A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

  Others jumped to their feet and cheered.

  Encouraged by her few moments of fame, Ida blossomed. ‘Which port in this country carried every bit of ammunition through its docks in the war?’

  ‘Liverpool,’ her audience shouted.

  ‘And whose dock workers worked like dogs day and night to get the guns and shells and grenades through?’

  ‘Liverpool’s!’

  ‘And where did a lot of those too old or too young for war dock workers come from?’

  ‘Scotland Road!’

  ‘And which people are going to be torn apart as a big thank you for jobs well done?’

  ‘Scotland Roaders!’

  ‘What do we want?’

  ‘Homes, not roads!’ These three words were chanted repeatedly.

  Frank Charleson, chairman of the Turnpike committee, sat at the front with the board. His right hand ‘man’ and deputy chair was seated next to him, and he loved her. Having kept his distance for a while, he was acutely aware of Polly’s presence. Father Chris Foley, Fred Blunt, Hattie Benson and Denis Davenport formed the rest of the committee, though several self-elected people attended the meetings. This was an open session at which anyone could have a say.

  Frank stood up and held up a hand. ‘Right, calm down. Father?’

  Chris Foley unfolded his arms and raised a hand. ‘No rioting, please. I get enough of that on the golf links in Southport. We go in whatever transport we can muster. We make no trouble on the journey, and we make no trouble in London. The petition will be handed over by Polly and Frank to the police outside Number Ten. And we stand there in Downing Street packed like tinned sardines and we say not one word. We do not laugh; nor do we cry. There is something quite menacing about a crowd that remains in total silence. They won’t forget us in a hurry.’

  The audience clapped. Anyone who forgot this lot wanted his or her head testing.

  ‘And we go not as Catholics and Orangemen. Our fellows from Everton, some of whom will lose their homes and businesses, will be with us. We travel as citizens of a free country and a great city that speaks its mind and shames the devil himself.’

  The main door of the school hall flew inward and crashed into a stray chair. The gathering turned as one man to see Jimmy Nuttall (tripe, fish, cooked meats and skinned rabbits) trying to regain control over his breathing. He bent forward, hands on his knees, until he found some oxygen. Slowly, he unravelled himself into a more or less upright position.

  Chris Foley walked the length of the room to support him. ‘What in heaven has happened to you, Jimmy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I want Fred. It has to be Fred, Father,’ gasped the newcomer.

  ‘Come away in with you, then. Lean on me. Try to stagger on, Jimmy, and hand over the burden, whatever it is.’

  Jimmy managed the length of the hall. ‘Fred,’ he gasped, ‘they found his body. They’re pretty sure it’s him, but he’s . . . well, he’s been there a while and animals have had a go at him. Police can’t do fingerprints, cos . . . er, there’s not enough there. They would have took prints, then tried to match them up with stray traces at Columba’s and the monastery, but it’s no go. The hot weather has . . . well, you know.’

  The colour drained from Fred’s face. ‘But they’re certain it’s him?’

  ‘There was a rosary underneath him and a half-empty bottle of Scotch.’

  ‘He drinks Irish,’ Chris said.

  ‘But Scotch is easier to come by,’ Frank commented. ‘He’d drink anything he could find, I’d bet.’

  Polly burst into tears. They hadn’t got him. He had escaped his comeuppance by dying, and the courts would never prosecute.

  Frank gathered her in his arms and put his mouth to an ear. ‘Don’t you dare weep like this on our wedding day. I carry our pair of knickers wherever I go. Pray I don’t use them as a handkerchief to dry your eyes here and now.’ He released her and turned to Fred. ‘If he’s dead, he’s dead, and that’s it, finished and done with.’

  The place was so quiet that a feather, let alone a pin, would have made noise when landing. Mavis walked to the front. ‘It’s not him,’ she said clearly. ‘Who told you, Jimmy?’

  ‘A bloke with a son who works for the print shop that sets the Liverpool Echo. The man they found – well, what was left of him – had been fat before he started to rot. Brennan was always fat.’

  ‘He’s alive,’ she insisted. ‘Billy sees him when he’s asleep, but it doesn’t frighten him any more. Brennan is thinner, he’s drinking less and he’s working in the fields. Can they not get an idea from his clothes? Or from his teeth?’

  Jimmy answered in the negative.

  ‘Did the body have a beard?’ she asked.

  Jimmy’s shoulders rounded themselves. ‘The head’s missing,’ he said after a pause. ‘Carried off by a dog or a big fox, more than likely. The clothing’s shredded, fingers chewed off, but they found booze and a rosary. As far as they can work out, there’s a skeleton that would have been Brennan’s height if it was all there, with some flesh and an amount of human fat. The rest has gone, even the feet.’

  Mavis looked at Father Foley. ‘I’m not a Catholic any more, but you are. And I may as well warn you, we’ll still be suing the Church, because if we lose, we pay nothing, and if we win, the Church pays the fees, too. So, Father, if this God of yours can talk to grown-ups who’re going to be saints and all that, can’t the same God talk to a child in his sleep?’

  ‘I believe He can,’ was Chris’s answer.

  ‘You are wrong, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘He is still alive and kicking. Now, I’m going across the street to be with my son, who has the same sight my mother had.’ She turned and addressed the people in the main body of the hall. ‘What they found is not Brennan. Ask my boy.’ She stalked out.

  Fred made his apologies and followed her.

  Frank stood up. ‘Right. I’m sorry this is a bit like church, but please put anything you can afford in the collection box by the door. We’ll convene again in three weeks from tonight.’ He reclaimed his seat. Beneath the sound of scraping chairs and conversations, he spoke to Polly. ‘You pregnant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I would have needed to alter the grand plan.’

  ‘What grand . . . ?’ She was wasting her time; he was talking to Father Foley. She gathered up notebook and biro, lifted her handbag and walked to the door, pushing a folded ten-shilling note into the box. The bottleneck crush in the foyer was beginning to clear. A hand crept round her waist. ‘You made me jump,’ she accused.

  ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘Best night of my life so far, that was.’ He led her to his car and opened the passenger door. ‘In you get.’

  Untypically, she did as ordered without question.

  He joined her, started the car and drove off at speed.

  ‘Where are we going, Frank?’

  ‘Somewhere quiet. I’ve got your ball and chain.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ellen’s ring. Then I have secret surprises to plan and carry out, so we’ll be married in a few months when I’ve done what I have to do.’

  She grinned. ‘Don’t I get a say?’

  ‘No. My mother’s out of the picture, and I understand Cal is much improved, so less vulnerable. I’m making a home for all of us, him included, though I hear he may have plans of his own.’

  ‘If you’d take the trouble to visit, you could see for yourself.’

  ‘Still Miss Clever Mouth, I see.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He found a quiet spot near the river, and they held hands like a pair of children while watching the sun’s glorious au revoir. And he asked again. ‘Will you marry me, Polly Kennedy?’

  She wore a thoughtful expression for a few seconds.

  ‘Well, madam?’

  ‘Can I have a big fridge and a washing machine?’

  He burst out laughing; she was going to say yes. ‘All right.’

  ‘Can I have two children,
preferably one girl and one creature, a proper sideboard, the Beano and Dandy delivered every week?’

  ‘Yes. Though when it comes to the gender of kids, I can’t make a firm promise. As for the comics, we read one each and then swap.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Is that a yes, Polly?’

  ‘Of course it is, you great lummox. I should never have allowed Mrs Moo to get to me.’

  He took the ring from its box and polished it with the borrowed knickers. ‘You get a good shine out of a double cotton gusset,’ he announced seriously.

  Polly blinked away a tear. Ellen had been so proud of her aquamarine with its four tiny diamond attendants. She held out her left hand, and he placed the ring on her finger. ‘Frank?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She turned and held his face between her hands. The kiss she bestowed upon him asked nothing but gave everything; it was sweet and innocent, yet quite professional at the same time. ‘I love you, Charleson. But you didn’t leave home for my sake, did you?’

  ‘For my sanity,’ he answered. ‘Which you will need to be assured of, so I left for myself, for you, for our daughter and our creature, for Cal, for my own business and our home. By the way, I love you, too.’

  They stayed for a while under dusk’s blanket, inventing their own language for their own love, saying the silly, private words that would accompany them through the rest of their lives. She didn’t mind about fridges and washers; he was to have the Beano first, since he preferred it to the Dandy. Chris Foley would marry them, but in St Anthony’s, which was Polly’s church. Any girls and creatures would be raised as Catholics, as that was their mother’s faith, and he would attend church with the family for their sake.

  Huddled together for an hour in his too-small-for-anything-interesting car, they began their walk through life. Inevitably, they eventually strayed into the territory of others. ‘What do you think about Mavis Blunt and what she said?’ Frank asked.

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Mam and Dad were in my dreams long after they’d died. But Mavis seems so sure that what Billy sees is real.’

  ‘She says her mother was sighted, Pol.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Was she sighted?’

  ‘I think she was. I remember old Mrs Mahoney telling me to look after Mam and Dad. With hindsight, I think that might have been a warning without actually telling me they were dying. I don’t have the answer about what I believe.’

  ‘You’re in good company. Even Father Chris gets confused on that score, and he drives the bloody train. Oh, he’s invited us both for a meal next Friday, but only if you say yes to my proposal. He says you’re a sensible girl except for loving me.’

  ‘Cheeky monkey.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean by driving the train? Is he moonlighting for the railways?’

  ‘I’ll explain when I have a week to spare, but do you really think any clown would let him anywhere near a steam engine? He’d get excited if he was given a toy train, never mind the Flying Scotsman.’

  ‘Aw, he’s lovely, though, Frank.’

  ‘My best mate. He’s the only bloke I’m completely open with, and his sense of humour’s great. And another thing – he’s wise. Underneath all the laughing and gambling for pennies, he’s one clever bloke. He would have been a great dad.’

  ‘So will you.’

  ‘I bloody well hope so, kid.’

  They sat a while kissing and canoodling before he began the drive back to Scotty. ‘Poor Mavis,’ Polly sighed.

  ‘And poor Billy, poor Fred,’ Frank added.

  ‘Nothing we can do for them,’ she said as they parked outside the cafe. ‘But you can do one thing for us. Come in with me now and tell Cal we’re engaged. He’s missed you. We’ve both missed you.’

  When they walked into the living room, Cal was vertical and using a pair of crutches. ‘Hiya, mate. Where the hell have you been?’

  Frank swallowed a lump of emotion. ‘You’ve come on a bit, Callum Kennedy. I’ve been abandoning my mother, living in a B and B where my landlady has all the charm of your average rattlesnake, collecting some of my wares and parking them near the docks, preparing a flat and a shop, gambling with Chris and the Blunts, playing dominoes in the Liver pub, running away from a woman who wants to get into my drawers . . .’

  ‘I don’t,’ Polly laughed.

  ‘I wasn’t talking about you. It’s the lawyer handling my conveyancing.’

  ‘Well, she must keep her hands to herself. If anybody’s handling your details, it should be me.’

  ‘Nymphomaniac,’ Frank said solemnly.

  ‘I’m not one of them.’

  ‘No, but she is. I reckon she could make a fortune if she put herself in Mother Bailey’s hands. Classy, you see. Shove her in a boudoir with silk sheets, and she’d make a fortune.’

  ‘Don’t be making our Polly jealous,’ Cal advised. ‘She’s bad enough as she is. When Linda’s here, they turn into iron maidens.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Cal, I’ll take this one off your hands and chain her to the sink. I’ve got a place. And there’ll be a flat for you on the ground floor if you need it.’ He looked Polly up and down. ‘Show him your ring.’

  Once again, she did as she was told. ‘It was Ellen’s,’ she explained. ‘I asked for it. I wanted her to be a part of our life story.’

  ‘Congratulations, both of you. But I won’t need the flat, because Linda and I will be in a bungalow next to her mam and dad. Mrs Higgins needs help since she got bombed and lost her legs. Makes me feel grateful.’

  ‘You’re getting married, too?’ Polly laughed. ‘We could have a double wedding.’

  Cal shook his head. ‘No. Let whoever marries us deal with one set of trouble at a time.’

  She blinked. She would miss her twin terribly, but she would have Frank, and he was her whole world. Oh, and it would definitely be a double wedding.

  Nine

  At the first breakfast sitting, Ida, though seated, was on her soapbox. ‘We need representation for all of us shopkeeper folk,’ she said. ‘The trouble with having a business or a proper job is that we can’t stand for election in case our shops go down or in case we can’t find another job when we get voted out. So who gets into the Commons, eh?’ She stood up.

  No one offered a reply, so she motored on. ‘Our members of parliament are supposed to be there for our sake, that’s why it’s called the Commons. But what are they? Bloody doctors and lawyers, because they know they’ll always get a job again if they lose their seats. There’s a few teachers and dentists, too, because they feel safe. And they speak for us? What do they know about ordinary folk? They want to build roads into the city, and that’s their excuse for moving us on. Oh, they’re always jawing on about what they call eventual redevelopment, but that’s a load of old soap. Bessie Braddock got in and made her mark, so why not Polly or Frank or Den?’

  Polly yawned. After a late night spent talking with Frank, she needed sleep. Her man was looking tired, too. ‘Are you going to eat that breakfast or paint a picture of it?’ she asked him.

  ‘Well, I’m not standing for Parliament,’ was Frank’s reply.

  ‘I can hardly stand at all,’ she told him. ‘My legs aren’t even related to one another this morning.’

  He pretended to glare at her. ‘You’ve no stamina.’

  ‘And you have? You look as if you’ve been awake all night.’

  ‘No comment.’ He was busy thinking about moving all his stock from the Dock Road store. ‘I have to go soon,’ he said.

  Ida continued. ‘One of us has to try to get elected,’ she insisted. ‘Polly?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘What about you, Den?’

  Den said he couldn’t leave his horse before adding, ‘You do it, Ida. You’re the one on your feet and mouthing off.’

  She sat down again and ate her breakfast. Nobody seemed to list
en to sense. Nobody wanted to go to London as a politician, either. Oh well. She dipped a soldier into the yolk of an egg. ‘All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Scotty together again.’

  ‘Don’t gab with your mouth full,’ Hattie advised.

  Ida shook her head. She might as well talk to the bloody wall.

  By the time Eugene Brennan discovered the news about his sad and lonely death, he’d been deceased, decapitated, without feet, and a few manual digits short for several weeks. It was an interesting experience, and it pleased and disturbed him no end, taking him to the brink of hysteria when he read some of the tragic details. He had decomposed, and animals had made off with bits of him, leaving no feet, no head and no fingerprints. That part caused a few shivers, though he still managed to smile at the ludicrous claims.

  He counted his fingers, touched his head and glanced down at his shoes. ‘All present and correct. I do very well for a decomposed person. However, I must compose myself now and take advantage of this situation. Or would that be recompose myself?’ He looked round the shed in which he had been sleeping; there was no longer a need for him to hide. Sheds, barns and derelict houses were all about to become things of the past. The nights were cooler, and winter wasn’t too far away; he was safe. The dreams and the screams could stop now, surely? They must, because he would soon need shelter.

  ‘Eugene, sorry to give you this terrible news, but you are no longer among us. I wish you Godspeed and a happy eternity. Amen.’

  Thus providence shone on him just as September peeped over the horizon, when he found a pile of old newspapers in a stable at the farm where he was currently employed. As he read through the pages, he learned that a decayed piece of humanity had been discovered in Derbyshire with certain pertinent parts missing, and Eugene Brennan had been nominated as ex-occupier of said mouldy, fingerless, footless and headless residence. MURDERING PRIEST FOUND DEAD. Quite a headline.