard before you went to see the horses?’