The Bells of Scotland Road (62 page)

As the bombs hit their targets, she heard Anthony’s voice again. ‘Look, the Costigans will stay in Liverpool no matter what. Leave the place, please, please. Bring Grandmuth to
Edith. Marry me, live in the cottage with me. We can get a bigger place, then Cathy will live with us, too. You cannot stay there—’

A tremendous explosion passed through Bell’s Pledges and jarred the bodies of its occupants. ‘Our Father, Who art in heaven . . .’ Bridie’s fingers clutched the beads
tightly.

‘Mammy?’

Even Tildy was wakeful. ‘What the bloody hell was that?’

Had the occasion been different, Bridie might have remarked on Tildy’s language. ‘It was near,’ was all she managed.

Shauna was sobbing.

‘I want you to return to Astleigh Fold,’ said Bridie. More bombs fell.

‘No,’ answered Shauna. ‘I ran away last time and I’ll run away again.’

Tildy sat up, banged her head on the cage. ‘Bloody hell,’ she repeated.

The smell of fire hung in the air despite tightly closed doors and blacked-out windows. Many of the people Bridie loved were out there at this moment in this mess. Diddy was with the WVS, Billy
had become a fireman, Nicky’s Graham and Charlie Costigan were wardens. Graham Pile had been declared unfit for active duty because of his eyes, and Charlie had never been built for war.
Dolly Hanson ran her shop during daylight, manned a first aid post at night. Father Brennan, older and fatter, wandered the streets night after night, helping where he could, blessing when no more
could be done.

‘Nicky’ll be in a shelter,’ said Tildy. Like Bridie, she had been accounting for those close to her. Everyone was very proud of Nicky. She worked at Littlewood’s, which
had become a centre for the censoring of all parcels and written messages. Nicky had unearthed from within herself a tremendous talent for code-breaking. She opened the parcels and the letters,
scrutinized everything that passed through her hands. ‘I hope me mam’s not hurt,’ added Tildy.

Bridie held on to the weeping Shauna. The bombs were dropping fast, crashing into buildings and making the earth shiver. Then a new sound arrived, half-screech, half-drone, the unmistakeable
death-throes of a doomed bomber.

‘We’ve got one,’ declared Tildy.

Where would it land? Bridie wondered.

Tildy listened hard. ‘Fighters,’ she said after a moment or two. ‘There’s Spitfires out there, Bridie.’

The bomber exploded, caused further detonations, then the raid ceased. Bridie and Tildy listened to the enemy’s retreat, heard the ack-ack of British fighters bidding a less than fond
goodbye to the intruders.

‘It’s getting worse,’ grumbled Shauna petulantly.

Tildy prodded the girl with a none too gentle finger. ‘Do as your mam says – get to Astleigh Fold.’ Tildy had a fondness for Shauna, saw in the fourteen-year-old a replica of
herself. People thought Shauna was naughty, but she wasn’t particularly so. In Tildy’s book, Shauna was merely clever and determined. She knew what she wanted and she went for it,
allowing nothing to stand in her path. The girl’s enormous love for her mother was what kept her here in this city of hell.

Bridie finished her decade, blessed herself and turned once more to her daughter. ‘You are selfish, Shauna,’ she accused. ‘I love you. You are my daughter and I want you to
survive.’

Shauna dried her tears and sniffed. Mammy was a nuisance. She didn’t understand, didn’t try to understand. Mammy would not die as long as Shauna was with her. If Shauna moved away,
then the worst would happen. ‘I’m not leaving you. I told Anthony I wouldn’t leave you. At least he understands even if you don’t.’

Bridie sighed resignedly, clambered out of the shelter and groped for matches. When the candle was lit, she set about making bandages. Going outside and getting in the way would not be a good
idea. She could hear the running, could smell the burning, but she simply carried on with her task while the proper units cleared away the worst of the debris.

Tildy lay back and closed her eyes. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. As a librarian, she was helping to move valuable books and manuscripts into areas of the civic centre that had been
deemed safer. Documents from London had arrived, were to be stored here as a protective measure. London was taking the worst hammering, but would pieces of English heritage have a chance of
remaining intact up here?

There was no safety. Tomorrow – or was it today? – after her stint at the library, Tildy would take one of her twice-weekly turns on the telephones. The frailty of Liverpool’s
defences was only too clear to a woman who sat for two nights a week with a receiver clapped against one ear and a wad of cotton wool against the other. While bombs fell and buildings ignited,
Tildy screamed, ‘Speak up,’ until the message became audible.

She courted sleep, could not relax. Mam and Dad were outside somewhere, as were Charlie and Nicky’s Graham. As for Jimmy, he was crawling about on his belly in foreign soil and gore.
‘Remember the turkey?’ she asked suddenly.

Bridie stopped tearing. ‘Oh, I do,’ she replied.

‘Shop filled with Johnny Laskies and hats and fireplaces.’

‘And gramophones,’ added Bridie.

‘You thought Cathy was naughty, didn’t you?’

‘I did.’ Bridie picked up a second sheet.

‘She wasn’t. Neither is Shauna.’

Bridie found no answer. At fourteen, Shauna O’Brien was a blonde version of Maureen Costigan. The exquisitely pretty girl had a following of young men, some of which number wrote as
regularly as the war allowed. There were letters from all over the globe, plus a few from the middle of some God-forsaken stretch of mined ocean. A twenty-two-year-old Canadian sailor had pledged
to marry Shauna when the war ended. Shauna approved of him because he had volunteered.

‘I’m no worse than anybody else,’ said Shauna now. She had a strange accent, half-Irish and half-Liverpool. ‘I don’t steal any more and I’ve ruined no
weddings since Nicky’s.’

Tildy grinned into the semi-darkness. Shauna spoke her mind and shamed the devil. Shauna had a special courage that few seemed to have noticed so far. She had survived several dunkings in the
canal, had become an expert at petty theft, was the sort of friend who would do just about anything for a laugh and to protect those nearest to her. All Bridie could see was the bad side.
‘She’s as clever as Cathy,’ remarked Tildy.

Bridie knew all about that. She also knew that Shauna was a pest. ‘I spoiled you,’ admitted Bridie. ‘And here’s you now, tough as old boots.’

They carried on making pointless conversation until the all-clear sounded. It was always like this. The worries and fears were not allowed to show in faces or voices, were kept banked down
beneath platitudes, silly anecdotes and, sometimes, singing and dancing.

When the all-clear died away, Bridie ordered the two girls to stay where they were. She stepped out into chaos, heard the shouts, the pounding of feet, saw that the area was well lit by fire. A
hand touched her shoulder. ‘Bridie? Are the girls all right?’

‘Diddy.’ The older woman’s face was black. ‘What are you doing here?’

Diddy trembled, gripped her friend’s hand. ‘I’m the only one alive,’ she managed. ‘Twelve dead. Rest Centre. I was out at the back getting spuds. All me mates,
Bridie. All me lovely mates, girls from the bagwash.’

‘Are you hurt?’

Diddy shook her head. ‘Only inside meself,’ she replied. ‘Only where it doesn’t show.’ She sneezed away some dust, ran her free hand across her forehead.
‘They’ve bombed the ciggy factory. Flash Flanagan’s down there seeing if he can save any.’ She achieved a watery grin. ‘He must be all of ninety-five, and he’s
digging for bloody victory.’

Whenever she heard Flash’s name, Bridie thought about Liam. Even now, after ten years, a part of herself continued to expect his return. ‘For tobacco, you mean,’ she said.
‘Come away in till I make you some tea.’

Diddy shook her head. ‘No, love. I’m going back. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Our Charlie’s in one piece – I’ve seen him. Nicky’s
shelter’s still stood up. As for my Billy . . .’ She gazed at all the flames. ‘He’s in the hands of God tonight.’

Brother Martin Waring had not been to America. After due consideration, he had opted to work in London. At first, Liam had wanted his own way, but Martin had stuck to his guns.
America might have been complicated for a man without a birth certificate. Born in Ireland at the turn of the century, Martin had lost all his documentation. ‘They’ll never believe
that,’ Liam had sneered.

‘Can you think of a better one?’ Martin had asked.

In 1939, Brother Martin of the
Frères de la Croix de St Pierre
had returned to the North. Although the brothers’ original mission remained the same, the order had involved
itself in offering temporary shelter to those whose houses had been bombed during 1940 and 1941. Martin and his brothers toiled among the human debris of war, feeding and clothing the victims of
air raids.

Brother Nicholas, not quite in his dotage, took it upon himself to ensure that the monks took a few days off from time to time. Many managed to visit family, while others, like Brother Martin,
stayed at Tithebarn and took long walks in lieu of a proper holiday. When Brother Martin asked for leave, the senior
frère
was surprised. ‘Where will you go?’ he
asked.

Martin’s answer had been prepared by Liam. ‘To Liverpool,’ he said. ‘I want to visit some people who used to know my father. As you know, I have no living relatives, but
Mr Dorgan was very good to my parents when I was young.’

‘Do you know where to find him?’

Martin shrugged. ‘I’ll take my chances, Brother Nicholas. The city has received some punishment, I hear.’

‘Yes.’ The man had never mentioned friends before. Could he really have friends? Within the order, Brother Martin treated everyone with the same cold indifference. He taught with
reluctance, seemed content with his own company, had become an exceptional sculptor in wood, retained a magnificent singing voice. Occasionally, Martin made an effort to engage in conversation, but
the results always seemed stilted, false. ‘Be safe,’ said Nicholas. ‘And we shall expect you back some time during next week. Of course, you may have difficulty getting there and
back. Transport is badly disrupted.’

‘I’ll get there,’ declared Martin.

‘You certainly will,’ echoed Liam.

Maureen had discovered over recent years how much she loved the countryside. At the age of twenty-four, she remained a pretty woman, but a streak of silver running right
through her hair made her older than her years. She spent most of her free time with Cathy, whom she loved dearly, yet she sometimes opted to walk alone for miles across the moors. While walking,
she remembered. She remembered how she used to be, recalled dancing in the streets, singing with old Flash Flanagan, lessons with Fairy Mary, the joyous household in which she had spent her
childhood. ‘I will come home, Mam,’ she often said aloud. ‘When I’m ready, I’ll come home.’

On this bright May morning, Maureen sat on a mounting block and watched the horses. Quicksilver, who was not as quick or as shiny as he used to be, had learned some decorum. With his head over
the stable door, he lifted his lip and whinnied at Maureen. He liked her. She often walked about with a pocketful of carrots and crusts from brown bread.

Sorrel was next door to Silver. A gentle mare and mother to several exceptional foals, she made no noise. If Maureen had carrots, she would surely save one for Sorrel. Along the row, more horses
looked out at their visitor. It was a happy stables. Robin Smythe kept everything up to scratch, was content in middle-age to produce winners instead of riding them.

Maureen jumped down and dug out the spoils. With everything divided more or less evenly, she fed the beasts, felt their warm breath on her hands, stroked their heads. Horses were lovely. They
asked for little and gave their all in return. Occasionally, during sadder moments, Maureen found herself moved to tears by their undeniable beauty.

She wandered off across the fields, picked a few pink-tipped daisies, sat down on a stone and looked at the view. Sooner or later, she was going to make herself recover. Her life was not
completely wasted, especially now, because there was much to do while city children needed shelter. But the direction of Maureen’s existence had taken a turn some ten years earlier, and she
needed to get back on track. The urge to sing and dance had dissipated. Although Richard and Edith Spencer had offered to have her trained, Maureen’s wish to go into theatre had died. Would
it have died anyway? Or was this the work of the man who had attacked her?

Maureen had killed a baby. For a long time, she had not been able to think straight. Months of her youth had been spent in hospitals, and she retained few clear memories of her time as a
patient. But compared to the child she remembered, Maureen Costigan was quiet, withdrawn and joyless. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing,’ she said softly. ‘So it wasn’t
a sin.’ Killing the baby had been the worst thing. In her dreams, she often saw a pale child with its arms outstretched towards her. ‘I was ill,’ she told herself yet again.
‘It isn’t a sin if you’re ill.’

Church was another long-ago memory. Church was the last place she wanted to be, yet she failed to understand why. As a child, she had attended mass each Sunday, had observed the Days of
Obligation, had confessed her sins fortnightly like all the other Catholic boys and girls. Then suddenly, everything had changed. He was responsible. That big, dark man had altered the course of
Maureen’s life. He should not be allowed such importance, she kept reminding herself. Things happened to people all the time, mostly because of other people, some of whom were bad. A wicked
man had done a wicked thing, and Maureen continued to pay for it.

The sun kissed her face, encouraged her to lift her head, close her eyes and soak in the warmth. She felt safe here among wild flowers and rough grass. Where else had she managed to feel so
secure? At Sacred Heart. Yes, that had been a peaceful experience. With Cathy’s education now complete, both girls had left the school. After the war, Maureen would return to Scotland Road
and Cathy would go to medical school.