Gladys nodded just once.
‘It’s from Don. A very decent policeman copied it for you – they have to keep the original as evidence for the coroner.’
Her heartbeat, driven by a sudden surge of adrenalin, quickened. ‘Right,’ she whispered.
‘Don was a Roman Catholic priest, Gladys.’
‘Yes.’
The doctor moved his chair closer to the bed. ‘You know what he did – I mean his crimes?’
Again, she inclined her head.
‘Well, I’m not going to dwell on that. It’s been in every newspaper from Land’s End to John o’Groats, so it’s all in the public domain. He didn’t tell you he was a priest.’ These last four words conveyed a statement rather than a question.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Quite. Are you calm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t be afraid to ask me to stop, but I’ll carry on even if you weep. I shall wait for the word stop.’
‘All right.’
‘Tears are good. They cleanse the soul and provide release for emotions of which we are scarcely aware.’ He unfolded a sheet of paper and held it with both hands. ‘ ‘‘My sweet Gladys, I had no joy before you. I am an alcoholic who was in the wrong job for almost the whole of my adult life. Then I found you by accident and everything changed the minute I came to live in your house.
‘ ‘‘I am a farmer born and bred; it’s in my blood, always has been. My mother guided me towards priesthood, and I was desperate to please her. Two women in my life have loved me; Mammy was one and you are the second. But I felt that Mammy’s love appeared to carry clauses like some sort of treaty, and, though I realize now that she would have loved me no matter what, I allowed myself to be swept along a path that was not right for me.
‘ ‘‘Drink was my answer. I should have left the priesthood long ago, but I was usually too inebriated to organize the details. My temper was unleashed many times. Under the influence, I committed my first noticeable offence and was sent to the monastery. In withdrawal, I refused the drugs that were offered and we all know what ensued.
‘ ‘‘You looked after me, Glad; we looked after each other. You cut my hair, washed my clothes, made my meals, praised and scolded me. You sewed and knitted while I sowed and reaped. You held me in the darkest hours of night, and I love you. Please understand that I can’t stay. I’m saving the hangman a job, I suppose.
‘ ‘‘Get the Croppers in, especially young Paul. You could bequeath the farm to them if your cousin doesn’t need it. That’s just an idea that popped into my head, but I thought you might like to consider it. Or you might sell it to them and find a nice little cottage for yourself.
‘ ‘‘I miss you already and I certainly miss your dad. He was a good man and I enjoyed his company greatly. Read this bit carefully, Glad. Make sure you go to Annie Cropper. She is a woman with a big heart and a large family. A way will be found to keep Drovers going. That Scots traveller – Big Mac – is an honest and useful person, and he has some strapping sons. You are not alone, my love.
‘ ‘‘When this is all over, think of me sometimes with kindness in your heart. I don’t know where I’m going. God will decide my fate, because I have no way of wiping clean my soul. Dominus vobiscum – that’s a blessing from my alter ego, who was not the best of men.
‘ ‘‘I remain, no matter what, your lover, your servant and your friend.’’ ’
Dr Evans raised his head. ‘He signed himself as Don, then as Eugene Brennan.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
‘How do you feel, Gladys? My name’s Tom, by the way.’
How did she feel? Like a car with no steering wheel, a ship without a compass on a cloudy night, no stars to show the way. ‘I’m better than I was.’
‘It’s OK to cry.’
‘Have I not cried, Tom?’
‘No, but you screamed a lot. I believe you’ll do your weeping on Mrs Cropper’s shoulder. It’s a friend you need, not me.’
She plucked at the quilt on her bed. ‘So can I go home?’
‘No. But you can go to Netherleigh and recover with the Croppers.’
‘Do they want me?’
‘They want you.’
Gladys continued to fiddle with her bedding. ‘Do they know what Don did before he came to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does everyone know?’
‘Yes. You must stay inside the Croppers’ house until the press people get bored and bugger off.’
A slight smile played at the corners of her lips. Dr Evans swore. ‘You swore,’ she said.
The psychiatrist grinned broadly. ‘That, my dear Gladys, was nothing. You should hear me when I miss a meal. Low blood sugar makes me go ballistic, as do Jung and Freud. Mine’s a job you make up as you go along, trusting to instinct rather than to published sages. You were in shock. You were an easy patient.’ He glanced across the ward. ‘Get out while you can, before you start eating paper or wearing out the floor.’
‘Or growing a moustache.’
The doctor emitted a sigh of relief. She was back. ‘We’ll send for Annie Cropper. She did visit, but you were out of it, under sedation. You’re bereft.’
‘Gloom time.’
‘That’s the one.’ He shook her hand. ‘I hope I don’t see you again soon as an inpatient, young lady.’
‘I’m over fifty.’
‘So am I, but I don’t brag about it. You’ll be given medication, so take it. Your family doctor will prescribe further doses until you’re completely recovered. See me in a week in the outpatients’ clinic. You can bake me a cake in Mrs Cropper’s kitchen. Are you a good cook?’
‘I am.’
‘Good. Then I may keep you as a weekly visitor for some considerable time. I like cake.’ He turned on his heels and walked away.
Gladys blinked. She was going nearly home. What should she make for him? Fruit cake, chocolate, Victoria sponge? Didn’t fruit cake mean a mad person? Fruit cake it would be, then. He was a nice man, but quite mad in his own special way.
There it was, on a board outside the newsagent’s shop. Elaine Lewis bought several dailies before sitting to read in a nearby park. The weather was chilly, so the park was almost empty, though London’s streets continued their usual journey towards the commencement of their working day. LIVERPOOL COMING TO LONDON was the headline on the front page of a paper published for the masses, one she had seldom purchased.
A smaller line was printed below. The Jarrow march all over again? She perused the article.
While you read this, several coaches carrying angry people are making their way to the capital city. On this occasion, the demonstration is not about jobs; it’s about the destruction of a community. Unlike the Jarrow revolt, today’s event will involve many people too old to march from Liverpool to London.
Their collective belief is that the Home Office ordered the destruction of Scotland Road and all nearby streets after the police strike of 1919 and the resulting loot of shops in the city centre. Although residents accept that their homes are in need of replacement, they have failed to persuade the authorities to rebuild houses on the same land. Government officials adhere to their already stated intention to widen roads along the route to tunnels under the River Mersey.
Serious demolition began in the 1930s and was interrupted by the war. A number of residents have already been separated from extended family and placed outside the city on several new estates. Those people will be represented today by many who are not happy to live where there are few shops, inadequate public transport services and too few schools and churches.
Mrs Frank Charleson, spokesperson for all involved, drew our attention to the facts as she sees them. ‘We’ve had many premature deaths among healthy but slightly older folk who have been moved out against their will. We are city people, and we are fourth-generation city people. We love Liverpool life.
‘This road has been here forever. It was a turnpike through which travellers
to and from inner Lancashire had to pass both ways. It remains cosmopolitan, friendly and Catholic. The name Scotland Road says exactly what it was – the road to Scotland. Horses were changed here, people rested and slept in inns here, and all were made welcome.
‘Regarding the Catholic connection, I have several things to say. The standards in our schools are high and they have produced some remarkable people in the worlds of business and entertainment, the armed forces, the merchant navy and the House of Commons. Our churches are beautiful and special, and we are proud of them. No one suffers alone in these parts. The Protestants are with us, representing their own community on the Turnpike March, and will be supporting us all the way.
‘Now, perhaps I shouldn’t say this, since proof is hard to obtain, but here goes, because I may as well hang for the full sheep. In 1923, a junior minister in the Home Office was reported to have started the push for dispersal of Catholics in the area, as Catholics were blamed for the 1919 loot. That man became a very important figure in our country, and held high office within the Cabinet for many years. I shall not name him, as my possible slander would become probable libel once printed in your paper.
‘So there you have it. We want homes, shops and schools, not roads.’
Her husband, Mr Frank Charleson, added, ‘It’s coldblooded murder. Yes, the buildings are a mess, but this government is too high-handed by far. Widen the road, and rebuild here rather than ripping out our heart and stamping on it. My family owns property along a stretch of the road, and we’ll be compensated up to a point, but what about the residents?
‘Our clergy will be with us. Even Rome is behind us, but what the hell does anyone care? Are you awake, Anthony Eden, Sir? Because we certainly are. But don’t be afraid; you won’t need to read the Riot Act. After all, we’re just looters, aren’t we? Though we haven’t committed any crimes recently. Ask at the local police station.’
Our reporter visited several shops and houses along the route. He found a good atmosphere, happy and humorous people and a solid dislike for the current government. Mrs Ida Pilkington expressed the opinion that there are too many near-Nazis in power, people who would be happy to bury Scotland Roaders in order to be rid of them. ‘A bit like Cromwell’s lot,’ she said. ‘Shall we make priest holes?’
Elaine folded the newspaper. It was a sensationalist rag, though it showed Frank and Polly in a good light. Both were bold orators. She still missed Frank. If Frank had chosen Elaine instead of Polly, life would have been so different. Or would it? ‘It takes more than one to keep me happy,’ she whispered, her breath clouding the chilled air. ‘And the Charlesons have their baby.’ Her head ached again; she should have bought shares in Aspro.
Frank and Polly had probably wanted a family. Elaine retained the belief that children were a waste of time, energy, money and education. What was the point of a woman going to university if she intended to breed? What was the point if she was going to be a whore or a clothes horse? She shivered, but not because of the weather. Her bones were chilled by the absence of hope and the clear knowledge that she had no future.
Mum might come to London with the throng today. Perhaps if Christine saw her daughter, she might relent and allow her home. In Liverpool, Elaine should be less noticeable, especially now that Mum had a new address. Plans down here in London could carry on without her presence; in fact, it might be best if she could be elsewhere when the new passport was produced. But was there really anywhere to hide on this small island?
South America, though. Who the hell wanted to live in Peru, Argentina or Brazil? She was a lawyer, damn it. She was a solicitor, a fashion model and . . . and something else, something that had got her into deep, deep trouble. She was addicted to sex. Oddities had been catered for in her establishment, and they had provided more than money, since some of them had expected chastisement, and she had enjoyed that. What the hell would she do in South America? Learn the rumba, the samba, the paso doble?
She found a cafe and ordered breakfast. The Scousers were coming, and she would be nearby when they arrived. With no work and nothing to distract her, she could certainly spare the time. Her life was over; she had wrecked it herself, and she should have stayed in Liverpool.
While she chewed on tasteless toast, her mood darkened further. She could well end up in prison. If she fled the country, she would never be sure whether she might be recognized, pursued, and dragged home by bounty hunters employed by criminals who had been badly represented by her clients from the legal profession. Having bedded judges, QCs and solicitors, she could well become a target worthy of capture, as her prosecution would almost certainly lead to the arrest of several City lawyers and politicians.
Was life worth living now? Probably not. Vladimir had been a mistake, since he had worked in an embassy, and the government was afraid that he might have gathered information through her, as she had also entertained members of the Cabinet. Yes, she was in a mess. It was time to collect the purple purse, just in case. In case of what? Well, she had to report to the police station first. After that, the day would be her own.
A cavalcade of seventeen vehicles passed through Liverpool that morning. Six were coaches, while the rest were cars, vans and lorries. They were photographed on Scotland Road by cameramen dragged from their beds at an unusual hour, and saluted in the city by people walking to work at this ungodly time of day.
Each coach had a leader in charge of food, drink and order. Father Christopher Foley was boss of the first coach, Polly and Frank shared responsibility for the second, Hattie and Ida were in charge of the third, while Den Davenport (minus his horse) supervised the fourth. Number five was under the watchful though humorous eye of Jimmy Nuttall, and the well-being of passengers on the sixth rested in the sensible hands of Fred and Mavis Blunt.
Coach six developed a problem while still in Cheshire. The driver flashed his lights, and the message was conveyed down the line until the whole procession ground to a halt. ‘What sort of noise?’ the driver asked of a rear-seat passenger who had walked to the front. ‘There shouldn’t be any noise, because this coach is in perfect working order.’
‘Like a banging. Like the wheel’s loose or something.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my bus. All these coaches were checked yesterday and there were no problems with any of them.’
‘But there’s a noise. Not all the time, like. No need for you to take it personal.’
Mavis glanced at Fred, and Fred glanced at Mavis. ‘It’s him,’ they said in unison. ‘Turn your engine off,’ Mavis suggested.
In the relative quiet, everyone listened to the sounds emanating from the rear luggage compartment. ‘The little bugger,’ Fred snapped. ‘We said nobody under the age of twelve, and even then, the names had to be picked from a hat. He’s supposed to be with Carla till school time, then in Judy Greene’s house after school. That lad’s getting to be a law unto himself.’
The driver, muttering ominously about the possibility of exhaust fumes, leapt from the vehicle, closely followed by Fred and Mavis. Billy was dragged out and examined by the driver. ‘He’s fine,’ he snapped. ‘But we can’t take him back, or we’ll be late.’
‘He’s fine? Fine?’ Fred roared. ‘More like fined. No spends for you till Christmas; that might teach you to do as you’re told. You’ve gone too far this time, Billy-boy.’
Mavis agreed with her husband, though she held her tongue for now. The teachers would be worried, as would Judy Greene and Carla, though nothing could be done about any of that. She grabbed the child’s hand and dragged him to the front of the coach. Billy certainly knew how to embarrass his parents. ‘Get in there,’ she hissed.
‘Sorry, Mam.’
‘You will be, I promise.’
Squashed between his parents on a seat made for just two people, Billy remained silent. He was going to see London. He was going to see the house where the Prime Minister lived. The man who stole money from working folk lived next door, too. Billy might see the big clo
ck and the bridge that opened and closed. Then there was Buckingham Palace and Nelson standing on a long pole somewhere, with lions lying near him but lower down.
But when true daylight arrived, what Billy and the rest saw on their way through England was more impressive than any mere city. There were hills and forests, fields where animals grazed, lovely old farmhouses with whispers of smoke curling from chimney pots. Passengers stopped chattering while travelling through their green and pleasant land. It was beautiful, especially where the greens changed and became the mellow tones of autumn.
Billy broke the silence. ‘The leaves have gone rusty, Mam.’
‘They’re dying, son. They have to die so that new baby leaves can be born next spring.’
‘That’s sad,’ the child answered.
‘That’s the way it is, lad. For everything on earth, that’s the rule.’
He swallowed. ‘Even us?’
Mavis nodded. ‘Children are born, and their grandparents die. It’s God’s way.’
Billy pondered. ‘Couldn’t God think of a better plan?’
‘If we didn’t die, there wouldn’t be enough food, so we’d all die anyway.’
‘Oh.’ He pointed. ‘Look, a windmill.’
Mavis heaved a sigh of relief. Sometimes, she felt like she needed a degree in how to distract her youngest child. His dog was much the same. She hoped Daniel the spaniel wasn’t creating too much havoc in Elsie Gleason’s house. Elsie was a dog lover, but Daniel would try the patience of a saint.
After two stops for refreshments, they finally crossed the hem of North London. So this was London? Why all the fuss? It could have been anywhere, just houses, some not well kept, others better cared for, a few corner shops, a bit of a park here and there. Finally, they crossed the invisible seam that divides outer from inner, and the London they’d seen on postcards and in magazines loomed large before them.
The city was stunning. They got the standard tour: the palace, the Mall, Piccadilly Circus, bridges, West End shops, Trafalgar Square, Westminster with its wonderful clock tower. Few Liverpudlians had visited before, and they were, for the most part, in awe of the impressive buildings.
A Mersey Mile Page 39