perpetual
motion and constant bustle, it seemed.
She leaned back, allowed her eyelids to droop. Noises from the road continued – people shouting, running, singing. It was plain that every shop in the neighbourhood intended to trade until
midnight. Bridie was frightened, scared almost to death of the Scotland Road folk. They were loud and emotional, as if their feelings dwelt just a fraction of an inch below the skin’s
surface. How easily they laughed, argued, fought. How quick were their eyes and movements, how rushed was their speech.
On hearing that Sam Bell and Thomas Murphy had left the stables before the arrival of Bridie and Big Diddy, the latter had shooed home her own offspring before dragging Bridie from Newsham
Street into the Holy House, then had forced the new immigrant to face the crammed bar with its thick blanket of tobacco smoke and its stench of stale beer.
Bridie closed her eyes and allowed herself a little smile. As long as she lived, she would never forget that moment. Diddy had strode into the hostelry, had pushed aside anything and anyone in
her path. ‘Billy Costigan?’ she had roared. ‘Sam Bell? If you’re in there, get out here. That goes for Thomas Murphy, too.’ For several seconds, silence had visited
the bar.
Bridie’s grin widened. Perhaps the tendency to express sentiments so vigorously might even be fun? Perhaps the people hereabouts were all like Diddy – strong, kind and given to bouts
of laughter? Oh, she hoped with all her heart that she might feel for others what she felt for this first friend.
Well. She tapped the arm of the chair. Here sat Bridie Bell, recently O’Brien, née Murphy, in a room filled with the clutter of travel, in the house of a man whose property she had
just become. The ring was in her pocket. She could not wear it, because it was too big by a mile. If he touched her, she would surely die. If he touched her, she would run away.
Big Diddy Costigan was doubtless a trustworthy soul, as she had produced a key to the back door of Bell’s Pledges. ‘I keep this in case of emergencies,’ she had said. Had the
good woman been unable to gain access to Bell’s, Bridie would have been spending her wedding night elsewhere. Wedding night. She would find her way upstairs in a minute, would seek out her
daughters and her own bedroom and . . . and the old woman. How many rooms? One for Mrs Bell, one for the girls, one for . . . Would she be forced to sleep in the same room, in the same bed as a man
old enough to be her father?
A key turned. Bridie froze, her ears straining towards the shop.
‘Come in, Tom.’ The voice belonged to Sam Bell. ‘Sit on this stool while I find you a drop of good Irish.’ Although the Liverpool accent was present in his language, the
man spoke clearly, was easy to understand.
Bottle and glasses clinked faintly.
‘I hope you’re satisfied.’ These words came from Thomas Murphy. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Sam Bell. After all, she’s young and healthy, strong and able. She works
hard and doesn’t complain. You should be paying me, man—’
‘You wanted her settled,’ replied Bridie’s husband. ‘I mean, it’s not my fault if her husband’s family’s Protestant. And she’s not on her own, is
she? There are two children who’ll want feeding and clothing.’
‘Cathy can help in the shop. She’s a bright enough girl, though she needs a firm hand.’
Bridie’s heart beat feverishly. A firm hand? If anyone lifted as much as a finger, she would surely leave this place and take the children far away.
‘I was all right,’ said Sam. ‘I’d no intention of getting married again. In fact, nothing was further from my mind. I’m set in my ways, you know, getting a bit long
in the tooth for fresh starts.’
‘Too late,’ chortled the Irishman. ‘The bargain’s made and the wedding’s over. You’ve two fine horses out of it, haven’t you? Silver will fetch a pretty
penny once he’s broken
motion and constant bustle, it seemed.
She leaned back, allowed her eyelids to droop. Noises from the road continued – people shouting, running, singing. It was plain that every shop in the neighbourhood intended to trade until
midnight. Bridie was frightened, scared almost to death of the Scotland Road folk. They were loud and emotional, as if their feelings dwelt just a fraction of an inch below the skin’s
surface. How easily they laughed, argued, fought. How quick were their eyes and movements, how rushed was their speech.
On hearing that Sam Bell and Thomas Murphy had left the stables before the arrival of Bridie and Big Diddy, the latter had shooed home her own offspring before dragging Bridie from Newsham
Street into the Holy House, then had forced the new immigrant to face the crammed bar with its thick blanket of tobacco smoke and its stench of stale beer.
Bridie closed her eyes and allowed herself a little smile. As long as she lived, she would never forget that moment. Diddy had strode into the hostelry, had pushed aside anything and anyone in
her path. ‘Billy Costigan?’ she had roared. ‘Sam Bell? If you’re in there, get out here. That goes for Thomas Murphy, too.’ For several seconds, silence had visited
the bar.
Bridie’s grin widened. Perhaps the tendency to express sentiments so vigorously might even be fun? Perhaps the people hereabouts were all like Diddy – strong, kind and given to bouts
of laughter? Oh, she hoped with all her heart that she might feel for others what she felt for this first friend.
Well. She tapped the arm of the chair. Here sat Bridie Bell, recently O’Brien, née Murphy, in a room filled with the clutter of travel, in the house of a man whose property she had
just become. The ring was in her pocket. She could not wear it, because it was too big by a mile. If he touched her, she would surely die. If he touched her, she would run away.
Big Diddy Costigan was doubtless a trustworthy soul, as she had produced a key to the back door of Bell’s Pledges. ‘I keep this in case of emergencies,’ she had said. Had the
good woman been unable to gain access to Bell’s, Bridie would have been spending her wedding night elsewhere. Wedding night. She would find her way upstairs in a minute, would seek out her
daughters and her own bedroom and . . . and the old woman. How many rooms? One for Mrs Bell, one for the girls, one for . . . Would she be forced to sleep in the same room, in the same bed as a man
old enough to be her father?
A key turned. Bridie froze, her ears straining towards the shop.
‘Come in, Tom.’ The voice belonged to Sam Bell. ‘Sit on this stool while I find you a drop of good Irish.’ Although the Liverpool accent was present in his language, the
man spoke clearly, was easy to understand.
Bottle and glasses clinked faintly.
‘I hope you’re satisfied.’ These words came from Thomas Murphy. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Sam Bell. After all, she’s young and healthy, strong and able. She works
hard and doesn’t complain. You should be paying me, man—’
‘You wanted her settled,’ replied Bridie’s husband. ‘I mean, it’s not my fault if her husband’s family’s Protestant. And she’s not on her own, is
she? There are two children who’ll want feeding and clothing.’
‘Cathy can help in the shop. She’s a bright enough girl, though she needs a firm hand.’
Bridie’s heart beat feverishly. A firm hand? If anyone lifted as much as a finger, she would surely leave this place and take the children far away.
‘I was all right,’ said Sam. ‘I’d no intention of getting married again. In fact, nothing was further from my mind. I’m set in my ways, you know, getting a bit long
in the tooth for fresh starts.’
‘Too late,’ chortled the Irishman. ‘The bargain’s made and the wedding’s over. You’ve two fine horses out of it, haven’t you? Silver will fetch a pretty
penny once he’s broken
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