A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

‘I may be a priest, Mary, but I’m still a bloke. I happen to believe in God, my flock, and all Christians everywhere, no matter what the shape of their faith. Billy Blunt’s from a good Catholic family, and I let them down by going off and leaving everything in the hands of Eugene Brennan. I see he hasn’t improved. So I’m keeping company with the objectors, and I’ll get a pint with them later in the Holy House. Go on, now. You have to be there before the introit, or you’ll have missed Mass.’

  She scurried away. Still existing in splendid isolation, Father Foley continued to smoke and sip at his tea. They had better come. The way things were, he stood out like a boil on the face of humanity. He could have gone for a round of golf instead of sitting here like something in Lewis’s window. Ah, here they came, jagged ranks walking out of step behind Frank Charleson. Frank described himself these days as an escaped Catholic, but he remained a very close friend of Christopher Foley.

  There should have been nothing funny about this strange and unprecedented occasion, but the priest and Frank found themselves almost doubled in the gutter with laughter. Some of the men carried cards. Each card bore a single capital letter. They were to stand in order until the press arrived, but their idea of order was not exactly tidy.

  They began with EWWATNBERNANN, rearranging themselves into WE NAWT REBNNAN, then standing like naughty children while their headmaster, Mr Frank Charleson, snatched away the letters and redistributed them correctly. He looked at his companion. ‘Father Chris, how dare these people complain about their children’s spelling?’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’ The shepherd of the somewhat ungainly flock was hugging himself. He was in pain because of the laughter, and he’d lost his fag and his tea. ‘Where did you find these . . . these poor creatures?’ he managed.

  ‘They’re yours,’ was Frank’s answer. ‘And your parenting skills are a bit poor, Father. See? That one in the middle has his B back to front. I don’t know why I bother. How can we ask respect from the press with a back-to-front B?’ He produced a shrill whistle. ‘Oi, you with the legs. Turn your B the right way round.’

  ‘What’s wrong with me legs?’

  Frank didn’t know. ‘I think you may be standing to attention, but your trousers are at ease. Pull them up a bit, we’ve photographers coming.’ He returned to his ordained friend and fellow poker player. ‘Have you seen Billy?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes indeed. Grand little lad, but he has the night terrors, and his mother says he’s not himself at all. I offered up Mass for him earlier. This has been taken all the way to Vatican, or so I’m led to believe. The cardinals weren’t best pleased, so I think they’ve gone as far as the Holy Father with it. One of the bishops was heard to say that the Church is like a garden, and we need to do some weeding and pruning. Aye, it’s a sad business.’

  ‘How was retreat?’ Frank asked.

  ‘The nineteenth hole was pure luxury. Do you think they’ll pull me up like some old dandelion? After all, I lied and said I was going away for a week of contemplation. If I did contemplate, it would be round about the seventh, because there was one hell of a rise to it and a bunker nearby the size of Southport beach. Ah, here they come.’

  There was no shouting or swearing; apart from spelling, Frank had trained his troops well. He explained that the neighbourhood would not rest until Brennan stood before judge and jury, that no one wanted blood, but Billy should be compensated for his suffering, as should his family. ‘There will be a civil suit as well,’ he said. ‘All decent people, whether lay or ordained, want the man to explain himself to the parents of that little boy. Do not visit young Billy with or without cameras. He’s damaged, and not just physically.’

  Journalists scribbled notes, while photographers did their job. When the very civilized meeting was concluded, everyone began to wander up towards Scotland Road. Picketers from other churches joined them, as did more reporters from various newspapers. By noon, every pub on the road was filled to bursting. Frank lingered on the pavement with his pint. Diagonally across the road stood Polly’s Parlour. It was closed on Sundays. On her one day off, she cleaned the place from top to bottom while poor Cal sat in his chair feeling guilty.

  ‘She got to you, then?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Chris. Yes, we got to each other and broke commandments. Then she drew a line under my bloody mother.’

  The priest took a long swig of Guinness. ‘Ah, your mother.’

  ‘Polly’s worried for Cal.’

  ‘Ah well, your ma wasn’t exactly kind to young Ellen, was she?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘I left home.’

  ‘Did you now? And where are you living?’

  ‘Bedsit in Bootle. And my stash of junk’s still in lockup till I find a shop with accommodation attached. I have to win Polly back, Chris. You’d better get busy with the rosary beads and the holy water, since we seem to need some level of intervention.’

  Christopher kept his counsel. He knew Polly well enough, while Frank was one of his best friends, but Norma Charleson was a different kettle of squid altogether. She seemed totally self-centred, as if she couldn’t entertain feelings for anyone at all. Her husband had been her ticket to a better life, Frank was a decorative, intelligent son, and she was the centre of the universe.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘Sorry. I was just thinking about your mother.’

  ‘No wonder you look depressed.’

  The priest laughed. ‘She’s watching us, you know.’

  Frank looked round. ‘No, she won’t come here till the rent needs collecting.’

  ‘Not your mother, eejit. Polly Kennedy. She was at the window in her little hairdressing room. Go and knock on the door.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘It’s not time yet. I have to sort my life out, Chris. And there’s Cal. You know Polly has a strong sense of duty. Those two had good parents and an excellent upbringing. And twinship keeps them close, although she does make sure everyone knows she’s the elder. She won’t ever let him down.’

  ‘I dare say you’re right. Come on, let’s away inside and get a drop of Irish. It’ll all work out well, I’m sure.’

  Six

  Norma Charleson owned no sunglasses to hide swollen eyelids, no self-control to help manage her outbursts. She simply stayed on her chaise, wept, drank tea, wept again, ate her frugal meals, wept and got angry with everything and everyone. The good news was that her sugar level was nearer the mark and her urine contained no ketones. She felt rather weak, but this was a period of radical adjustment, and that damned fool of a doctor was pathetically pleased. He still refused to give her strong painkillers for her arthritis, so her opinion of him remained unchanged.

  Christine Lewis didn’t know what to do, because the housekeeper understood full well that chocolate was her employer’s medicine. It was not without side effects, as the woman had gained stones in weight, was diabetic with neuropathy in legs and feet, but chocolate was the only thing that improved the mood of the woman who now wanted to be Norma rather than Mrs Charleson. Her job was hell on earth, and Christine longed to go home to her ancient, miniature house.

  Yes, it was time to look for alternative employment, but could she leave Norma Charleson in this condition? Even if the woman did stage some of her behaviours, she was clearly unfit to be left in total isolation. Sometimes, a conscience was a heavy weight to bear.

  ‘Will you stop cleaning for a minute, Christine? Every time I look at you, you’re attached to a duster or a damp cloth. Just sit with me for a few minutes, please. I can’t stop crying. I don’t think I’ll ever stop, because Frank’s broken my spirit completely. My own son, my flesh and blood, did this to me. My poor heart’s all over the place with palpitations.’

  Christine sat. ‘You’re not the only one who’s been through this sort of thing. Elaine’s a good girl now, but she was a silent, broody teenager for a while after Jim died, and not too wonderful during the university years.’ Did Norma have a heart? She seemed to care only for her own comfort, and she hated change
. She was also afraid of being alone at night in a house that was so dark at the back, so exposed. The spiral staircase to the upstairs garden room troubled her, and she locked herself in the annexe if Frank wasn’t at home.

  ‘He’s twenty-six,’ his mother moaned now. ‘This isn’t a teenage tantrum, because he hates me – he practically said so. I don’t know where he is. I have to know where he is.’

  ‘He’ll come back, I’m sure, Norma.’ Frank certainly had a heart and he wouldn’t leave his mother in this state, surely? Even from a practical viewpoint, an address to which mail might be forwarded should have been left behind.

  ‘You don’t know him. He’s stubborn like his dad. Charlie used to go days without saying more than a few words to me.’

  Christine sighed. It sounded as if both men in her boss’s life had worn internal armour in order to protect themselves from this impossible woman. ‘Do you want me to go to that cafe you told me about and ask if Frank’s there?’

  Norma was suddenly quiet. She needed to think about that. She needed to think about rent collections, too, and then there was the maintenance side of things. Some of her properties were scheduled for demolition, but the rest needed to be kept in good order. She must buy more, too . . . ‘Make a pot of tea, Christine. Saccharin for me, and just a drop of milk.’

  The housekeeper went to do as she’d been told. Frank seemed to be in the Scotland Road area, as his photograph was plastered across several newspapers together with his plea for children’s rights. He’d been picketing with other people, one of them a priest who objected to the behaviour of his temporary replacement. He was quoted, too. ‘All we want is peace of mind for a little boy and his family. My church and school are places of safety, yet this terrible thing happened in the grounds.’ The poor man could lose his parish for speaking his mind, as few bishops liked their priests to broadcast opinions. It was rather like Parliament – three-line whip, go in, you’re a free man, but vote as we dictate.

  Meanwhile, Norma’s mind was in top gear. But when it came to actual gears, her car hadn’t been touched for months, so that definitely needed to be first priority. Christine had a licence, but she owned no car. If the Morris could be serviced and returned to working order, perhaps Christine might do the collecting for a little extra money. Once her own health had improved, Norma could take over.

  Christine returned with the tea.

  They sat and sipped while Norma’s train of thought reached the station. ‘Look, if I get the car working, I’ll lend it to you and pay for petrol. Shopping would be so much easier and cheaper if we didn’t pay delivery charges. And if you’d like to earn extra, there’s another job you might like to consider.’

  The housekeeper listened. Sitting and listening had been her main job for a few days now. She was being invited to become an employee of Charleson Holdings. Her function would be to collect rents, note complaints and pass the list of required repairs to Norma, who would then send a firm of builders to mend the roof, the guttering or whatever required attention. ‘And it’s not a job for life, my dear; it would be just until I’m better and fit to handle things myself.’

  ‘Er . . . yes, I suppose I could do that. But I’d need maps, because I’m not familiar with many areas of the city.’

  Norma nodded. ‘Of course, I understand.’

  ‘Are they widespread?’

  ‘Well, I do try to concentrate on clusters when purchasing, but that’s not always possible. There’s Scotland Road and the streets either side of it, a few nearer the river, some in West Derby, Bootle, Litherland, four in a terrace near Sefton Park – oh, I’ll get you a list. I would be so grateful. And you may use the car for yourself, too.’

  ‘Is it all right if I think about it until tomorrow? I’m not ungrateful, but I have to be sure that I can cope with so much responsibility.’

  ‘Of course you need to be sure. Another drop of tea, I think.’

  While pouring more of the cup that cheers, Christine realized that her companion’s tears had dried at the speed of light. She was solving her problems, and Frank had disappeared completely from her thoughts. What Norma Charleson needed was a servant, and a blood relative had no more value than the next man or woman. Where were people like Norma made? In some well-hidden engineering factory? Because she wasn’t quite human. Christine knew someone else who was similarly uncaring when it came to other people, but she didn’t want to think about Elaine just now.

  The housekeeper told herself inwardly to try to find Frank, mostly to get his advice about the business. His mother had done nothing during recent years, and Frank could turn the tenants into people, would be able to give advice about who paid willingly and who didn’t.

  The day blundered on unsteadily. Problems were doubled because Norma had gone from one extreme to another. Thus far, she had eaten all her meals, snacks between meals, and chocolate almost continually. Now, she was taking herself right to the edge in the other direction, so she wasn’t making full sense on occasion. The doctor had spoken to both women about the testing of new drugs for type two diabetics, but they were not yet available. All the woman had was a system that tested urine.

  It was a disease in which, for the most part, the patient needed to be her own doctor. Until now, Norma had lived in a make-believe world where nothing could touch her. Christine felt that so drastic a change was dangerous, so she tried one more time before going home. ‘If you don’t eat enough, you’ll collapse. It’s called hypoglycaemia. Your brain pinches every last bit of sugar and you feel OK, but suddenly, your brain runs out. So, these are glucose. Keep them by you at all times, even in the bathroom. If your thinking alters, take one. If you have difficulty when walking, always take glucose.’

  Tears again. ‘You are so kind to me, like the sister I never had.’ This was genuine thankfulness; Norma truly believed she had found a friend at last.

  ‘And you are losing weight already. If you look after yourself, we’ll be off to Liverpool or Southport on a shopping spree to get you new clothes.’

  The tears stopped immediately. ‘Oh, I’d love that.’

  ‘Good. So keep yourself steady, stick to the doc’s diet sheet more or less, and your clothes will be hanging off you in a few months. It will be a new beginning for you.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  On her way home, Christine decided that she knew what was wrong with Norma Charleson. At the age of fifty-two, she remained a child in many respects. She was still the centre of her own universe, hungry for food and attention. Her relationships were few and difficult; she wanted praise, approval and pampering. The mood swings might be attributable to her physical illness, though she used tears as a weapon, as might a five-year-old.

  ‘And I’m all she has.’ That was a sobering thought.

  Linda Higgins and Polly were moving furniture in the living room behind the cafe. In order to help Cal exercise, there needed to be space all round his bed, which had lived until now against the wall under the stairs. While the women worked, he shouted directions from his wheelchair in the doorway. ‘Don’t forget space for my wheelchair’ and ‘Don’t drop the bookmark, it’s keeping my place just before Jack the Ripper strikes again’ were just two of his many orders.

  ‘Will you shut up?’ Polly yelled. ‘You’re not a traffic cop down town. What about my couch and sideboard? They were our mam’s and I’m not parting with them.’

  ‘Why don’t you just stick me in the backyard under a tarpaulin?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me, brother. But can we afford a tarpaulin? Linda, is he worth the price of waterproof covering?’

  Linda called a halt. ‘You’ll have to put the sideboard against the wall where you walk through from the cafe to the kitchen, so you’ll need to do a bit of a swerve. There is plenty of space for his wheelchair between the end of the sideboard and each doorway.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Polly asked.

  ‘I measure by eye, the same as when I’m making clothes. And if you put some so
rt of protective cover on the sideboard instead of over your brother in the backyard, you can leave the dirty dishes on it instead of walking through and cluttering his precious kitchen every time.’

  ‘I never said my kitchen was precious—’

  ‘Shut up,’ chorused the women.

  Cal chuckled inwardly. He’d been under his sister’s thumb since the accident, but now she was collecting troops. Some of the torture they were planning to inflict involved two people. If Linda was at work, he’d be at the tender mercies of Polly, plus Hattie next door or any passing stranger who looked soft enough to be dragged in. Oh, life was so bloody wonderful.

  They emptied the sideboard and lifted it into its new position. It was Utility, so it wasn’t large and wasn’t heavy. Linda straightened her spine. ‘We’ll be the ones needing treatment,’ she said. ‘Right, handsome. Take yourself into the cafe, then get back in here and see if there’s room for your chair to turn.’

  ‘I’d never have thought of that,’ Polly admitted.

  ‘True,’ her brother said. ‘Never thinks about her poor crippled twin.’ He did as ordered and managed the turn. ‘See? I’m an expert in my field.’

  ‘If we had a field, you’d be out to grass,’ Polly said.

  ‘Another four inches towards the kitchen, because his turn was a bit tight,’ Linda ordered. ‘Now, do the same with the other door, Cal,’ she suggested when the sideboard had been edged along the wall.

  He manoeuvred his way into the back kitchen and out again. ‘God help you two when I can walk,’ he said. ‘I have every intention of running you ragged, so just you wait and see.’

  ‘Empty promises,’ Polly said. ‘Ignore him.’

  The sofa finished up facing the foot of Cal’s bed. ‘Do I have to sit looking at him?’ Polly asked.

  ‘No,’ Linda said, her voice trembling with contained laughter. ‘Lie down, head on cushions, watch television. Or send him to the pub. Failing that, stick him outside as he suggested. You might even fit a small shed out there.’ She positioned his bedside table. ‘Right. Your wheelchair will fit at the other side, and it can be moved while the exercises are going on. Give Polly one bit of trouble, and I’ll tan your hide, Mr Kennedy.’