A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

  At the opposite side of the building’s entrance, the other hero was being interviewed by a reporter. Dusty Den Davenport was sparkling clean for once. He wore a smart suit and shiny shoes, a plain navy blue tie, and a rather handsome trilby. For a ragman, he certainly scrubbed up well.

  Mike Stoneway emerged. Behind him in court, the natives were revolting. ‘Billy Blunt,’ they chanted repeatedly. ‘He’s gone,’ Mike told Polly. ‘Whisked out at the back to be assessed by last night’s visitors. But he’s still down for Crown Court. I reckon they’ll find him unfit to stand.’

  ‘He will be unfit to stand,’ Cal said. ‘He drinks enough to keep himself unfit to stand.’ With a weighty hangover of his own, he realized that his statement was rather hypocritical, though he’d belted no kids, had he?

  Polly swore under her breath; Brennan might not serve time in prison. The reason for his escape weighed heavily on many shoulders. A man of God walked with the devil, his escape aided by higher-ranking members of the one, true, apostolic Faith. It made no sense.

  The Blunts came out. Mavis, white-faced but calm, descended the steps on her husband’s arm.

  ‘Sorry,’ the sergeant said.

  Mavis awarded him a grim smile. ‘Not your fault. But I’ll tell you this much here and now. I’ll get him. If it takes me all my life and a gun, that’s a dead man.’ Her tone was devoid of emotion.

  ‘There’ll be a queue,’ Johnny warned her. ‘There’ll be half of Scotty looking for him.’

  Mavis nodded thoughtfully. ‘It should be me. I’m his mother, and I’m the one with no religion. If a man like him can be an ordained priest, there’s a fault somewhere. The Church is built in an earthquake zone and I want nothing more to do with it.’

  ‘How’s Billy?’ Polly asked in a bid to divert the conversation.

  ‘Fine,’ Fred replied. ‘Sitting up and smiling, but it hurts when he coughs or laughs. It was all over a Dinky toy he couldn’t resist. Saved a month’s spends and bought it, then had no money left for his mam’s birthday. So he took half a crown to buy flowers, and was going to put his spends in the plate until he’d paid it all back. My lad is no thief.’

  ‘Instead of paying back in the Sunday plate, he nearly paid with his life. Thanks again, Den,’ Mavis called.

  The reporter, realizing that this was the child’s family, left Den and came over. He explained that he might need permission from the paper’s lawyers to name the priest, since the case was pending, but he wanted the full story and he’d got most of it. He would emphasize the initial severity of the lad’s condition. ‘Liverpool will soon fill in any missing names,’ he said.

  ‘I want the Catholics out on strike.’ This statement came from Frank. ‘I know a lot won’t stay away, because missing Mass is a mortal sin unless they’re nearly dead; even then, they have to give notice. But let those who had him declared insane know that collection plates in this end of Liverpool will be lighter for the foreseeable future. If you hit them in the Achilles pocket, they squeal.’

  Polly tapped the journalist’s arm. ‘This is Frank Charleson. He stopped Brennan kicking Billy by knocking him down, and hurt his hand in the process. Frank, that’s the man who carried Billy away. Hiya, Den.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Frank said. ‘I think I’ve seen him in the cafe, but I got just a glimpse when he lifted Billy. Well done, Den.’

  ‘Hiya, Pol,’ Den called back. ‘Sun’s shining, but this is a dark day.’

  It could easily have been darker. As Polly pushed her twin homeward, she wondered what might have happened had young Billy died. The mood was already heavy, and plans were afoot, but everything could have been so much worse. He was out of the deliberately arranged coma and was talking, thank goodness.

  The cafe was packed. Polly ran herself ragged serving Lancashire hotpot, steak and kidney pies, or sandwiches and salad for the overheated. Cal sweated in the kitchen while Frank sauntered towards town in pursuit of underpants and a shirt. He felt a bit mean, because he could have helped, but his ‘bad’ hand might well buy him another night at Polly’s place. All was fair in love and war, he reminded himself, and she was a mixture of the two. War and Peace? She could have written it, though the peace bit might have been brief.

  Polly caught snatches of conversation as she moved among the tables. Churches were to be picketed on Sunday. Father Foley of St Columba’s was on his way back from retreat with his golf clubs. Rumour had it that Brennan had gone to a drunks’ refuge in Harley Street, London, that he’d been banished to Ireland, that he’d been sent as a missionary to a remote part of the world where human flesh was sometimes on the menu, that he was in a monastery outside Coventry. This was Scotty’s version of Chinese whispers, and it was imaginative.

  Altar boys would be kept at home, and parents were prepared to carry the weight of children’s sins. To obey the commandment Honour thy father and thy mother, the young would stay away from Mass. Confirmation classes and Legion of Mary meetings were going to be small. It was a shame that other priests would suffer, but a stand needed to be made. For a few moments, Polly sat at the bottom of the stairs. All this would stop. Kirkby, Knowsley and other outreaches of Liverpool were almost set to house more Roaders.

  She sighed. There were even rumours of a new move further into Lancashire, an enormous estate to be built somewhere between St Helens and Ormskirk. More neighbours to be separated from neighbours, families split; and public transport to and from the new settlements was far from regular.

  Frank had come up with a plan of sorts. It involved moving people round and getting them to continue paying rent on the house provided for them, but it threw up so many complications that he had been forced to abandon the idea. Children changing schools attracted too much attention, chaos threatened, and poor Frank had to throw in the towel. It was grim.

  ‘Polly?’ Cal called. ‘Two sausage and chips ready here, love.’

  She went to get the dinners. Soon, she wouldn’t hear Cal calling for her to pick up meals, because it was all coming to an end. The promised rebirth of Scotland Road was not going to happen for decades – if ever. Yet perhaps there was a good side to this. The churches in these parts held a lot of sway, and if there were fewer of them in the new areas the priests who remained in the district while their congregations disappeared would campaign for new housing here.

  In truth, everybody felt sorry for the Scotty priests. They were decent, ordinary blokes with a calling and, for the most part, they worked towards the improvement of their parishioners’ lives. But beyond them lay a level of corruption that had eaten its way into the ranks on Scotland Road.

  Everyone had heard of abuse within the Church. Yes, there were whispers and embellishments, but as surely as seeds sat in the core of an apple, truth nestled deep inside the stories.

  Elaine Lewis, on her way back from delivering a brief to chambers on behalf of a colleague, stopped and bought an early evening newspaper from a vendor. And on the front page sat a photograph of the person who was occupying her dreams. He stood with another man, one Mr Denis Davenport, who was described as a rag and bone man, while Mr Frank Charleson was announced as a property owner and, according to a Mrs Harriet Benson, the best and kindest landlord ever.

  Frank and Denis had, between them, put a stop to the criminal behaviour of a terrible priest. There was a lecture from Frank appended.

  It is time for some lawyers to dedicate themselves to advocacy for children. Children make only one mistake, that of being too small to defend themselves. In this case, I was witness to a brutal attack on a small boy by a huge, drunken man. I hit the creature so hard that I hurt my right hand, then Denis grabbed the lad and took him to hospital. Without intervention, Billy might well have bled to death internally.

  We need solicitors and barristers to specialize in the prosecution of such people as this thoroughly evil man who put Billy Blunt in an operating theatre. We need lawyers to reach children and to encourage them to speak up against abusers, even if those abusers are fa
mily members. We want to stop figures of authority acting as if they can do as they like. The Catholic Church and all churches must weed out the bad immediately, instead of hiding them for a few months then letting them loose again on society’s innocents. The cane of every teacher should go on a bonfire come November.

  Yes, we all have anecdotes about people whose fathers and teachers beat them, who say such beatings and canings did no harm. How can they be sure? Do they occasionally lash out at kids? Because such behaviour is a learned pattern, and it must be stopped. Are they sure that they would not have been better adults without the beatings?

  The newspaper reporter then questioned Mr Charleson about standing for Parliament, and his reply was interesting. He chose his words and his company carefully. I could not enjoy working under whips in a place where partisanship overrides morals. We should be slave to no party. Perhaps an independent MP has freedom, but he is one voice among a babble of nonsense. And thus Frank Charleson dismissed Westminster and a whole system of government, a template of democracy that had been copied, adapted and shaped to form the political back-cloth of many civilizations.

  Elaine folded her newspaper. There was more to Frank Charleson than met the eye, and what met the eye was pleasing. Perhaps an extra little celebration for Norma Charleson’s birthday might be a good idea after all. The man was clever, outspoken and filled with enthusiasm. Elaine leaned on the wall outside the office and lifted her face to the sun. She wanted to know him better. She wanted him. And Elaine Lewis always got what she wanted.

  They lay rigid side by side in Polly’s bed. She wasn’t speaking to him, because she’d caught him combing his hair with his supposedly wrecked right hand. He managed to persuade her that while some movements gave little pain, he wouldn’t have been capable of steering a car. He’d got Cal drunk, and she knew he’d done it on purpose. Yet these misbehaviours made him all the more desirable, since the last thing she wanted in her life was a yes man.

  As Polly wasn’t speaking to him, Frank decided not to talk to her. But Frank in non-speaking mode was unlike any other person Polly had ever come across. He turned his back on her and, with his left arm, inflicted grievous bodily harm on an innocent pillow before throwing his head into the hollow he had created. He muttered. Most of his words were incomprehensible, though she caught the odd one or two. If she filled in the missing letters like a crossword, he was moaning about her, his mother and the price of underwear.

  ‘Bloody sizes all wrong,’ he mumbled.

  Polly coughed.

  ‘Can I rub some Vicks on your chest?’ This request was delivered fully formed.

  She turned to face the window. There was a moon. Perhaps he was a lunatic, one who responded badly to phases of Earth’s companion. She loved him. No matter how naughty he was, she adored him. The curtains weren’t quite closed and she thought he probably looked gorgeous on the end of a moonbeam. But she was the moonstruck one, wasn’t she?

  ‘Polly?’

  ‘We’re not speaking.’

  ‘OK.’ He attacked the pillow all over again.

  ‘Stop doing that.’

  ‘You spoke?’

  ‘Yes. I told you to stop attacking the pillow. I don’t want feathers everywhere.’

  He groaned.

  ‘Behave,’ she snapped, though she was dangerously close to laughter.

  He sat up. ‘Feathers tickle,’ he said gravely. ‘And you’re ticklish. I remember Cal sitting on you whenever you got out of hand, which was almost every day. He used to tickle you.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it, or you’ll need slings on both arms. Now, let me get some sleep. We’ve early breakfast tomorrow, two sittings.’

  She was in charge. It was her bed for a start. She knew she was in charge, and she knew that he knew she was in charge. Hmm. What would Admiral Lord Nelson have done? Load the cannon, hoist the mainsail, shiver his timbers? Horatio certainly knew how to kick the frogs’ legs from under the French, while Polly was a Scouser. She was tough.

  He altered his position and put an arm round her waist. It was his left arm, because he didn’t want further injuries. ‘Polly?’

  ’What now?’

  ‘Love me?’

  ‘You know I do.’ Mercurial as ever, she moved into his embrace. And this time, she allowed nature to take its powerful course. It was a warm night, so bedding was tossed to the floor while the pair of them made love in moonlight. There was joy, passion, laughter and tears, and, above all, there was gentleness and a very real love.

  Afterwards, she lay stark naked next to him, also stark naked, and stroked his face till he slept. Then she picked up all the covers and spread them over him. Early mornings could be chilly, even in summer. He would be gone tomorrow back to his extended cottage with his mother in the annexe. Mrs Old Cow would question him closely, though most of the answers were in this evening’s newspaper.

  Polly would miss him. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she whispered. Physically, he was quite a specimen, just over six feet in height, brown hair, green eyes, a slight bump on his nose rescuing him from perfection. Ellen had adored him. She had dashed straight to Polly’s house to show off her ring. The only secret that Polly had kept from her close friend was the fact that Frank had been turned down by her. She’d met Greg, who was exciting. Oh yes, he’d been exciting and immeasurably shallow, as had Cal’s fiancée. One whiff of a damaged spine, and they’d both disappeared, no real goodbyes, no excuses.

  Frank was not shallow. He was a decided man, determined to the point of stubbornness, but he was gentle, affectionate and amusing. She grinned; she might have been describing a pet dog, and he was no pet. ‘Don’t go home,’ she mouthed. ‘Find somewhere for the three of us.’ Oh, if only he would. Although she dreaded the loss of her cafe and the hairdressing business, a part of her wanted the pain over with. As things were, the streets would disappear first, leaving the road a blank, deserted page with all marks erased.

  The barrel organ man with his monkey no longer visited. Roundabouts used to be towed along and parked so that children could take a penny ride. Polly remembered Mam telling her about kids leaping about in front of trams while passengers threw pennies onto the pavements to save the children’s lives. It was quieter now, though only a small percentage of the populace had been moved. Soon, the uprooting would begin again; soon, Scotland Road would be a memory for a few decades until everyone was dead. There would never be a finer place.

  It was time to start preparing to invade London where, in silence, the people from this precious part of Liverpool would rage against the dying of the light. But first, a priest must be brought to book. How the hell would he be tracked down? Polly had no idea.

  Eugene Brennan was in prison. He had a tiny cell with a hard bunk, an upright chair and a desk, a crucifix on the wall above his bed and a missal as his only reading material. There were no police; his jailers were grey shapes who wore hooded grey garments that matched the grey walls and the grey floor.

  Disorientated and seriously close to complete sobriety, he teetered on the brink of knowing exactly what he had done. He could easily kill for a drink. He had almost killed a child because of drink. Was he contrite? No answer to this unspoken question sprang to mind. Self-pity consumed him almost completely. Where was he? What was this dreadful place where no one spoke? They sang. Every bloody six hours, they sang the Angelus. They sang Mass twice a day. They sang Benediction. They probably sang for their supper, and the food was rubbish. Or perhaps their diet was better than the swill they served up for prisoners.

  One of the grey men unlocked the door and placed a tray on the desk.

  ‘Where am I?’ the prisoner asked.

  The grey man left. The cell was three paces long, two paces wide. Brennan heard another door being unlocked, then another. Each time, the door was locked when the almost invisible left a cell. The prisoner was sober enough to realize that he was incarcerated in a drying-out monastery. Next to a bowl of porridge on the tray stood a glass of water
with four pills on a small saucer.

  With an inhuman roar escaping from his throat, Father Eugene Brennan hurled the tray and its contents at the wall. Glutinous white slop travelled slowly over unplastered brickwork. A hooded head peered through the grille in the door. While the monk watched, the priest picked up his slop bucket, removed the lid, and threw his own effluent at the same wall. The space was so tiny that he was soaked in urine.

  ‘I am not a priest,’ he shouted. ‘I resign and I am a free man.’

  After this rather strenuous outburst, he placed himself on the hard bunk and slept. When he woke, his cell was clean. On the desk sat a plate of plain biscuits, a glass of water and four pills. Starving, he gobbled up the food, drank the water and hid the pills under his mattress. The holy brothers were trying to sedate him. Oh, God, he had to get out of this place. The window was barred, the door was heavy, and the monks each carried just one key. It was a skeleton, he felt sure. He had to get his hands on a key, and his hands were trembling uncontrollably.

  The corridor was silent. He pushed his fingers through the grille and yes, he felt the air move. Somewhere near, a window was open. Turning, he sought a weapon. All he had was a wooden cross with the figure of Christ nailed to it.

  His insides quivered. Resigning from the priesthood was one thing; battering a monk with a crucifix was on a different level altogether. His mind worked well enough to inform him that here was the safest place, that the Church might save him from facing a judge, yet the price was high. Plainchant, plain food, plain environment – this was not living, and it might go on for years. He needed his real medicine, a pint of ale and a double whiskey to follow.