The sun was shining, and an air of excitement permeated every dormitory and school classroom of Speke Hill. As was the custom, classes had been suspended and all thoughts, of both pupils/residents and staff turned to the afternoon's events. Sports Day had arrived and each House wanted to emerge victorious from the proceedings. The winning House Captain would then assume the honour of receiving the 'Bishops Cup,' a beautiful engraved silver trophy awarded each year to the victorious House.
The morning had begun like any other, with breakfast, followed by prayers in the school chapel. Prayers over, normal routine was suspended as everyone returned to their dormitories to prepare for the big event. One of the responsibilities of the senior girls in the school was to make sure all sports kit was clean and ironed. All pupils had chores to perform, from juniors to seniors, and this was one of the tasks never allotted to junior school members due to the dangers of using a hot iron. In fact, the words 'senior' and 'junior' were rarely used at Speke Hill as the younger children attended what was termed the 'lower' school and seniors the 'upper' school. So they became 'lowers' and 'uppers' within the terminology of the school.
Gerald Byrne made sure his kit was ready for use. His shirt, like all the sports shirts at the school was reversible. The fronts of the shirts were green with cream coloured collars and cuffs, while the reverse side was the same green with a large, broad hoop across the chest area in the various house colours, yellow for Molyneux, red for Norris, blue for Stanley and white for Sefton.
Most of the boys thought the shirts would make people think they were playing for Liverpool Corporation Transport, whose buses were a similar green to the school's. Gerald's shirt had a blue hoop, showing he represented Stanley house, and he laid it out, together with his white shorts and green socks, on his bed and made sure his running plimsolls were clean of mud before placing them under his bed, ready to change into soon before the afternoon's events began. Gerald excelled at most sports, but athletics, track and field were far from his favourite sporting activities. He preferred football, rugby and cricket, team games, rather than the individual competition he'd be involved in today. He'd been selected to run in the 100 yard sprint for his year group, and later in the afternoon, he'd take part in the relay race at the same distance. Between the two events, he had an hour and a half of free time to watch the rest of the day's events or just do whatever he liked if he chose not to watch his fellow school mates toiling in the afternoon heat, and anyway, he hardly knew any of the uppers who'd be competing in their events in the latter half of the day's events, apart from his sister, Angela, who was taking part in the upper girls' long jump competition, not the most riveting of events to watch for a spirited ten year old boy.
As the other boys in his dorm also prepared themselves for later in the day, Peter Forester, a friend of Gerald's, switched on his little transistor radio, and the sounds of Radio Caroline filled the room. The pirate radio station had begun broadcasting in March of that year from a ship anchored just outside British territorial waters off the coast of Felixstowe. The kids of Speke Hill thought the idea of a 'pirate' radio station was great fun and loved tuning in at every opportunity they got. Thanks to the relaxing of the usual school regime for the day, they were able to listen to the radio while they enjoyed the morning's relief from the usual routine of their lessons.
They all wanted to hear the Beatles of course, as only that month, the group's movie, A Hard Day's Night had been released in cinemas, and though most of the children would eventually get to see their idols at the cinema, only a few lucky ones had so far saved up enough pocket money to see the film. Some of the boys and girls from Speke Hill had asked the teachers if they could go into the city on the day the Beatles returned in triumph from their latest tour, but wisely the staff refused, as over three hundred people were hurt in the crush that accompanied their return. As Father O'Reardon, headmaster of the school had said, “School not scream is the order of the day,” a reference to the screaming fans who always accompanied any public appearance by the Fab Four.
Gerald, known to his school friends and fellow orphans as Gerry, meanwhile teamed up with his two friends, Tim Gregson and Frank Jessop to complete the one task they had to carry out that morning. Usually, the lower school pupils had certain chores that would be carried out between the close of school at three-thirty p.m and their evening meal at five p.m but today, due to the extended time taken up by the sorting activities the pupils were instructed to carry out such tasks during their free time in the morning.
So, the three boys set about cleaning the dormitory's shower room and toilets, while others attended to such jobs as cleaning windows, polishing the tiled floor and vacuuming and dusting, all designed to engender not only a sense of cleanliness and domesticity in the boys, but to foster a spirit of teamwork,
With the job finished the boys returned to the main dormitory, where it took Gerry no more than a minute to realise something was wrong. His plimsolls were missing from their place under his bed. Someone was quite clearly playing a prank on young Gerry and he wasn't in the least bit amused by it.
“Okay, you bunch of scallys, who's taken my plimsolls?” he called at the top of his voice to the room in general.
All eyes turned to look at him, but not one reply was forthcoming.
“I said, who's taken them?” he tried again, receiving the same negative result.
“One of youse lot has had me pumps,” he shouted, getting louder as his frustration boiled over, “and whoever it is had better own up and give' em back, right now.”
As silence pervaded the room once more, Gerry Byrne looked intently at each of the boys in turn. Most looked genuinely innocent but one or two seemed to be doing their best not to break out into mischievous grins.
“Well, ain't any of you got owt to say?” he asked yet again.
“Gerry, honest, none of us saw anyone take 'em. If we had, we'd tell you, wouldn't we?” said Billy Ryan as he joined Gerry in trying to look for the missing footwear.
“Some of you would, and some wouldn't,” Gerry replied in an accusing tone.
There weren't many places in the dorm where a pair of shoes might be hidden and Gerry and Billy had soon checked under all the beds in the room, the broom closet, where Gerry, Tim and Frank had already returned the cleaning materials from their shower cleaning, making it an unlikely place to find them, and behind all the boys' individual lockers and small wardrobes that stood either side of each bed. Leaving the main dormitory, and being joined by Tim and Frank, the small group now went from dormitory to dormitory, checking and asking all the other boys in their accommodation about the missing plimsolls.
Almost on the verge of tears, and knowing he wouldn't be able to compete that afternoon without his pumps, Gerry now realised that whoever had taken them must have them hidden in his own bedside locker or wardrobe.
“If someone doesn't tell me where me pumps are in one minute, I'm going to report it to Father Mullaney,” said Gerry, referring to the priest in charge of the orphan boys' accommodation blocks.
As he spoke he looked around at the others in the room once again and this time he saw that one boy just couldn't seem to hide a knowing smirk from appearing on his face.
Gerry Byrne now fixed a look of realisation on young Mark Proctor. As he did so, Proctor tried to switch off the tell tale look, covering his mouth with one hand and affecting a false cough to hide the knowing grin that now began to appear on his face. Proctor was taller and heavier than Gerry and already earning something of a reputation as a minor bully amongst the lower school boys, but, not one to back down in the face of what he now felt sure of, young Gerry Byrne now stomped across the room to where Bolton sat on his own bed, obviously enjoying the smaller boy's discomfiture.
“It was you, Mark Proctor. Give 'em back, right now, you rotten thief,” he shouted at the other boy.
“Aw, listen to little Gerry,” Mark Proctor smirked. “Lost yer pumps, 'ave yer, little boy?”
“G
ive 'em to me, you thieving little git,” said Byrne. “You've got 'em in your locker. I know you have”
“Yeah, right, if you say so, and who's going to make me open up my own private locker, eh, Gerry boy?”
“I'll tell Father Mullaney, and he'll make you open it and then you'll be in real trouble, you scally, Proctor.”
“Watch who you're calling a scally, you little bastard, Byrne”
“I'm no bastard, Proctor, not like you. You don't even know who your dad is.”
“Liar! My Dad was a famous American soldier.”
“Famous my arse,” Gerry Byrne laughed. “Everyone knows he was an American soldier alright, one of them stationed out at Haydock after the war, until they all went home and he left your Mam with a snivelling little brat to look after. No wonder she killed herself, Mark Proctor. Who'd want to look after you for the rest of their life?”
Quite clearly, the piety of his later calling had not yet had time to mature in the young Gerald Byrne and his telling remarks now led to Mark Proctor springing up from his bed and the fight that ensued saw both boys throwing punches at each other's face, and letting loose with a few well-aimed kicks. Mark Proctor landed the most telling punches, his future success in the boxing ring giving him the upper hand in close combat, while young Gerry Byrne, the footballer, was ahead on points in the kicking department as the other boys in the room cheered the fight on, until a loud voice boomed out from the doorway.
“And what in the name of all that's Holy is going on here, might I ask?”
The look on the face of Father Mullaney was enough to halt the cheering in less than a second and as the hubbub surrounding them died a death, so the two combatants sensed more than saw the six foot three inch priest as he marched down the centre aisle of the dormitory, and grabbing both boys by their shirt collars and dragging them apart, feet off the floor, he slowly deposited them back on the ground.
“I want the truth, now, no lies, and I'm only asking once. Who started this unholy scene?”
“He stole my pumps, Father, and then he attacked me when I told the truth about his Dad,” said Gerry Byrne.
“Is this true, Mark?” asked the priest, and Mark Proctor's face turned even redder than it was already from his exertions in the fight. He remained silent however, forcing Father Mullaney to ask again, “I said, did you steal this boy's plimsolls?”
Shamefacedly, Mark Proctor looked up at the towering figure of the priest and, trying his best to sound contrite and innocent, replied,
“It was a joke, Father, just a prank. I was going to let him have them back before Sports Day started.”
“I see, and just where are they now, young Proctor?”
“In my locker, Father.”
“Go and get them and return them to young Mr. Byrne, right now, if you please.”
Mark Proctor ran the few feet to his locker, and quickly opened it and removed Gerry Byrne's plimsolls, and quickly handed them over.
“Here they are, Gerry. Sorry, honest. It won't happen again.”
Gerry Byrne scowled at his adversary, saying nothing as he grabbed his plimsolls and gathered them against his chest.
Father Mullaney next turned to Gerry.
“And as for you, Byrne, what gave you the right to insult this boy's dead father, if that is indeed what you did?”
“Because he wouldn't give them back, Father and he called me a bastard, too.”
The priest sighed, before speaking again.
“I can see that you two boys have a lot to learn about the ways of the world and about learning to get along together. Now, you'll shake hands with each other and as it's Sports Day and things have been allowed to be a little too relaxed, to my way of thinking, I'll be lenient with the pair of you. You, Mark Proctor, for stealing the plimsolls in the first place, and for compounding your crime by then starting a fight, will be confined to the dormitory after evening meal for one month, and you will attend chapel both morning and evening every day during that time, where you will pray on your knees to our Lord Jesus Christ for forgiveness for your sins, for one hour in the evening session, and for ten minutes in the morning, which should leave you time to get back to your dorm after chapel and gather your books in time for school.”
Mark Proctor gulped, looking totally crestfallen as he saw his freedom being seriously restricted for the coming four weeks. Father Mullaney next turned to Gerry Byrne.
“Now, as for you, Gerald Byrne. I thought better of you than this. Fighting in the dorm, indeed, and making accusations against another boy's father is not the Christian way of handling a dispute. You are all unfortunate enough to be without your parents, which is why you have all ended up at Speke Hill Orphanage, and no matter the reason for your loss of your parents, I will not have you using the circumstances surrounding that loss to be used in such a way. You'll be confined to the orphanage grounds for the next four weekends. No walks into the village or trips to town with Father Hunter, do you understand?”
“Yes, Father. I'm sorry, Father, it won't ever happen again.”
“And, you'll say ten Hail Mary's before and after every lesson in school for the next week, is that clear?”
“Very clear, Father,” Gerry said, quietly.
“Very well,” the priest went on, “I've a mind to stop you both taking part in this afternoon's events but that would unfairly penalise your fellow house-members, so I suggest you both stay well away from each other until this afternoon, and don't you ever let me see or hear of such behaviour taking place ever again, or, in the name of our Lord, I'll personally take my cane to the pair of you, and you'll not be able to sit down for a week. Is that clear?”
Both boys nodded and looked totally abashed at Father Mullaney's words. As the priest turned on his heel and stormed out of the dormitory, the two of them shared a look of pure hatred at each other, and an enmity was born that would last far beyond Sports Day, until both boys were well into their teens.
* * *
Mark Proctor walked confidently in to the room, his hand extended in friendship.
“Gerry Byrne, as I live and breathe, it is you. I'm sorry, it's Father Byrne now of course, isn't it? Welcome home, Father, it's good to see you again after so many years. How are you?”
Gerald Byrne was almost taken aback by Mark Proctor's effusive welcome, but he thought the P.E. teacher could do nothing else under the circumstances. It would hardly be fitting for his old adversary to greet the new chaplain of the orphanage and school with a roundhouse punch to the head, now would it?
Quickly recovering his composure, Byrne reached out and took the proffered hand, and the two men shook hands vigorously, like two old friends, reunited after so many long years.
“I'm well, thank you, Mark. It's good to see you again, too. I see the wheel has turned full circle for you too, ending up back here again. I take it you haven't always taught here?”
“Quite right, Father Byrne. I've taught at a few schools over the years, but when I heard of the vacancy for this job, I just felt I had to apply for it, and, well, as you can see, here I am.”
“Yes, indeed, and I hear you're to be my guide around the 'new' Speke Hill, too.”
“Yes, that's right. When he realised we were both old boys from the same year at Speke Hill, Charles here asked if I'd be happy to show you the changes that have taken place since you last saw the old place. I was delighted to be able to help.”
I'll just bet you were, Byrne thought to himself, sarcastically, but kept such uncharitable thoughts to himself and instead replied, “Excellent. So, I've taken up enough of Mr. Hopkirk's time this morning, shall we get on with the guided tour?”
“It's nice to have met you and had our little talk,” Hopkirk said as Father Byrne stood, and the two men shook hands.
“Yes, indeed Charles,” Byrne replied as he moved to follow Bolton out of the office. “We'll doubtless meet in the future, I'm sure.”
“Oh yes, I look forward to it. I don't attend the services in the
chapel as a rule but we'll bump into each other during your visits, without doubt,” Hopkirk said as the two former residents of the orphanage left the room and the door closed behind them.
Mark Proctor appeared not to harbour any ill-will towards Gerald Byrne as he took pleasure in showing the priest around. Whether his attitude was a true reflection of his thoughts, or a clever cover-up, Father Byrne couldn't ascertain at that point.
Surely he can't believe the past is totally buried, that all his bullying and cruelty towards those weaker than himself can be put down to childish pranks as he used to call them, thought Byrne, as he followed Bolton around, trying to be polite and showing interest where he felt it was called for.
In truth, there hadn't been too many drastic changes to the old place. The trees lining the approach drive had grown substantially of course, and the dormitories had undergone quite a radical upgrading, with those living at Speke Hill now being housed in rooms that held just four people, rather than the open dorms of the past which held up to thirty boys or girls. Such a change had inevitably meant that overall numbers had been reduced, with Speke Hill now being 'home' to twenty-five percent fewer boys and girls than in Byrne's days as an orphan.
The biggest changes had been effected in the school, with the classrooms having been totally modernised. Gone were the old chemistry lab, and art room, both being replaced by modern versions of the same, which bore little resemblance to the originals. Each classroom now had state of the art computers installed to enable the children to be taught about, and using, the latest technology. Gerald Byrne managed to keep conversation to a minimum, for the most part managing to make the appropriate noises and speak the expected words in response to Proctor's enthusiastic showing off of the facilities.
Quite naturally, he lingered for a little longer than necessary in the chapel, kneeling in prayer for a couple of minutes, during which time he prayed for forgiveness for his feelings of antipathy towards his old nemesis and Mark Proctor waited patiently in the doorway, not intruding upon the priest's solitude while at prayer.
All Saints- Murder on the Mersey Page 5