A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

  Chris poured two doubles into tumblers. ‘There you go, lad. I know you don’t want ego te absolvo, so this will have to do. Sins shrink when you’re inebriated – take that from a serial offender. There’s nothing like a drop of Irish to help you feel saintly. Just drink that, and I’ll polish our haloes later while you tune the harps.’

  Frank stared into the amber fluid, twisting the crystal in his hand so that light bounced off it. ‘Elaine Lewis practically placed herself on a Sunday serving platter with garnish, roast spuds and three kinds of veg.’

  ‘No apple in her gob?’

  ‘No. She reminds me of a film star. Very polished.’

  ‘Like glazed ham?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Chris sighed again. ‘I remember young Kathleen O’Gorman, so I do. She was lovely. Brown as a berry from the summer sun, blonde streaks in her long, flowing hair, that special twinkle in her bright blue eyes, lips like rose petals, and the way she walked . . . oh, she was nearly the death of me, but.’

  Frank offered no comment, as he didn’t want to stop the flow.

  ‘We were engaged, you know. And we’d lie there in her bedroom planning a future to embrace at least four children, one a priest, one a nun, the rest teachers.’ He lowered his head and shook it sadly. ‘But it was not to be, Frank.’

  ‘Because you gave yourself to Christ?’

  The head continued to move from side to side. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Because her mammy was our babysitter, and we were all of six years old. When she heard us talking about bridesmaids, she fell in a heap laughing and moved me into another room. We were the talk of the town for weeks, all the biddies standing about gossiping, pointing at us and laughing. So we broke off the engagement. Oh, life was a vale of tears for at least a week, perhaps ten days to a fortnight. Then I met Tildy Byrne, whose brother owned a real cricket bat and wickets.’

  ‘You were a philanderer in your youth, then.’

  ‘Indeed, I was fickle. Then at eighteen, I saw the light. Well, I thought I did, but it might have been just a full moon, and me in a mad phase. And here we are now drinking the good stuff and worrying about your lawyer and the buttons on her blouse. In my considered opinion, the world does not improve.’

  They sat for ten or fifteen minutes in the silence of Chris’s unimproved world. These two outwardly very different men existed on the same wavelength. For both, faith was a shot in the dark at best, a curse at worst. Frank had walked away, but Chris struggled on, fighting to believe, urging his flock to trust and love a God with whom he often lost patience. He broke the silence. ‘I should have been a train driver,’ he declared.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s the same thing entirely. You shove a load of people into pews and drive on. There’s no choice, no diversions unless some great decider shifts the points. And you carry on with the gauge set for you, the lines fixed for you, onward all the way to the buffers. And if you try to change direction, every part of the train is derailed, and you’re all buggered. I am that driver.’

  ‘A shepherd often leads from behind.’

  ‘With a dog to help him. You know, I fancy a Kerry Blue bitch.’

  ‘Who’s she? One of your bridesmaids?’

  ‘It’s a dog, you fool. Good Irish stock, strong and pigheaded like meself, but with a better sense of humour altogether. And better hair, too.’

  Frank grinned. ‘I hear young Billy got a pup.’

  Chris borrowed the same grin. ‘He showed me when I went round there.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Aye, he did, so. Proud as Punch, the lad was. Nice little thing, the puppy, a leg at each corner, waggy little rudder at the back, friendly face. Spaniel, I think. They’re talking of having it neutered. You might like to consider that yourself if the soliciting continues.’

  Frank laughed. ‘It’s the betraying of Polly that bothers me. I have an over-developed sense of guilt and duty.’

  ‘She turned you down, man.’

  Frank eyed his companion harshly. ‘Are you encouraging fornication?’

  ‘I am not. All I’m saying is there are worse things, like killing a brother with a crucifix. Anselm was his chosen name. I bet they’re all starving in Broughton Abbey, because he was the cook.’

  ‘Damned shame. Still, they won’t have to eat your burnt toast.’

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Just live your life, try to pray, try to accept your mother and attempt to get her to treat Polly with some respect. As for your other problem, do no harm. I’m ten or more years older than you, and I have a different perspective. Like all the other animals, we were given a powerful sex drive for a reason.’

  ‘So we’re animals?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘With souls?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Frank drained his glass. ‘What do you believe in, Chris?’

  ‘Like I said, start by doing no harm, then try doing some good. This priest business is no walk in the park, believe me. As you said, I’m the shepherd. But some members of my flock are holier than I am.’

  ‘No, I asked what you believe in, not how you function.’

  The older man pondered. ‘God’s there and He’s good. All the bad in the world is created by man, because he makes the wrong choices. Jesus is Messiah. Mary’s His mother, but I hope she went on to live the normal life until she found her Son pinned to a tree, bless her. It’s some of the other stuff I have trouble with. We should all have a degree of difficulty, or our faith would be too easy, and God gave us brains. If He’d manufactured us to sit back and accept, that would have no value, so He forced us to think and worry and choose.’

  ‘Get us another drink before we turn serious or sober. But first, what do you think of Rome?’

  ‘The Sistine Chapel has a lovely ceiling to it. It certainly wasn’t painted by Liverpool Corporation. Other than that, no comment. Give me the glass, and it’s my turn to tell you to shut up.’

  They talked well into the night about baptisms, swiftly followed by Extreme Unction and death for mother, child or both, God’s involvement with such tragedies, abortion, war, birth control and Polly Kennedy. Polly seemed to be Frank’s best subject.

  ‘So you’ll be asking her again to marry you, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, once I’ve established myself on Rice Lane. Or maybe before that. I’ve been carrying the ring for weeks. I thought I might turn some of the downstairs storage into a place for Cal, somewhere more spacious for his wheelchair and so on. It’s very cramped in their living room, you see.’

  Chris sipped his whiskey. ‘You haven’t heard what’s happened, then?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘The lad’s stumbling about on his feet again, leading his sister a merry dance. Mind, Polly’s wonderfully happy about it. Oh yes, he’s making grand progress. Frank? Dear God be my witness, I never meant you to cry, son. But don’t be ashamed, because men do cry. If you’d seen the shape of me at the end of Brief Encounter, you’d have screamed for a lifebelt. As for Charlie Chaplin’s Limelight, an ambulance turned up with police outriders and the lifeboat was launched.’ He crossed the space between them and placed his left hand on his friend’s head, blessing him with the right.

  ‘Sorry, Chris. Polly told me there was a chance, because of him celebrating pain in the legs.’ He dried his eyes. ‘Sorry about that,’ he repeated. ‘I’m glad for him.’

  ‘Away with your bother. This is an emotional time for you. Callum Kennedy’s a better man than most of us, and he deserves to get well. Polly should be on the receiving end of better fortune, too. I never saw anyone working harder than she does. And there’s a young woman on the scene, a nurse from the physiotherapy ward at the hospital. I think romance is in the air.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Men do cry. I saw my dad cry more than once. Mother’s fault, no doubt. Thank you, God. While you’re at it, do you do removals? Only I’
ve a pile of stuff needs shifting from the Dock Road up to Rice Lane.’

  Chris chortled. ‘Is this you praying at last?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘One-nil to me and the Almighty, then, for this was a match played on God’s own ground.’

  ‘You cheating again, Father?’

  ‘I never cheat.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  Chris laughed. ‘I have to get my fun some way, Frank. That’s my excuse, and you must live with it or leave me to it.’

  ‘Another drink?’ Frank asked.

  ‘No, for I must away to my bed, or I’ll be staggering about at tomorrow’s early Mass as drunk as a lord after the hunt ball. Get to bed yourself, forget the blouse buttons and concentrate on your one true love and her brother. Goodnight and God bless.’

  Frank sat for a while. Polly had turned him down because of Mother’s treatment of Ellen; she had been worried about the possible undermining of her brother’s positivity. Mother was in the past, and Cal was recovering. ‘All I have to do now is get settled and make money. Easier said than done, but I’ll give it my best shot.’

  Norma Charleson was improving at a steady rate of knots. Moving more easily and becoming markedly more level in temperament, she seemed to react well to her diabetic diet. The silly doctor was pleased with her; he had also informed her that chocolate, poisonous to many animals, was equally toxic for humans if consumed in large quantities. ‘Well,’ she said as she and her companion looked through rails of garments, ‘the poison must be out of my system by now. What do you think of this skirt? Oh, never mind, I’ve bought one very similar in brown, haven’t I? There’s no point in going wild until I’ve lost another couple of stone.’

  She and Christine Lewis were in Southport at a shop on Lord Street that catered for larger women, as Norma had reduced her weight to the point where she needed a different size of clothing. But since she was only halfway to her goal, she intended to provide herself with just a few items which would form what she termed her interim wardrobe. ‘I hope it’s worth it, Christine. God knows I could kill for a cream cake and some chocolates. Diabetes is so restricting.’

  ‘Yes, I have to admit that it seems difficult.’

  When the purchases had been made, they went to a rather nice coffee house for elevenses. As elevenses was just coffee, they didn’t stay long. ‘Even my shoes feel bigger,’ Norma complained. ‘But they’ll have to do. I’ve spent enough for one day.’

  Christine drove. Christine did almost everything these days, but her wages had increased, so she tolerated the extra burdens. She cooked, cleaned, washed, ironed, shopped and collected rents. But she was tired and ill-prepared for Norma’s mood changes which, fortunately, were becoming less dramatic as her dependence on chocolate decreased and she began to take some pride in her appearance. Underneath the rolls of fat, a good-looking woman was fighting to get out.

  ‘Shall we pop into Liverpool, Christine? We could wander round the Walker Gallery.’

  ‘If you like.’ The ‘Norma’ still grated slightly, but she was practically forced to use it. Christine Lewis was in another difficult position, too. Elaine was doing Frank’s conveyancing, but she couldn’t say a word about where. Elaine was also trying to capture him, but not for keeps, since she intended to marry someone dull from the business sector; or a doctor might do. So Frank could well be hunted, caught, used and released. Like Norma, Christine had just one child, and that child danced to music few could hear.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Norma said.

  ‘A little tired. Don’t worry, I shall buck up shortly.’

  ‘Do you want to turn back?’

  ‘Oh, not at all. Driving is a pleasure.’ Norma had not treated Frank well. He had been a poorly paid servant, no more than that. But there was no excuse for Elaine, since she’d been treasured from birth, yet she was turning herself into a person scarcely recognizable by her own mother. There were no arguments, but Christine found that she was becoming increasingly uneasy in the company of her daughter. Like Norma Charleson, Elaine owned what Christine termed calculating eyes.

  ‘Let’s just drive round for a while,’ Norma suggested a little too casually. ‘It’s such a lovely day, too nice for lingering in an art gallery. Let’s watch the world as it goes by.’

  The driver shrugged internally. This woman was looking for Frank again. For the third or fourth time, the car would circle the city, a suburb or two, Scotland Road and the Everton area. So Frank was missed by his mother. Although she had failed to appreciate the true value of her son, the newer Norma Charleson appeared to be developing the ability to feel for someone other than herself. ‘He’s a big boy, Norma. He’ll be all right. Don’t waste time worrying about a man in his late twenties.’

  Norma sniffed.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Christine repeated reassuringly.

  ‘Oh, I suppose he will. It’s just that I’d like to know where he is. There’s something very unsettling about not knowing where the offspring is. You’re sure he’s not with Polly Kennedy?’

  ‘Absolutely. People keep asking me about him when I collect the rent. He’s very well liked in Scotland Road, and I get the distinct impression that I’m a poor substitute. They’d love to see him again.’

  ‘Yes, he’s popular, because he has a tendency to make friends of the tenants. He married one, and seems to want to marry another. I’ve learned something, Christine; we can do nothing and must do nothing if and when they decide to marry someone we see as wrong for them. Frank blames me for Ellen’s death, though I had never been told in detail about her condition. In my clumsy way, I was trying to help. So that’s another thing I discovered – don’t help and don’t hinder. I may be getting on in years, but I’m still happy to learn.’

  Christine nodded her agreement. There was no help for Elaine. Also, there was no sign of Frank. They travelled homeward, where Norma would have salad and chicken, after which Christine would go home and endure a pleasant evening with her daughter.

  The only trouble was that Christine scarcely knew the person she had reared. But everything must remain happy on the surface, since she dared not speak her mind. She was living with a stranger, while Norma, doing her best to be kinder and gentler, would spend the evening alone. Life was hard for both women.

  ‘I bought you that scarf you liked, Christine. The colour suits you well, so I thought you should have it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so kind of you.’

  ‘You’re a very pretty woman, you know.’

  ‘So will you be when you lose a bit more of the weight. We do all right together on the whole, don’t we?’

  ‘We do,’ Norma answered. But nothing would be right till she found Frank.

  Daniel the spaniel, who had not been christened Jumble after all, was fighting with a bone twice his size. He was black. Because of the dog in the dream, Fred had deliberately chosen a good, strong, black pup. Mavis had worried, but he’d told her to calm down, because Billy had to learn that not all black dogs were nightmares.

  ‘I still have the dreams,’ Pest Junior informed Dr Pest Senior. ‘But the dream trap changed them. The big black dog gets the fat man, and the fat man goes away. Only he isn’t fat any more.’

  The doctor sat down. ‘Where is he when you see him in the dream, Billy? Is he on the playing field near the school?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘He’s got a tractor. I’ve got a tractor. It’s a Dinky. Daniel has to get injections against distemper. I thought it was paint, but it’s a dog illness as well. My arm’s nearly all mended, so I have to go back to school in September, but I can’t take Daniel.’

  Mavis led the doctor into the kitchen. ‘He has the sight,’ she whispered. ‘My mother had it, and it’s a damned nuisance. I mean, she couldn’t pick a Derby winner, but she knew everybody’s business before it happened.’

  ‘I don’t believe in that stuff, Mrs Blunt.’

  She put him in his place right away. ‘That makes no difference and doesn’t m
atter. It’ll happen whether you believe or not. If Billy says Brennan has a tractor, he has a tractor. See, I’ve wrote down everything he said. It’s here.’ She reached for an exercise book. ‘ ‘‘Sleeping in a wood, very cold. Slept in a barn with rats. Screaming in the night with bad dreams like I had.” Billy said all those things. I wrote them as he said them. Brennan is thinner because he’s working on the land.’

  ‘Where, though?’

  She shrugged. ‘When it comes to geography, our Billy can find his way to school, church, the chippy and the sweet shop. To him, a farm is a farm, grass is green and a lot of trees make a wood. Just you mark my words now, Doc. Brennan is living rough and sleeping rough. He’s likely going from one farm to another and labouring. Oh, there’s a bit I didn’t write down, so I’ll do it when you’ve gone. He’s grown a beard. It’s a different colour from his hair, reddish with grey mixed in.’

  Both stood and listened while Billy laughed as he tumbled about with his new pet.

  ‘He loves his puppy,’ the doctor said.

  ‘So will I when it stops dirtying in the house, little bugger.’

  The psychologist excused himself and went to play noughts and crosses with his patient. Billy was a sweet boy who improved daily. But second sight? It was a load of codswallop. Wasn’t it? So . . . so how had the boy known the dead monk’s name?

  Ida stood up. ‘Look, you lot. I don’t care if I get there covered in coal dust, horse muck or molasses, as long as I get there. The wotsit . . . Industrial Revolution was up here as much as anywhere, and our mams and dads and grandfolk were part of it. And it was a dirty business. They sit there, them government idiots, on posh green benches and use big words so working folk won’t know the plot, so why be respectful or respectable? I’ll go on a coal lorry if it’ll get me there in one piece.’