Every Time a Bell Rings. Carmel Harrington

thinking he must have dropped his wallet or something. I start scouring the cobblestones around me.

      ‘Look. That man is going to propose,’ someone shouts from behind me, and my stomach starts to flip, even though I know that it’s impossible. Jim’s not going to propose.

      I turn to them to say, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, there’s no way that’s happening.’

      Sure I’ve only known Jim three weeks. People don’t propose that quickly. That only happens in books or movies. Not in Dublin. And certainly not to me, Belle Bailey.

      But when I look down, he’s not laughing, he’s looking at me intently. He doesn’t look like he’s lost anything. Nor does he look terrified. In fact, if I had to call it, I’d say he looks downright happy. A little bit goofier than normal, with a strange look on his usually cocky face.

      ‘I’ve not lost anything, Belle. On the contrary, I would say that I’ve found something pretty wonderful.’ I can hear an audible gasp from someone behind me. I look around at the sea of faces who a moment ago were united in emotion at the young girl’s song. And now they are united in expectation, as delicious real-life drama unfolds in front of them. They’ll have plenty to chat about over their mince pies later on.

      ‘I want my happy-ever-after to be with you, Belle. I want to grow old with you. I never want to let you go. I want to love you so much that you never look sad again,’ Jim states.

      Did I just dream that?

      I mean, it does sound like a proposal, but there again he hasn’t actually asked me. I purse my lips tight. There’s no way I am going to jump in and say ‘yes’ to a declaration as opposed to a question.

      But, even so, something that feels a lot like excitement starts to course its way through my body.

      ‘I want to marry you. I want to marry my best friend.’ His voice is strong, unfaltering.

      Oh boy. No room for misunderstanding now.

      The crowd who were about to disperse moments before have now made a circle around us. In an unspoken movement, they are now protecting us from jostling shoppers. I hear them gasp and shush each other as Jim’s words echo through the crisp night air.

      ‘I didn’t plan this, which is silly, because it’s all I’ve thought about for days. I don’t even have a ring.’ He says, and looks forlorn.

      I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of happy-ever-afters, where the prince drops to one knee, diamond ring in one hand as he pleads his devotion. But now, in this moment, I realise that I don’t care one jolt about a ring. I smile in an attempt to reassure him of my non-materialistic self.

      ‘But I do have this,’ he continues, his face breaking out into a big smile again, and he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket.

      What on earth is he going to pull out? He’s got a square box in his hand, wrapped in red paper, with a brilliant white bow on top.

      ‘That’s one fancy-pants wrapping job there,’ I say to him.

      ‘I bought this earlier for you. It’s only one small part of your Christmas present. Don’t worry, there’s more. I was going to put it under the tree at Tess’s. But I think it might just work quite well now.’ He hands the box to me.

      My hands are shaking so much I can hardly peel off the wrapping paper. I hold my breath as I unclasp the hook at the front of the box. I know it’s not a ring, he’s made that clear, but I have no idea what delights might be hidden inside.

      A tiny silver bell. Nestled on red-velvet fabric within the box, with a red-velvet ribbon attached to it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more perfect.

      ‘Oh, Jim.’ I sigh and, I swear, the crowd sighs with me.

      ‘A silver bell for my Belle,’ he says.

      I take it out and shake it once, twice and it rings out into the night air. The group around me all sigh again, louder this time, in unison.

      I don’t blame them. For goodness sake, I’m about to faint with the beauty of the moment. I’ve read about moments like these, watched them in Christmas specials and now I’m actually part of one. Me.

      He takes the bell from my shaking hands and unties the red ribbon.

      ‘It’s not a ring, but it can be a promise of one if you say yes,’ he says.

      ‘Appleby Jewellers is still open, love,’ a voice shouts out from behind me and the crowd laughs in appreciation of typical quick Dublin wit.

      My head races around and around, like a spinning top, and I feel faint as blood rushes to my brain. I reach back to clasp the wrought-iron railing on the bridge.

      For someone who has spent twenty-five years never ever feeling faint, I’ve been doing a good job of it lately, I realise. I close my eyes and take three consecutive deep breaths, until I feel steady once more.

      Maybe I just imagined all of that. I look down, expecting to see nothing there, but a red cobbled street.

      Instead, there’s Jim, my ride of a boyfriend, still on one knee looking up at me. And I can see only love in his eyes.

      ‘We’ve only known each other three weeks,’ I splutter to him. It has to be said. One of us needs to be responsible here. This elicits delicious and shocked gasps from our ever-growing audience.

      He stands up and grabs my hands in his. ‘My darling, beautiful, courageous Belle. You know that’s not true. We’ve known each other all of our lives.’

PART ONE

       1

       Isn’t it funny that at Christmas something in you gets so lonely for — I don’t know what exactly, but it’s something that you don’t mind so much not having at other times.

      Kate L. Bosher

      December 1988

      ‘She’s not said a word. It’s not normal. Maybe it’s time you had her tested. You know, to see if there’s anything wrong with her.’ Mrs Gately, my about-to-be ex-foster carer, sniffs as she taps the side of her head.

      ‘She’s done this before. Stopped talking, I mean,’ Mrs O’Reilly replies, and sniffs in solidarity.

      Mrs O’Reilly is my social worker, for as long as I can remember. She doesn’t look happy with me right now, either. I don’t want to make her cross. I never mean to upset anyone, but it keeps happening all the same. I made my mother angry a lot.

      I hold my doll Dee-Dee close to me and stroke her black hair, trying to block out memories of my mother.

      ‘Have a good Christmas, Belle,’ Mrs Gately says loudly as she moves towards me. She almost hugs me, then seems to change her mind at the last minute. She ends up just patting my head instead.

      I think I got off lightly because she smells weird. She wears this perfume that makes my nose itch and sneeze. I can see she’s delighted to see the back of me. I heard her telling her husband earlier that no money was worth it. Even though I’m only eight, I’ve worked out that it must be me.

      ‘Put your seat belt on, Belle,’ Mrs O’Reilly snaps over her shoulder. She’s definitely cross with me too. But then her face softens a little as she looks at me in the rear-view mirror. Her voice goes all high and strained as she tells me, ‘You’ll like this house, you wait and see. Tess is a good woman and this time it’s a permanent placement. That will be good, won’t it? Settling into a new home and unpacking your things.’

      I look down at the small backpack that lies at my feet, which holds everything I own.

      ‘Belle,’