A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

The desk sergeant, a burly Scouser called Mike Stoneway, found himself longing for retirement, a nice bungalow in Fleetwood, a bit of sea-fishing and little picnics with the wife and Toby, their Jack Russell. ‘If he doesn’t pipe down in there, I’ll kill him. I’ve a nice big pair of scissors in my desk.’

  Pete finished yet another mug of tea; if he drank much more, he’d drown in it. ‘He’s not worth hanging for, Sarge.’

  ‘He should swing. He only got away with it on a technicality. If Den hadn’t rescued him, that little lad would have bled to death. And as for Frank Charleson, the man deserves a medal.’

  Pete made no reply. He nursed the suspicion that Frank had his reward in Polly, because he’d noticed little glances, a flush along her cheekbones, hope in his eyes. God, the cleric was making a hell of a din. Another man on remand until morning was clearly being driven mad by the noisy priest. He was threatening to sue the police force and the Vatican, because he’d paid his taxes and put money in the Sunday plate for years.

  ‘Shut up, Paddy,’ the sergeant yelled. ‘Whatever you paid, you’d stolen it. Father, be quiet or I’ll get a doctor to sedate you, then we can all enjoy a bit of hush.’

  A few minutes of total silence ensued. ‘Go home, Pete. You’ve been on duty for about ten hours. We’ll manage. Your wife’ll be thinking you’ve left home, lad. But thanks for hanging on. You’re a born copper, believe me.’

  Brennan kicked off yet again, this time murdering the Tantum Ergo and the O Salutaris Hostia. He was clearly performing Benediction, though he had no bread to bless and was definitely without wine. He needed a bloody good hiding and yes, Pete had endured enough. ‘Good luck, Sarge.’

  The constable left his bike at the station and prepared to drive home in Frank’s car. He remained uneasy; it wasn’t over yet. As far as he knew, no Liverpool priest had ever stood in the dock at the Crown Court. Because of the severity of the attack on young Billy, Brennan had been charged with inflicting grievous bodily harm on a child, so tomorrow’s magistrates would have no choice: the case would have to be passed on for judge and jury.

  It wasn’t going to happen. This near-knowledge sat in his stomach like lead settling in a pit already filled by tea. Lead didn’t float; neither would the case against Brennan. Pete’s much-loved territory, Scotland Road, would be up in arms. And he could only agree with them. ‘Life’s a bugger, then you die,’ he informed Frank’s dashboard. He started the car and drove home.

  Norma Charleson gave up trying to read. Surrounded by magazines and snacking on sweets and chocolates, she lay in her bed and pondered her situation. Having relinquished most of her house for her son’s sake, as she saw it, she was reaping no reward, because he was currently in the bed of his dead wife’s friend, Polly Kennedy.

  She remembered Polly. Polly was a pretty little thing; Ellen had been Frank’s second choice. Norma had not known that before she saw the letter, a letter she was not supposed to have read. Underneath the elaborate apology for happening upon the girl when she was naked, Frank had written his truth: he had loved Ellen, but Polly was and always had been the fulcrum of his existence. What was a fulcrum? The trouble with sending a son to a fee-paying school for a couple of years was that he knew too many words.

  He wouldn’t be satisfied just by sexual favours. The stupid boy was head over heels yet again with a woman who was wrong for him. Older now, he should know better, yet he still followed his heart. Why did the male of the species have so little sense? A woman weighed things up better, mixed a bit of thought into the ingredients.

  She longed for sleep. ‘Charlie, if you’d gone two or three years earlier, I wouldn’t be in this mess.’ She spat out a Turkish delight and wrapped it in paper. Turkish delight and caramels were the only chocolates she disliked. To cover the unpleasant taste, she turned to strawberry creams.

  The girl lived with a disabled brother behind a very primitive cafe on the mile. Along that stretch, the Charlesons owned most of the commercial properties, many of which had residential facilities behind and above the shops. The buildings had been cheap, and there would be some compensation due to owners from Liverpool Corporation when demolition became due.

  Polly’s Parlour was the name of the establishment. The eating parlour was at ground level, while the hairdressing salon was above in the front bedroom. The girl had a good business head and was willing to work hard. ‘But I don’t want you managing my affairs or my son, Miss Kennedy. You should have married Greg. If you’d married Greg . . .’ If, if, if. That was a huge word. If Charlie had died earlier, if the girl had wed her intended . . .

  Norma’s heart started leaping about again. That bloody stupid doctor had probably over-prescribed on the thyroid medication. It was a delicate balance, and she was her own worst enemy. With chocolate, cake and biscuits as her only pleasures, she knew she was digging her own grave with her teeth. Should she go on a diet, shed a few stone and take back the reins? Better still, she and Frank could share the business, as long as she managed the Scotland Road side of things.

  The decision seemed to make itself. She found herself outside in the rear garden, a brand new security light flooding the area where the dustbins lived. To prevent herself from returning, she emptied remaining confectionery into the rubbish unwrapped and unboxed; this way, she would not be tempted to retrieve the objects of her desire. Norma intended to save her life and Frank’s. He would be introduced to Elaine Lewis, and there would be a lawyer in the family. A maker of breakfasts and lunches – the latter termed dinners along the mile – would not hold a candle to such a well-educated and high-earning young woman with prospects.

  Surely Frank would see the sense in her plan? Elaine could well save the firm thousands over the years. And Frank was a man of substance, since he would inherit the business and the house when his mother died. But she needed to live for a while yet. Fifty-two was no age these days. All she needed to do was lose weight, take a bit of exercise and remove some of Frank’s freedom. She could and would manage it. Lying around here all day was a waste of life.

  Yes, it was time for the captain to steer the good ship Charleson once more. She refused to allow Frank to enter a second Scotland Road marriage. Her sweet tooth would ache, but that was the least of her problems. Wasn’t it? If she had the courage . . . Why couldn’t she harbour that thought? If she had the courage, Polly Kennedy might suffer a fatal accident, and then . . . ‘Shut up, Norma,’ she ordered. She was not a killer. But she knew people who might just step up to the mark. ‘Stop it,’ she snapped. ‘Out of the question.’

  Polly crept downstairs. The aged treads creaked a lot, and she was afraid of waking poor Frank, though she harboured little concern for her brother. After a particularly heavy night of drinking, he would sleep like a log until morning, at which point he would wake with a headache the whole world might well hear about. When drunk, Cal was a noisy sleeper; sometimes, she wondered how the house managed to remain standing with her twin rattling its old, fragile walls and windows.

  Frank was, of course, wide awake. Cal’s snores bounced round the room like dried peas in a tin can. ‘Hello, babe,’ Frank whispered during a quieter moment. ‘Your brother’s a noisy bugger.’

  ‘You can talk in a normal voice,’ she told him, ‘because our Cal won’t wake till the booze is out of him.’ She thanked goodness for the rubber sheet on the mattress, because there’d be enough washing in the morning without having to worry about the bed itself. She knelt on the floor next to the sofa.

  ‘Are we engaged?’ he asked, touching her hair with his good hand.

  ‘I suppose so. But I’ve come to tell you a secret.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘He’s on painkillers. He can feel pain in his legs, Frank. I’m going to hospital with him on Thursday afternoon.’

  ‘Does it mean he’s going to walk again?’ Frank asked.

  ‘There’s a chance. I’ve never seen anyone grateful for pain till now. Pain means his nerves have found a way to his brain. It’s unusu
al, but not unheard of. Any progress has to be slow, because damage could be done, so I want to be there, then they can tell me what to do and what to expect. He’ll win no races, but we may be able to wave goodbye to bedsores.’

  ‘That’s great, love. Give us a kiss to celebrate.’

  She kissed him. He was lovely. ‘How’s your hand?’

  ‘Sore. But not as sore as poor Billy.’

  ‘I know, love. Cup of cocoa?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He lay there listening to the normality of domestic sounds, a pan being set on the hob, cups and spoons clattering, Cal snoring like a tranquillized dinosaur, a cocoa tin opening. Mother would go mad, though that would be a short journey for her. She hadn’t approved of Ellen, and she would hate Polly, because Polly was cheeky. If only Mother could remarry, he might be free. But who would want her? He thought about advertising her in the Echo. No. He wouldn’t have the slightest idea when it came to description. Free to good home, one almost housetrained female, buyer to collect ? Hardly.

  Polly carried in two mugs of cocoa. ‘Might help you sleep, though I doubt it. He’s a noisy swine when he’s drunk. And by the way, remember what I told you is a secret. If he doesn’t walk again, he’ll feel like a failure.’

  ‘I won’t forget. Are we engaged, by the way?’ he asked again.

  ‘I believe we are, though we can’t set a date. My brother will give me away, and not from a wheelchair, I hope.’

  ‘So I have to buy you a ring.’

  She stirred her cocoa. ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  It was a delicate subject, but she pursued it. ‘Ellen,’ she said. ‘When she died, did you bury the ring with her?’

  ‘She still has her wedding ring, but not the engagement one.’

  ‘You have that?’

  ‘Yes.’ His mother had tried to acquire it, though it wouldn’t fit even the smallest of her podgy fingers. He swallowed some cocoa and, in spite of Cal’s snoring, wished he could stay here forever. Here was normal. In spite of the wheelchair and noise, this was the place for Frank.

  Polly swallowed. ‘Ellie was my best friend all her life, Frank. It would make her part of us. She’ll always be part of us, whatever happens, but I’d love to wear her ring. But if it makes you sad, we’ll get a new one.’

  He pondered. ‘She’d want you to have it, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes, she would.’

  ‘I can afford something a bit better now, Polly.’

  ‘There is nothing better. Ellie was like a sister to me.’ She lit a night light on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Take me upstairs and have your wicked way with me,’ he begged.

  ‘What about your hand?’

  He thought about that. ‘We can leave it down here and I’ll pick it up in the morning.’

  ‘OK. But I won’t have my wicked way, and neither will you. I’m only rescuing you from my noisy brother. Also, I don’t want a baby just yet, so behave yourself or I’ll come downstairs and squeeze your hand.’ She glanced at her brother. ‘In fact, I’ll use it to strangle him if he doesn’t shut up.’

  They spent a giddy hour in the bed that had once belonged to Polly and Cal’s parents. There was giggling and kissing and sighing, and his hand hurt every time he moved it. He accused her of taking advantage of his injury, of being a torment and a witch, then he fell asleep like a dropped stone.

  ‘Charming,’ she whispered. ‘You go out of your way to help the afflicted, and they sleep. I don’t know why I bother.’ She was lying. She knew full well why she bothered. Frank was handsome, generous, genuine and daft. The daft part was vital. He mumbled in his sleep. Even when unconscious, he could find something to almost say.

  ‘Moo,’ she whispered.

  ‘Shut up.’ Well, that had been clear enough.

  She found herself praying for Cal’s recovery, and not just for his sake. Yes, she needed her freedom, wanted Frank, wanted his babies. But Frank had promised to take care of Cal, and Frank always stood by his word. So she fell asleep in the one good arm of the man she cherished.

  ‘Don’t cry, love. Eat your butty – our Johnny’s Kathleen made them special.’

  But Mavis couldn’t take her eyes off Billy. He was her youngest, therefore her smallest, but he looked tinier than ever in the hospital bed. The tubes frightened her, too. It wasn’t easy sitting here watching while blood and other stuff dripped into his little arms. He’d been playing out, for God’s sake. And he wasn’t a bad lad, wasn’t a fighter. There was mischief in him, yes, but nothing really bad, nothing that made him deserving of such a beating. ‘Fred?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘That priest’s committed a mortal sin.’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘So if he died tonight, he’d go to hell.’

  ‘He would, damn him.’

  ‘So there are bad priests?’

  Fred nodded. ‘There’s bad everything, Mavis. There’s nuns in Ireland that have locked up young girls who had babies out of wedlock. They got the babies adopted and labelled the young women insane so they could keep them in there for life. They grow old, them poor girls, with next to no skin on their hands, cos they run a laundry service six days a week. If they don’t shape, they get whipped. And the bloody nuns keep what people pay for their laundry to be boiled and ironed.’

  Mavis turned in her chair. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as I can be without crossing the water and seeing for myself.’

  She looked down at the rosary in her hands. Nothing made sense.

  ‘Eat something,’ Fred urged.

  ‘Our Billy doesn’t even go to that school. He’s at St Anthony’s.’

  ‘I know, but he has mates at Columba’s, Mave.’

  ‘What have you been up to, lad?’ She leaned over the child.

  ‘Eat,’ Fred ordered yet again.

  She obeyed, though swallowing wasn’t easy. The decision she made took little effort, though. At two o’clock in the morning, Mavis Blunt ceased to be a Catholic. She didn’t announce or discuss it, didn’t even turn it over in her mind. There was no perfect faith, and there were no perfect people. And the potted meat sandwiches were stale.

  Many people suffered a sleepless night for a variety of reasons.

  In Little Crosby, where the houses were small and steeped in history, Christine Lewis stared through her window at a moonlit scene where roses grew round doors and ivy clung to walls, and buildings of thick stone protected inhabitants from all weathers. So deep was the recess containing her bedroom window, she had made a window seat, and there she lingered, looking at the sun’s light reflected in silver tones on Earth’s single satellite, which, in its turn, bounced white light onto the planet.

  It wasn’t that she liked Norma Charleson, it was just . . . it was just that she knew the job well and it was near home. Also, she had to allow that Frank was a lovely, gentle man who would make a wonderful husband for someone. Elaine found lawyers very dull and self-obsessed. They fought cases not for the clients, but in order to chalk up their scores and compare wins and losses with those of their fellows.

  Elaine didn’t really want a lawyer. Mrs Charleson’s unspoken idea made a great deal of sense. Frank was a businessman with a decent level of education. He was a good conversationalist and a thoroughly admirable human being. If Elaine came to know him, if she could just be persuaded to spend some time with him, she might arrive at her senses. Yes, it was a reasonable plan. She shouldn’t have mentioned her suspicions to Elaine . . .

  She closed her curtains and returned to bed, her brain still alert. The way Norma Charleson ate meant that her life might well be shortened. Christine imagined herself in the annexe with Elaine and Frank occupying the main part of the cottage. Oh, this was a terrible way to think. Really, all she wanted was Elaine’s happiness. She needed little for herself . . . well, not much, anyway.

  Meanwhile, in the next bedroom, Elaine was dreaming. A man was making love to her. When she looked up into
his face, he was Frank Charleson. Her eyes opened suddenly. Not her type? Who was she trying to kid? Bugger it, she had to go to work in a few hours. She fell asleep within minutes, but the dream resumed . . .

  Billy woke. Mam and Dad were dozing in two chairs. The backs and seats were padded, but they had wooden arms. His own arms weren’t comfortable, and one was worse than the other. Clear fluid dripped into one tube, bright blood into a second. Breathing hurt a bit. The bank robber in the mask had gone. Except he wasn’t a bank robber, he was a doctor, one of those who cut people open and stitched them up again with somebody’s old sewing machine. That had been a joke, of course.

  The light was poor, but he wouldn’t complain about that, because illumination in the bank robber’s lair had been cruel and painful. His mouth was dry. He didn’t want to wake his parents. There was no way of working out how long they’d been here; Billy and time had parted company. It was 1955, though the month, the date and the day remained a mystery. He was seven years old, it was summer, and a priest had kicked him.

  Half a crown. All this for half a crown. He should have saved his spends, but hadn’t been able to resist that Dinky fire engine. The money would have been returned to the church, although to St Anthony’s rather than St Columba’s. A lot of Columba’s people went to a different parish whenever Father Brennan filled in for Father Foley. No one liked Father Brennan.

  Mam’s arm slipped off her chair and she woke with a start. She shook Dad. ‘He’s awake, love.’

  They arrived at the bedside. ‘Hello, Billy,’ Fred whispered.

  ‘Drink,’ the child begged.

  Mavis dashed off to get the night sister, who brought ice. ‘Just suck on that while your mother holds it,’ the blue-clad woman ordered. ‘You can have a proper drink soon, when we know you’re not going to vomit. We don’t want you undoing all our good work.’ She turned to the parents. ‘He’s got through with no new bleeds. Keep him as still as you can. Go home when it gets light and send somebody else to visit while you get a few hours in a proper bed.’ She took Billy’s temperature and pulse, declaring herself satisfied with both.