The Bells of Scotland Road (56 page)

The horse’s triumph was now Bridie’s. Silver had romped home in several races, had left a huge gap between himself and the field a couple of weeks earlier at the Epsom Derby.
‘I’m rich,’ Bridie mumbled to herself almost incredulously. ‘And you,’ she mouthed at the horse, ‘are no shabby little grey.’ Silver had been compared with
Gustavus, a horse of the same colour who had secured first place in 1821, though Gustavus, short in leg and neck, had taken the racing community by storm after his unexpected win. But Silver was a
champion right down to the bone. He acted like a superior being, seemed to have been born with a sense of his individuality. Silver was a natural monarch.

Bridie smiled at the jockey, glanced down at the little fob watch pinned to her blouse. Eight o’clock. In a few moments, she would return to Cherry Hinton for breakfast.

Robin brought the horse to his owner. ‘There’s a queue a mile long for this chap.’ He stroked the stiff, silver-white mane. ‘Though I think you should be less hasty, Mrs
Bell. It’s a bit early to let them settle to breed. You could make a fortune racing these two.’

She shook her head. A widow for almost a year, she had become an astute businesswoman, but she drew the line at running her horses into the ground. Sorrel, who had performed solidly and
successfully in Lancashire and Yorkshire, would be matured for breeding. Silver was to be the backbone of the Cathshaw Stables. As a stud, he was worth his weight in platinum.

Robin leapt down from his high horse and became tiny again. He looked far too frail to be stablemaster, but few mounts had ever bettered him in the war of the wills between horse and jockey. He
was ready to abandon the circuit, was preparing to invest time and money in Bridie’s venture. Bob Cross, who had died a happy man at a Chester meeting, was to be replaced by this diminutive
character. ‘The house needs fumigating before I can move in,’ he told his partner. ‘There are newspapers there from 1885, and I’m sure Bob must have fed the mice.
They’re almost tame.’

Bridie laughed. Bob probably had looked after his vermin.

‘And how’s Cathy?’ asked Robin.

Bridie chuckled again. ‘Strangely enough, the young madam is happy, though she’ll be the death of me, Edith and several of those poor nuns. And the trouble we had persuading her to
go to Sacred Heart. She loves it, has the school near to riot, always questioning and disagreeing with everything. Richard says she’s a genius, but I know better. She has the wisdom to become
a very clever woman – manipulative and cute. But she’s no Sophocles. Says she’s going to be a doctor, may God help and preserve us all.’

Robin released the horse and watched as he ambled off in search of food. ‘And Shauna?’

Bridie’s face was instantly sober. Shauna was five, had started attending school and was a different kind of trial. She was determined to have her own way at all times and at all costs,
was given to tantrums and displays of temper. She was currently in the care of Nicky Costigan and her mother, Diddy. ‘She’ll improve with keeping, I suppose,’ replied Bridie. She
prayed that Shauna wasn’t causing too many problems on Scotland Road while in the care of good friends.

‘You’re hard on her,’ commented the little man. He was now a close enough friend to make such remarks.

Bridie nodded thoughtfully. She had favoured Shauna, had always loved her too much. The child was spoilt and ill-mannered, was capable of a petulance that had never been a part of her older
sister’s make up. Bridie had named her stables Cathshaw, had altered a letter from Shauna’s name, had put Cathy first. She must remember to keep on putting Cathy first, because poor
Cathy had been forced to grow up so early. ‘Shauna continues difficult,’ she said eventually.

‘She’ll alter,’ said Robin.

‘She’d better,’ answered Bridie. She made her goodbye and began the walk back to the house. Richard and Edith had sold Bridie their stable for a ridiculously low price, but
those good people would be repaid. They had done so much since Sam’s death, had cared for Cathy, had welcomed Bridie, Shauna, Diddy and her brood for holidays.

Bridie, Edith and Richard were due to visit Maureen this afternoon. Maureen was locked away again in a secure wing of the Good Shepherd Catholic Asylum just outside Manchester. Augustinian nuns
and lay nurses were doing their utmost to help Maureen regain her equilibrium, though the results of their labours were not yet encouraging. During the past eighteen or more months, Maureen had
shrivelled into herself, had spent a great deal of time in the asylum. The girl was terrified, had been traumatized to the point of breakdown by her unwanted pregnancy.

‘Oh, Maureen,’ muttered Bridie, ‘come out of it, for goodness sake. Don’t let him win.’ She stopped in the orchard, listened to the crying and fussing of wood
pigeons. Even now, Bridie could not think about that fateful day without feeling sick. In her mind, there was a picture of Maureen’s blood pouring, spreading, soaking into the Oriental rugs
and staining dark-red the cement between marble tiles. It had been a hard landing for the distraught girl. She had not regained consciousness after three days, had been confined to bed for weeks,
had suffered a messy miscarriage while sitting with her leg in plaster. And in all that time, Maureen had uttered not one solitary syllable.

‘Diddy, my friend,’ breathed Bridie as she watched a blackbird carrying worms for its young, ‘how you tried.’ Month in and month out, Diddy had stayed near her daughter,
returning to Liverpool only when her presence was absolutely essential. The Scotland Roaders, in spite of their own poverty, had dug deep to send fruit and little gifts for Maureen. Diddy had
prayed, cajoled, shouted and pleaded, but Maureen had remained silent. The girl’s quietness had been broken only by her screams. Bridie pictured Maureen sitting in her bedroom, rocking,
wailing, howling.

‘Maureen,’ muttered Bridie now, ‘you can do it. I know you can face it.’ She prayed to Our Lady, to St Anthony of Padua, to St Jude, to Thomas who had doubted, to God
Himself. An orchard was surely as near to God as anywhere, wasn’t it? But would the heavenly host listen to a woman who was carrying on with the son of her dead husband? Their love had been
consummated only twice, but it was still a sin. However, there were worse faults than hers and Anthony’s. Father Michael Brennan was always saying that.

There was Liam. There was Liam who had put Maureen where she was, who had murdered his brother’s fiancée, who had disappeared completely from the face of the earth. Even Africa had
thrown up no sign of the man when Father Brennan had written to the various missions.

Cathy ran through the trees and hugged her mother. ‘Isn’t it great?’ the child beamed. ‘Everyone at school wants to be my friend because we won the Derby. I’ve even
heard the nuns talking about it. They say, whenever they have visitors, “There’s Caitlin O’Brien whose mother bred the Derby winner.” Do they like their pool?’

‘Yes, they seem to.’ Bridie believed in the strengthening power of water where horses’ legs were concerned. ‘Sorrel would like to swim, I think, but we’re digging
no deeper, or we’ll be coming up in Australia. Have you eaten?’

Cathy nodded. ‘So has Noel, but it wasn’t his dinner. He’s in disgrace again for eating Uncle Richard’s bacon. Aunt Edith has banished him to his kennel.’

Bridie grinned. Edith had a soft spot for the leggy mongrel, and had probably given him a huge bone to gnaw for the duration of his sentence. Noel had never stayed in his kennel for more than an
hour, because Edith was soft-hearted and Noel could howl like a wolf. If only Edith would try to like Shauna. There was something about Bridie’s younger daughter that made Edith
Spencer’s hackles rise, though she fought to hide her distaste. ‘Will you stay here while we go to see Maureen?’

Cathy’s face was immediately sad. ‘Bring her home, Mammy,’ she pleaded.

Bridie placed a hand on Cathy’s cheek. ‘We can’t, Cathy. She’s not ready yet.’

‘But it’s been a long time. And there’s no baby to worry about now.’

Bridie thought about the little soul whose life had ebbed out of its mother’s broken form. Liam’s child was long dead. Perhaps that was for the best, though it was a pity all the
same, because the unborn baby had done no wrong at all. Even so, Bridie shivered when she imagined how a child of Liam’s might have turned out. ‘No, there’s no baby,’ she
replied.

‘But Maureen’s still waiting for it,’ said the little girl.

‘How do you know that?’

Cathy blushed. Listening to adult conversation was one of her hobbies. ‘Uncle Richard thinks so.’

It was difficult to tell. After months of silence, no-one really knew what Maureen was thinking. She had suffered little or no discernible brain damage, was able to read, sew, dress, eat, clean
herself. Tests for deafness had been used, and the young woman was certainly alert to noise. Diddy had talked to her for endless hours, as had Bridie, Edith and Richard, but none of them was able
to elicit any response. Over and over, each had told Maureen that the baby was no more, that she had only to ask for what she needed, that she could come home whenever she was ready.

‘She doesn’t want to come out of that place,’ said Cathy.

Bridie, who considered her daughter to be too old in the head, ruffled the girl’s blond curls. ‘Cathy, we can’t know what she wants until she speaks. And she’ll speak
when she feels the need.’

While her mother went inside to eat, Cathy paid Noel a visit. He was licking his lips over a huge bone. ‘I have a plan,’ said the child to the dog.

The dog listened, chewed things over, crunched his way through to the marrow.

‘What do you think?’ asked Cathy. ‘Will I do it, Noel?’

The dog woofed and carried on crunching.

Although Maureen Costigan appeared to be in a state bordering catatonic trance, she was very much aware of her surroundings. When her environment became too much for her, she
simply retreated, took herself back to another life, a different time inside her head. Sometimes, she was dancing and singing outside the Rotunda, her audience entranced as she postured and
performed the actions to her little ditties. It was her grandmother who had taught her songs from the old country, pretty Irish airs whose rhythms were tapped out by the shoes of queuing
theatre-goers and by the percussion section of Uncle Flash’s one-man band.

Maureen had been in and out of the asylum for a long time, or so everyone kept telling her. There was Mam, who always brought pasties and soup, then Dad, who just sat and held Maureen’s
hand. Sister Paul Mary, whose long legs covered the whole ward in fifteen steps, was always telling Maureen to pull herself together. Sister Agnes, who needed nineteen or twenty strides to clear
the room, was more understanding. She would sit by Maureen’s bed and whisper to her, ‘Maureen, I know you’re hiding. It’s safe now. You can come out. But you’ll not
come out till you’re ready, will you?’

Sitting very still and saying nothing was the secret. Little could happen to someone who made no mark. If she didn’t move, she would not be noticed. If she wasn’t noticed, then the
bad thing would never happen again.

There was a tap in the washroom that dripped constantly. Others found it annoying, but Maureen liked the sound of water. It was clean, gentle, peaceful. The drip-drop often matched the beating
of her inner mechanism. A man with spanners had tried to take away the irritation, but it always returned to keep Maureen company.

Some memories were unpleasant; some memories were beautiful. When the nastier times plagued her, Maureen would empty her mind and sit motionless in the green moquette chair next to her bed.
Water plopping from the tap helped to clear her mind. Then the nicer pictures usually arrived, snatches of childhood, or an orchard, a proper fountain and green lawns. A child with hair like dark
honey, a very leggy dog, roses on the teapot, a tall, thin lady and her tall, thin husband.

A man on a horse. Falling, falling, blood on a stone. Banister railings, a marble floor, colours in the carpets, falling, falling. Was it dead? Was it really dead? Her hands pressing into her
belly, feeling and prodding, searching for that hard knot of evil. Keep still. The tap dripping, dropping, a moquette chair, green. Sister Agnes, nineteen or twenty strides, Sister Paul Mary,
fifteen. If she stayed as still as possible, she would be all right.

Riding in the boot of a car was not as simple as Cathy had expected. Also, there was the problem of getting out unnoticed, which was going to be no mean feat. Banking on
Richard’s slight tendency towards absent-mindedness, she had placed herself between the petrol cans and spare wheel before attaching a string to the boot handle. With the aid of this, she
held the door in a more or less closed position while being bumped and jostled all over the place. Had Uncle Richard checked his boot, she would have been discovered before leaving Cherry
Hinton.

It was a long ride along the Manchester Road, and Cathy was becoming quite bruised by the lumps and holes in the road’s surface. From time to time, she felt like jumping out when the car
stopped, but she had come this far. If she gave up, all her agony would have been for nothing. So she gritted her teeth, hoped that she still had a full complement of incisors and molars, and
prayed that she would arrive at the Good Shepherd with most bones intact.

At last, the car stopped and the three adults got out. She could hear their feet crunching on gravel as she extricated her numb hands from their string prison. Now, the real problems would
start. She didn’t know where she was or how to get home, and she had no idea of where to look for Maureen.

Fortunately, the weather was good, so those patients who were trustworthy and calm were taking tea on the lawn. Cathy saw her mother sitting at a table with Aunt Edith, Uncle Richard and a
dark-haired girl wearing a plain blue dress and a grey cardigan. So far so good, thought Cathy, though she didn’t know what to do next. She had planned – rather vaguely – to hang
around after Mammy and the others had left. Once alone, she would have been able to scour the place and find Maureen. Getting home would have been another job, though her sketchy idea had been to
alert a nun and ask for someone to telephone Cherry Hinton. But hiding until everyone had left was going to be the hard part.