‘Do you think they would?’ There was panic in Polly’s voice.
Cal laughed. ‘No, but it would make a great photo for the newspapers, eh? Man, disabled due to poor safety control on Liverpool’s docks, stops the traffic.’
‘That would go down well with the Docks and Harbour Board,’ she said. ‘Can you imagine the faces of Liverpool councillors when it got in the Echo?’
‘Bugger the Echo,’ Cal muttered between gritted teeth. ‘I want The Times and the Manchester Guardian. Oh, and make sure they snap my good side. I don’t want to be making a show of myself, do I?’
She sat down. ‘It won’t be like that, though. There won’t be one big day when everybody gets shifted. They’ve been chipping away for twenty-odd years with a bit of help from Germany: a few houses here, a street there, pull down some affected by a nearby direct hit. We’ll have to do a Jarrow. If London won’t come to us, we’ll go to it.’
‘I can’t walk. I’ll never walk properly.’
‘Then we go on rag and bone carts, on coal lorries, in removal vans, in hearses. We go so slowly that we bung up all the roads.’
Cal pondered. ‘We need a fighting fund,’ he announced after a few seconds. ‘I know Frank will come up trumps, but we need collecting tins in pubs. If we’re going to London and bringing in foreigners, we want cash.’
There wasn’t a lot of money about even now, in 1955. Ten years after winning a war, Britain fared moderately well while Germany, though divided, seemed to be improving superbly on its western side. Cal had seen bombing and had survived, as had Polly, Frank and poor Ellen, yet they’d all taken punishment since the ceasefire, what with the deaths of their parents and Ellen, Cal’s accident, and Polly’s resulting imprisonment.
There were gaps in terraces, used now as playgrounds, but they had been homes. So much loss. A beloved wife gone, a pair of strong legs ruined, neighbours wiped out, and now the fruits of a Siberian salt mine were about to be poured into wounds. It would be done slowly. When enough cardboard cottages and flats had been erected on the edges of Liverpool, another Scotty terrace would bite the dust. And folk would be separated for the sake of a new, clean start where they’d be disorientated and less likely to offend. ‘I’ll get the money,’ she said. ‘And we have to be clever. No physical stuff, just London packed with objectors. A peaceful demonstration’s what we want.’
Cal didn’t particularly want peace. Deep down, he was furious about his injured spine, his disobedient legs, Lois who had run away from him, Greg who had rejected Polly, councillors and parliamentarians who didn’t give a damn about anybody at all.
Then there were the softies who went on about bloody Dresden – what about Bootle? It was all London this, London that and God help Coventry, yet Liverpool’s docks, railways and roads had carried every bit of ammunition for the whole show, and Bootle had sustained the worst damage nationwide. But who gave a flying fornication? It was only Liverpool; they were only northerners. ‘I want to strangle somebody,’ he said. ‘Very, very slowly, till their eyes bulge.’
‘Why, Cal?’
He shrugged. ‘Everything. Lois, who loved me forever no matter what, the bloody docks and all the accidents, mates just a few years older than me buried in France and Italy – what is there to be satisfied with? Mary’s perm and a scouse pasty?’
‘Don’t get bitter. What we need is to express our disgust and our distrust. Because it will happen. There’s no stopping what’s to come, Cal. We’ll be in some new, jerry-built community, but we can show them one thing. We can still assemble, still congregate and let them know what we think of them in their panelled offices and gentlemen’s clubs. We can sign petitions saying we aren’t satisfied with Westminster, and it’s not just us; we can bring in folk from Glasgow and other disappointed cities. This country’s not fit for rats, let alone heroes.’
‘You have to be the spokesperson,’ he said.
‘No danger; try stopping me. See, people have got things arse over tip, Cal. The folk in London are our servants, but everyone acts as if it’s the other way round. It’s time somebody from Lancashire rattled the doors of their Rolls-Royces and filled Downing Street with silent people. Silence will upset them. We communicate in writing only. Let them know through what we don’t say that we can turn Liverpool into a seething mass of civil disobedience if we choose to.’
Cal blinked. Why hadn’t he noticed this before? His sister was an orator, an inspiration, a little firecracker. There she stood, five foot four in her stockings, a pretty little thing with dark curls and bright blue eyes. She served breakfasts and dinners when she should be serving her community. ‘I’d vote for you,’ he told her.
‘So would I,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I’m the best man in Liverpool, and don’t ever forget it. See, MPs want all their privileges removing for a kick-off. Posh dining rooms and fine wines? Sod that; they can have a plate of scouse and a cuppa, and back to work pronto. There’s half of them should be in jail anyway, bloody fraudsters using inside info to line their own nests. I don’t trust them. I wouldn’t trust me if I got offered such an easy life. And they’re supposed to look after us.’ She decided to stop preaching. ‘I’ll have to go up and get the salon ready.’
‘Will you stand for parliament?’ he asked.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’ve no party. I don’t belong with any of them – I’m the Polly Kennedy Party, full stop. And I don’t want to get . . . to get contaminated.’ She went upstairs to prepare herself for her second job. If Liverpool’s politicians gave a shit, Cal wouldn’t be crippled, because they would have sought to implement better safety measures. Oh, they started off eager and decent, but the corridors of power chipped away at them, dragging them into a fairy tale where everything was free or cheap – and take it, now, now, because you may not get elected next time. One of the few decent ones among them was Bessie Braddock, and she’d always been up to her eyes in everybody’s problems, poor soul. Yes, they needed more women down yonder, that was a fact.
Did she have enough hydrogen peroxide for Carla Moore’s roots? Did Carla realize that she was stripping her hair of all life and dignity? ‘I’d best tell her it’ll start breaking off and falling out if she doesn’t let it rest. Where’s me conditioning oil?’
After switching on the radio in her bedroom, she turned up the volume, lay in the bath and wondered how much longer her looks would last. She was twenty-five. Half her life was spent in the company of greasy food, while the rest of her time was lived here among chemicals, or with her poor brother. He would walk. He’d need assistance, but he’d walk. There was hope, and she would cling to it while he clung to his crutches.
The girl in the bathroom mirror was still pretty. She was a mouthy, opinionated little bitch, but still a good-looking young woman. During the war years, her school peers had been jealous, since Mam could work wonders with old curtains, a bed sheet, a tablecloth and a ribbon. Ellen had stood by her, so Mam had made a few dresses and skirts for her, too. As for the green-eyed ones, this little madam had taken her revenge . . .
The fifties didn’t suit Polly; the new look drowned her, so she shortened everything and created her own style. ‘No, no, we won’t go,’ she whispered. Of course they’d go. They had to go. But they would make their point. If silence could be maintained, it would speak volumes; it would say, ‘You’ll never know where we are, but we always know where you are.’ A not quite revolution, a not quite anarchy, a not quite threat.
Revenge. Hadn’t she grown up at all? Those who had teased her and Ellen had ‘lost’ shoes, bits of physical education uniform, text books, homework, pens and pencils. Was the idea of a visit to London just another stolen satchel, another pair of gym shoes with no laces, another blot in a writing book? She and Ellen had owned such angelic features that no member of staff had ever thought them guilty.
‘You’ll be at the front on this one,’ she warned her reflection. ‘They’ll know it’s you, an
d not before time. Because you’ve always been a besom, and folk should be warned.’
‘Good advice, Polly.’
She turned and looked at him. Determined not to panic, she didn’t grab a towel to cover her nakedness. Instead, she reached for a robe and pulled it on at normal speed. ‘I’ve told you not to use your key,’ she said. ‘You may own the bricks, but this is still our home.’
‘You are gorgeous.’ His voice was low and rather choked.
‘I know.’
‘The music was loud, Polly. I didn’t want Cal to know I’m here, so I crept up the stairs, thought you’d be mixing your magic spells for hair.’
‘Right. What do you want?’
Frank Charleson swallowed hard. What did he want? ‘Erm . . . I’ve got him a television set.’ What he wanted was scarcely covered by a thin robe.
‘Then talk to Cal. And stop staring, will you?’
‘I’ll never stop staring, especially now.’
‘You know the score, Francis. Now, bugger off.’
He buggered off.
Two
Norma Charleson lay uneasily on a pink velvet chaise longue under the window in her living room. She was not in a good mood, and her left knee was stiffening up again, so she ate another couple of chocolates. The doctor had advised her to stay active and concentrate on the positive. For a medical man, he knew precious little about pain. Active? With arthritis like hers? Even in these warmer months, she had trouble with her poor knees. Right. She must think positive, so she thought about her house. It was a great house, and she’d worked hard to acquire it.
The wonderful thing about Brookside Cottage, apart from its detached status, was that it was divided into two internal parts at ground level. Frank had the bulk of the house and his freedom – well, he thought he had his freedom – while his mother, who considered herself to be a sensible woman, lived in her own suite on the ground floor to the right of the building’s entrance. She didn’t interfere openly; if she did that, her son might well go off again with some floozie, and she didn’t want that. He was in full charge of the business now, and that fact should be enough to keep him at home, or so she hoped. And yet . . . ‘Positive,’ she reminded herself firmly. ‘Look on the bright side, and stop worrying, Norma.’
Frank would remarry eventually, she believed. He and his second wife could live here, and she wouldn’t meddle overtly. When he was at home, Norma seldom ventured into the main areas of the house, as she sought to show him how independent she was. He needed to feel secure and separate from his mother. Because of that, the larger part of the property was a no-go area for the person who was its true owner.
He didn’t know she checked up on him almost every day. Bad knees or good, she combed the study before climbing the stairs to look through his pockets and in his waste bin. It was all in his best interests, of course, since he’d already made one unfortunate marriage and . . . no, she must entertain only happy thoughts. The orange creams were good, but she didn’t like the caramels.
The house had once been a small convent with a school next door, so it retained some impressive features. The front door opened into a stone-built hall with a floor of Welsh slate. The entrance was arched, and the area still owned the pegs from which the good sisters had hung their outdoor garments. There was even a small font for holy water with some words in Latin carved into its rim. Deo gratias, it said, then something about the water of life. Whatever, it was different and impressive, therefore very suitable for the owner of properties all over Liverpool. Oh yes, a woman of substance deserved Brookside and its delightful setting.
Norma had her own bathroom, a walk-in wardrobe, a kitchen and a sizeable living room with a bed disguised during daytime hours as a cupboard, so the chaise under the window was her resting place until darkness fell. Through the glass, she kept an eye on the road so that she could monitor the behaviour of her neighbours, and she always saw Frank’s car as soon as it entered the home straight. He was her only son, and she needed him.
The one problem attached to Brookside was the nightly blackness at the rear of the cottage. It was the last house in this part of Liverpool North, and the road that fronted it meandered into Little Crosby, an ancient Viking settlement whose feudalism survived to this day. It was believed to be the last place in England where only Catholics were allowed to occupy the tied cottages.
The housekeeper, Christine Lewis, lived there with her daughter. Christine’s husband had worked on the landed family’s estate, so she would be allowed tenancy for the rest of her life, or until she gave it up voluntarily. They were fascinating little houses in Little Crosby, so old that most women had to bend to get through the front doors. And at least they were in rows, with neighbours at hand, whereas it was possible to feel isolated here, especially at night. It was nice to be detached, but it certainly had its downside. Thank goodness for the few houses across the road at the front.
At the back of Norma’s extended cottage, there was nothing at all, just the flat fields of the Mersey plain that stretched all the way to the river and the Irish Sea. A townswoman, Norma had never experienced the special inky darkness of countryside before she came to Brookside. She took comfort from the front, as there was movement, and several street lamps had been erected, but she didn’t like to be alone at night here. She’d managed it, just about, during Frank’s brief marriage, but her health had deteriorated since then.
Anyway, Frank was extremely comfortable, as he occupied the greater part of the house. There was a sitting room and a dining room, both heated by a stone-built, central chimney with an open grate that could be fed logs or coal from either room. He had a ground-floor study, three upstairs bedrooms, one of which had a garden room attached, and his own bathroom. From the first floor conservatory, a spiral staircase led down into the rear garden. The boy was living in the lap of luxury. Meals were made in his large kitchen by Mrs Lewis, who also did his washing, ironing and cleaning. Why would he want to leave again? He mustn’t leave again, because that would be the death of his mother.
And there was just one small, annoying fly buzzing in the ointment.
He’d gone rather dewy-eyed and thoughtful all over again. The last time he’d been in such a state, he’d upped and married Ellen Lucas, a pretty enough urchin who used to work in a large florist shop in the city. They’d lived in one of Norma’s houses, rent-free, of course, and the girl had died. Norma had comforted her son and persuaded him to come home. ‘I’ll live in the annexe,’ she had promised. It was a vow she was determined to keep – up to a point. Anything that made him remain at home was worth the effort.
She ate a third orange cream. The letter remained where she’d left it, under the desk blotter in his study. Polly Kennedy this time, and Frank had written her a love letter. Polly had been a close friend of the dead wife, and Frank seemed to have turned to her. He hadn’t meant to creep up on her while she’d been naked; he’d been quiet so that Cal wouldn’t hear him, since he’d brought the lad a surprise. The music was loud, so I didn’t hear you rising like Venus from the water . . .
‘Yes, he’s gone dewy once more,’ she whispered. Frank was no use when in love. He focused fully on the object of desire and did less well in exams and the like. When they’d lived near Scotland Road back in the bad old days, he’d always hung round with Ellen, Polly and . . . Greg? ‘You didn’t die early enough, Charlie,’ Norma told her deceased husband. ‘If you’d gone a couple of years before you did, I could have got him away from that motley crowd.’
The life insurance money had bought the first fifteen houses. She now owned dozens, and Frank was in charge. Well, if he’d had nothing to do, he would have moped or gone back into office work in Liverpool. Offices were full of young women. ‘Polly bloody Kennedy,’ Norma cursed quietly. Still, she wouldn’t leave her brother, would she? The whole area was due for demolition, and— And Frank might want to rescue his damsel in distress. If he’d made up his mind, there’d be no stopping him, blind idiot that he was.
Girls were supposed to be silly in love, but Frank did a fair job of acting the fool when it came to young women. In the letter, he said he wanted her. That could mean just sex, of course. If the girl gave him what he craved, he might calm down a bit and settle for physical love. Because if Norma Charleson’s memory served her right, the brother was in a wheelchair and Greg Wotsisname had deserted the sister. Well, if Polly Kennedy stayed with her brother and served up lunch and sex for Frank, things might work out very well for a while.
Yet she knew her son only too well. He was an all-or-nothing type, in at the deep end or stay out of the water. It would be easy enough for him to find somewhere for himself, the girl and her brother. Frank would allow no obstacle to barricade his route once his mind was set. Panic and heartburn combined to bubble in her throat. She shouldn’t eat chocolate; the doc had warned her about chocolate. He said if she carried on like this, she’d be resorting to insulin injections, because diet alone wouldn’t be enough, and she wasn’t any good at dieting.
A polite knock at the door was followed by Christine Lewis’s head bobbing into the room. ‘Can I get you anything before I leave, Mrs Charleson? My daughter’s taking me out for a meal. I did tell you last week, if you remember.’
‘What are we having?’ Norma asked.
The rest of Christine entered the room. She smiled nervously; Mrs Charleson’s mood had been changeable of late. ‘I’ve made you a nice chicken salad and a trifle. Elaine’s treating me for my birthday.’
‘Oh, I see. Have you done Frank’s clothes for tomorrow?’
‘Yes, Mrs Charleson.’
‘And you’ll be here in the morning?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘The chiropodist’s coming,’ the supine woman announced. ‘Diabetics have to mind their feet, you see.’
Christine Lewis made no reply. Diabetics shouldn’t be eating chocolate or trifle, but it wasn’t her place to say anything. The job was well paid and not too difficult unless this silly woman decided to have a spectacularly moody day.
A Mersey Mile Page 3
