The Bells of Scotland Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

cheap silver one like the nuns have.’
    ‘This one’s got history,’ he announced.
    ‘And scratches. It’s served its time at the wash-house scrubbing boards, that ring.’ Diddy rammed an unbecoming hat onto her over-tight brown curls, then stabbed a nine-inch
hatpin through her felt and hair. Gripping a missal, she stalked off towards the door. ‘Stop here,’ she ordered. ‘Till I send your best man.’
    Sam peered through the window and watched Diddy stamping off in the direction of a pub near St Aloysius’s church. The hostelry’s original name was seldom used since its re-baptism as
the Holy House. After masses, funerals, benedictions and confessions, the Holy House was a favourite meeting place for many among the church’s congregation.
    The shopkeeper glanced at his watch, hoped that Charlie Costigan was doing a good job. The oldest of the Costigan brood was an odd lad, stiffened down one side of his body by birth damage, not
much to say for himself, a wizard with numbers. Yes, Charlie would no doubt be coping. Nicky Costigan was at the shop, too. Diddy had briefed her daughter carefully. ‘Make sure there’s
plenty of hot water for Mrs O’Brien. You help her with the two little girls.’
    Two little girls. Sam paced, stopped in front of the fire, studied a sepia picture of Diddy and Billy on their wedding day. Above the photograph hung the papal blessing and a dried cross from
last Palm Sunday. Two little girls. All that noise and running about. They would need clothes, shoes, food, playthings. Still.
    Sam examined the wedding ring once more before stuffing it into his pocket to jangle against pennies and sixpences. Oh well, he had made a pact and, as Big Diddy had said earlier, it was a bit
late to start worrying now. Bridie, she was called. Bridget, really. She’d been married to some Protestant over in Ireland, a big chap called Eugene. The kiddies were Caitlin and Shauna. He
wondered what Muth would make of that lot—
    ‘Sam?’
    ‘Oh. Hello, Billy.’
    Billy Costigan was a big man, tall, hefty and prematurely bald. His weather-reddened face was almost split in two by a wide grin. ‘Ready for it, are you?’
    To his amazement, Sam felt his own cheeks heating up. ‘I’m too old for all this,’ he grumbled. ‘And I hope she’s not counting on a big legacy when I’m gone.
I’m leaving a lot to Liam.’
    ‘And what about your ma? She’ll see us all out, I bet.’ Billy knew better than to enquire about Liam’s twin. Although there had been no overt arguments of late, everyone
knew that Liam and Anthony didn’t get on.
    Sam thought about Muth, a saint of a woman, who had been bedridden since 1926. The new Mrs Bell would save a few coppers by looking after the ageing Theresa Bell. There’d be no need for
minders, no need for folk to carry washing to and fro. ‘She can’t go on for ever,’ he said finally. ‘Come on, Billy. Let’s get it over with.’
    Bridie had managed to change during five stolen minutes. She wore a dove-grey coat and skirt with a matching hat, dark blue shoes and some smart gloves of navy kid. The house
was terrible. She didn’t want to live here, couldn’t bear the thought of spending her life in such a desperate place. There had been no time to go upstairs. She stood in the
luggage-cluttered kitchen-cum-living room and righted her hat in a dirty, pock-marked mirror. ‘Come on, Cathy,’ she said softly. ‘We must go to church now.’
    Cathy fixed an eye on Nicky Costigan. Nicky Costigan had scrubbed Cathy’s neck with a rough cloth and smelly red soap. ‘I don’t like you,’ announced the child.
    Nicky grinned, displaying gappy teeth and a bright red tongue.
    ‘Don’t be rude, Cathy,’ chided Bridie absently. Would that slopstone in the tiny scullery ever come clean? Would any number of scrubbings get through to the actual surface of
Sam Bell’s kitchen table?
    Nicky wagged a finger at Cathy. ‘You’d better behave in St Aloysius’s.