A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

  Frank lowered his head and shook it thoughtfully. ‘I’m going to the police,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll stop where you are, mate. I’ve asked Pete Furness to call round when things quieten down a bit. He’s doing his best, but he’s outnumbered. He was blowing his whistle and waiting for reinforcements. But stop here, and he’ll take your statement. Oh, he’s not a Catholic, by the way.’

  ‘You chose well, Polly.’

  ‘There was no choice, because the poor lad was on his own. And your mother’s horrible.’ She found the sling and slipped his arm into it. ‘With your hand raised, it should feel a bit better.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My mother – who else?’

  ‘That she’d send a taxi for you. So I had to tell her you wanted to talk to the police because you’d seen a child beaten up. Then she went on about you being forced to deal with the dregs of society, and she couldn’t wait for this area to be demolished.’

  ‘And?’

  She shrugged. ‘I put the phone down. No way was I going to listen to that. Let’s face it, she used to live not far from here, so who the hell does she think she is? Princess Margaret? Oh, and our Cal was mixed up with Johnny Blunt’s lot, but he wouldn’t let me push him home. What the hell have you started, Frank?’

  ‘A fight for children’s dignity,’ he answered. ‘It’s time for some lawyers to start specializing in the defence of children. Kids have the same inborn rights as everybody else. Just because they’re young and foolish, they get branded as criminal, and that turns them criminal. A beaten child becomes a poor parent. It has to stop. Somebody has to stand up for children’s rights.’

  She went to make a pot of tea. Frank hadn’t been home, so she cooked bacon and egg for him at the same time. He’d had similar food this morning, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  She had to cut up the bacon, since he had just one hand, while the egg could go into a sandwich if she cooked the yolk right through. Having seen his vulnerability, she liked him all the more. How many inches away from loving him did she stand? Oh, she’d known the answer to that one for a while. But she warned herself at the same time, as any relationship between the two of them promised to be fiery.

  He reminded her of herself, because once he developed strong feelings, he preached his gospel and entered killer mode. Frank had abandoned the Catholic faith. His attitude was that anyone who lived a decent life was a good enough person; if there was a heaven, nobody had an unfair advantage on account of a particular creed. He was probably right.

  Clearly ravenous, he ate his egg sandwich while Polly fed him pieces of bacon each time he paused. She wiped bits of egg from his lips, realizing that these moments were becoming more intimate with every tick of the clock. The man was flawed, adorable and very, very human. She was feeding him as she might have fed a toddler.

  ‘It’s written in the stars in your eyes,’ he said, feeling foolish after delivering the statement.

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full. Mother Moo would be so ashamed, she’d go green and buy a different son.’

  ‘If I had both hands, you’d be in trouble.’

  ‘Shut up and eat, because you’ve had a bad shock.’

  Their eyes remained locked as he ate his way through her offerings. By the end of the strange repast, Polly was in no two minds. She couldn’t win this one. Much as she needed to dedicate herself to the care of her twin, Frank Charleson was going to be a major player in her life. It was written in the stars glistening in two pairs of eyes. ‘It can’t happen yet,’ she whispered. ‘It just can’t.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Until you’ve got both hands?’

  ‘Until forever.’

  ‘Quite the romantic, then?’

  He nodded. ‘Like my dad. I still look after his other half.’

  ‘Your mam?’

  ‘His lover. She’s a sweet woman, lives in a ground-floor flat over in Walton. I make sure she’s comfortable and fed, and we talk about him. Dad ignored my mother, and that was how he managed to keep his sanity. But she still succeeded in killing him with all her complaints and fads, so he mustn’t have managed to ignore her completely.’

  She wondered how Frank could live with that horrible woman.

  He read her thoughts. ‘She’s my mother, Polly. Whatever she is, she gave me life, and she’s a frightened and very stupid woman. I seldom so much as eat with her. As far as business goes, I have a free hand.’ He grinned. ‘Just the one free hand at the moment, but I could lose even that if I walked out of the house. She hangs on like a bulldog. Or is it bullbitch?’

  ‘A kind of blackmail, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Most women are manipulative, but she’s special. Diabetic and eating herself to death, so I doubt she could manage the job of landlord now.’

  Exhausted, Polly sat on the floor with her head in his lap. No words were required. In that split second, she gave herself to him as completely as if they had gone to bed together. He felt like home, smelled of soap with a slight whiff of tobacco, and he stroked her hair, played with the curls as if she were his child. This would be a good husband and father; he would do right by Cal, who remained at the forefront of her thoughts even now.

  ‘Will you learn to love me, Polly?’

  ‘No need.’ She yawned. ‘I’m already there. Been there for a while, but I didn’t listen to myself. Well, I never listen to anybody, come to think about it. And Cal’s always my main focus.’

  Joy rendered him breathless for a few seconds. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he finally achieved.

  She chuckled quietly. ‘We’ll fight.’

  ‘Oh, I know that. But let me make myself plain. Cal comes with us.’

  ‘And your mam?’ she asked sleepily.

  ‘No bloody way.’

  She relaxed. He teased rogue strands of hair from her forehead, looked down and smiled because her eyelashes touched her cheeks. This was trust at its most poignant and beautiful. Polly was here with him and for him. He could take on the Pope himself as long as she stayed by his side, and he would help her tackle Westminster if the Turnpike March happened.

  She worked too damned hard. He hated knowing that she did seven hours a day in the cafe, followed by two or three more upstairs in the evenings. On Saturdays, the cafe was open all day, serving drinks and snacks, but no full meals, since Cal needed his rest. Sunday was her day off. On her day off, she cleaned the house from top to bottom, including Cal’s kitchen and the cafe. Frank wanted to look after her, but he needed to bide his time until he could buy a place for all three of them.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ she mumbled. She loved having her hair played with.

  He remembered asking her why she’d called the proposed demonstration the Turnpike March, and she’d glared at him, a tray in one hand, an empty sugar bowl in the other. ‘Because Scotty used to have a turnpike on it where people paid to get to northern Lancashire. Don’t you know anything? Then it became part of the road from London to Scotland. They changed horses here. The road got widened in the early eighteen hundreds.’

  ‘I’ll make a princess of you, Polly,’ he said now. ‘Sleeping Beauty.’

  ‘Princesses don’t swear.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to stop bloody swearing, won’t you?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She dozed her way towards sleep.

  He wished he could stay like this forever, with her head on his knees, the cap of silky curls in his fingers, the soft sound of her breathing a blessing to his ears.

  But life would break in at any moment in the form of Constable Furness, a decent enough cop with a good nature and plenty of humour. That priest should be in jail. It wouldn’t happen. A bishop would have a word with a cardinal, and Eugene Brennan’s disappearing act would follow. After a few months in a monastery or some such institution, the swine would be sent to a parish far away from Liverpool. No one was allowed to pick the scabs off Catholic sores.

  ‘I could tell she’d
just written the card.’ Christine Lewis polished off the last of her steak. ‘That was good, thank you,’ she said. ‘No pudding for me, Elaine. Watching Mrs Charleson scoffing is a great appetite suppressant.’

  ‘How?’ Elaine asked.

  ‘The table manners are sadly absent. She eats like a pig at a trough.’

  ‘No, I mean how did you know she’d just written the card?’

  Christine smiled broadly. ‘I heard her jump up the minute I left the room; she can move when she needs to. And the moths were still circling when she called me back in.’

  ‘Moths?’

  ‘From her purse. It creaks when she opens it.’

  ‘Oh, Mother. Stop making me laugh, or I’ll choke. So she wants her son to marry me? I have seen him, and he’s handsome, but probably not my type.’

  Christine took a sip of wine while her daughter ordered coffee. Elaine fitted in just about anywhere. She had grown up in a steady and loving home in a beautiful little village, had been quick to learn and good at studying, and was now a woman of the world. ‘Do you think you’ll marry?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Possibly. But I’ll choose my own victim, thanks. I’ll advertise for a sugar daddy with a weak heart, then choose the one who seems nearest to death.’

  ‘You are a terrible girl.’

  ‘And Mrs Charleson is a terrible woman. So her attitude changed the moment you told her I’m a lawyer?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very impressed, though a little jealous. She has absolutely no idea when it comes to hiding her feelings. But I don’t know how I’ll cope if she continues nice. Something will happen very soon, perhaps a little dinner party for you, me, him and her. Just mark my words, because an extra birthday celebration for me is being arranged as we speak. If you’re busy, she’ll postpone it. She’s made up her mind that Frank will marry someone useful, and she’ll fire all guns till she gets her own way.’

  ‘Mother, just say no.’

  ‘She doesn’t accept no.’

  ‘Neither do I, and you have to live with me.’

  They sipped their coffee and indulged in a couple of after-dinner mints.

  ‘Right,’ Christine said at last. ‘Is it all right if I say you’ve met someone?’

  ‘Not really, Mother. Haven’t you always said that liars seldom thrive?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So tell her you want your relationship to continue professional.’

  It was Christine’s turn to almost choke. ‘Then she’ll treat me very badly.’

  ‘Leave.’

  ‘I need a job.’

  ‘We’ll find you another one. You can’t let her win.’

  As Elaine drove homeward, they passed Brookside Cottage. ‘Frank isn’t home,’ Christine commented. ‘He never puts his car away in the garage. It’s a bit late for him to be working, so she’ll be worrying about the company he’s keeping.’

  ‘Oh, forget them, Mother. Happy birthday, no more parties, get a better job. Let’s talk about something else, please.’

  ‘There’ll be murder done out yonder if I’m not mistaken.’ Pete Furness placed his bobby’s helmet on Polly’s table. ‘Were you there?’ he asked her.

  ‘No. Do you want me to leave you two alone?’

  ‘Stay,’ Frank begged.

  ‘Nay, you’re not frightened of me, Frank Charleson.’ Pete had brought his inner Lancashire accent with him to Liverpool, and he’d hung on to it. ‘But Polly can stop if you want. A cuppa would go down well, love. It was me against the world down at the Holy House. I’ve a tongue like the bottom of a birdcage, and it keeps sticking to the roof of me mouth. Holy House? Nowt holy about that pub tonight.’ The Holy House was a pub about halfway between Polly’s Parlour and St Anthony’s. Men attending eleven o’clock Mass on a Sunday piled into the pub after worshipping in the church and paid their respects to ale before repairing homeward for Sunday dinner.

  Polly went into the kitchen to make a brew. She listened while Frank spoke. From time to time Pete interrupted, since he was taking notes in his little hard-backed police book, but the eavesdropper heard most of what Frank said.

  There had been several witnesses, folk just passing by, only he didn’t know who they were. But a Miss Hulme, a Mrs Mannix and a Mr Cross, all teachers at the school, had seen what had happened. ‘They’d stayed behind for a meeting. You can catch them at school tomorrow, I suppose. I’ve no idea where they live, but I brought them back here.’ He paused. ‘They may decide not to speak up against a priest.’

  Pete sighed heavily enough to be heard by the listener in the next room. ‘I know. Leave them to us. We can but try, but we’re talking solid Catholic in these parts, as you well know.’

  ‘Solid stupid,’ was Frank’s declared opinion.

  ‘All right, lad. But you have to understand – it’s knocked into them from birth, and the heavy stuff’s crammed into their heads the minute they start school.’

  Frank laughed cynically. ‘You don’t need to tell me, because I’m the one that got away. I went through all four Cs – catechism, confession, communion and confirmation. But the fifth C – Catholic – I am not. For me, that last word has a small C and it probably describes my taste in music, nothing more. But there’s no prejudice in what I’m going to say. It will be nothing but true.’

  ‘Aye, lad. Remember, I’ve known thee for a few years now.’

  As the tale fell from Frank’s lips, Polly found that her hands were curling so tightly that she was marking her palms with her nails. The priest had whipped Billy behind his knees with a thin cane, thereby causing the boy to drop to the ground. Then he’d beaten him hard across the back before kicking him twice. Brennan was a large man; Billy was seven years of age and quite slender.

  ‘He definitely kicked him?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘Twice, possibly three times. I was running fast, so I’m not sure about a third kick, but I’d swear in court to two kicks.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘The bugger saw me running towards him, so he stopped hitting Billy and raised the cane to me. Thin canes hurt more, you know. When I was sent to fetch a cane – yes, we had the privilege of carrying the instrument of torture for the good, Christ-blessed people to use on us – I always chose the thicker one. It hurt, but it didn’t whip through skin like the thin one did.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Pete said as he caught up in his notebook. ‘Hey, it’s not just Catholics that cane kids. I’ve had a few wallops in my state school.’

  ‘Yes, but were they brides of Christ or shepherds to a special flock? No. They didn’t pretend to be near to God, did they? All that praying and bobbing up and down means sod all, Pete. They’re frustrated, sad bastards, and they take it out on those too little to fight back. Anyway, I grabbed his cane, broke it and smashed my right fist into his jaw. The three teachers pulled me away. And I speak from experience when I say Brennan’s hard-faced. Because my hand feels wrecked.’

  When Polly brought the tea in, Pete was shaking his head sadly.

  ‘And poor little Billy lay there unconscious,’ Frank was saying. ‘He was picked up by a bloke, but I’ve no idea who he was. I gave the man ordained by the Church some advice on sex and travel.’

  ‘The F word?’

  ‘Too bloody right. And he effed off sharpish.’

  Pete drank some tea before finishing his notes. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘He’ll be gone by weekend. That lot out there plan to invade Mass on Sunday and keep him shut inside. But the bishop will spirit him away. He’ll go on retreat for a month, then he’ll pop up somewhere else.’ He took another mouthful of tea. ‘Brennan’s like a locum, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly said. ‘Father Foley’s on retreat. He doesn’t kick kids.’

  ‘Brennan hasn’t got a parish of his own,’ Frank added. ‘And I reckon that’s because they know he’s a drunk who can’t cope with folk. At his age, he should be settled in one place, but they protect him, you see. The Church protects the worst of all its sinners. As long as the money’
s in the plate, none of them gives a damn about kids.’

  Peter Furness stood up and grabbed his helmet. ‘I’m off duty, but I’ll go and see the lad and his parents. You won’t be driving with that hand, will you?’

  ‘Not tonight, no.’

  ‘Lend us your car, Frank. If it’s owt to do with me, the bugger will be cautioned, charged and sleeping in a cell tonight.’

  Frank smiled. ‘Not afraid of hell then, Pete?’

  ‘After working in these parts, hell should be a doddle for me. I’ll bring your car back; give me an hour.’

  When Pete had gone to join the vigil at Billy’s bedside, Frank and Polly cuddled up on the sofa. They discussed what had happened, and reached the same conclusion. The faith was important to most who lived in these parts, but one vital thing rose above the Nicene Creed and all the sacraments. It was family.

  ‘I reckon they’ll go for him, Frank, if they get the chance. You know what they’re like, shoot first and question the corpse later.’

  ‘I hope they will, and I hope they get to do it legally. Eugene Brennan should be kept away from all children for the rest of his life. He should be unfrocked and stuck in a cage with other villains.’

  She held his good hand. ‘I’m proud of you, kid.’

  ‘Give me a down payment, then. One kiss, and I’ll buy you a ring.’

  So it was signed and sealed with a kiss; they were engaged. But a cloud hung over the occasion; little Billy was hurt. And where the hell was Cal?

  Three

  It was the weirdest dream and it kept repeating itself, as if the reel needed changing at the cinema. It didn’t make sense, because it went slowly, then quickly, like a very old cowboy movie from the silent era, as there was absolutely no sound to it. He couldn’t touch anything, either, couldn’t walk away or stand properly, because . . . because he’d been whipped behind his knees with a very thin, sharp cane before . . . before what? Something nasty had happened, and it was probably all his fault.

  He’d done a bad thing, but couldn’t remember what the sin was. His sums were all marked correct, and he was doing all right with his reading except for some very big words. His catechism was up to date, as was his map of the world with the British Empire coloured in pink. He hadn’t been too bad in class, but he hadn’t learned the stuff about the bad, fat king who’d killed Catholics.