A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Which is?’ Frank stared at Chris.

  ‘That I did wrong, because I knew in my bones that he was quick to temper. Others have complained, or so I discovered recently. He should have been removed from the locum list. The Church will be forced to compensate Billy Blunt and his family.’

  ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Ah, not at all. The Church sins, the Church does penance. The individual and the whole body are one and the same. All answer to almighty God. And anyway, this is a celebration. Frank, you and I should share in the degradation of your lovely fiancée.’

  ‘She doesn’t do threesomes,’ Frank replied with mock seriousness.

  ‘Then we need a fourth.’

  ‘For what?’ Polly’s eyebrows moved north by half an inch.

  ‘Something sinful.’ Chris grinned. ‘You’re not ready for poker, so it will have to be whist. For money.’

  ‘I don’t gamble.’

  ‘You do now.’ Frank went to get Cal. ‘If he’s drunk, we’ll win a fortune,’ was his parting remark.

  Alone with Chris, Polly reminded him about Frank’s burning ambition. ‘He wants to find lawyers and politicians who’ll be prepared to uphold the rights of children. The politicians will make the laws, and the lawyers will uphold them and represent kids in trouble, frightened of their parents, frightened at school, scared of not getting enough to eat.’

  ‘And worse. There is much, much more abuse, Polly.’

  She nodded. ‘I know. So if you think of anything or anyone, let us know. That’s his dream, and it might come true. Mine won’t.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. The Turnpike March into Downing Street could be the biggest waste of time and money this century, since they won’t rebuild here for us. It’s going to be a dead zone. This will kill people as well as buildings, because they’ve lived here their whole lives, so this is where they belong. It’s their hearts’ home. Stick them out in the back of beyond away from town, away from Scotland Road and Paddy’s Market, and loads of older people will give up and lose the will to live.’

  ‘The houses are beyond saving,’ he said. ‘But the earth below them would take new ones. It’s all tied up with roads and tunnels and bloody money. And yes, priests get angry and swear and ask God why stuff happens. We go to London. We go so they might think twice before bringing a giant hammer down on some other communities. We go because you pay the government to look after you and they don’t give a damn.’

  She agreed. ‘We go because we can. We make war because we can. No weapons, but plenty of fury. And you’re right, we are territorial. This is our territory, our road, our streets. The enemy is taking away our territory.’

  He beamed at her. ‘You’d turn the words of any man to your ends.’

  ‘It’s called being a woman. Our job is to confuse and confound you, even if you’re a priest. You can blame God for that as well, because who took Adam’s rib and made a woman?’

  ‘That part of the Bible’s figurative,’ he protested.

  ‘Stop digging, Chris. You’ve made a hole big enough to bury yourself.’

  He wagged a finger at her. ‘Ah, you’re well able for Frank, all right. You’ll get nothing done because you’ll be arguing. Come away now. You wash and I’ll dry. Let’s see can we tidy up without breaking anything.’

  The kitchen was smoke-stained, but Chris advised his companion that the housekeeper would see to it tomorrow. They washed the dishes without any further argument. Chris noticed that Polly’s hands showed considerable wear, and he offered her a jar of his hand cream. ‘Don’t laugh. These hands dole out Communion, put oils of unction on the sick and baptize frail babies. They need to be smooth and gentle. Ah, here comes our company.’

  Seeing her brother in an upright position was something to which Polly had grown used, but watching him here, out of context, caused a lump to form in her throat. It was suddenly so real and so moving. The left leg wasn’t yet properly educated, but he had been assured that it would improve. ‘Hiya, our kid,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a double whiskey and Father’s marked cards.’

  ‘He’s Chris when he’s in an ordinary shirt and stuff, and he’s Ginnie when in his pinny. It’s fancy, with flowers and a frill.’

  ‘Ginnie the Pinny,’ Cal mused aloud.

  ‘I have no marked cards, young man.’

  ‘They’re just a bit bent through being up his cassock,’ Frank said.

  Polly sat. ‘Teach me poker,’ she ordered.

  ‘Ladies don’t play poker,’ was Chris’s response.

  Frank stared hard at his beloved. ‘That’s all right, then, because my Pol’s no lady.’

  Cal agreed. ‘I brought her up well. Scotty’s no place for a lady, so I made sure she was tough.’

  Polly wrote down the basic rules and kept a poker face throughout. She won nineteen shillings and sixpence. ‘Beginner’s luck,’ was her opinion. ‘But Frank, you give in too easily. Chris, your face lets you down, and Cal, you’re over-confident.’

  The host sighed. ‘Well, that’s us told.’

  Frank just laughed. The other two had no idea of Polly’s true value. If he’d explained, they would have been told even more decisively, because his girl was a tiger. And he was proud of her.

  ‘Which end’s which?’ Hattie asked her friend.

  Ida considered the item on the floor. ‘Well, the back end’s just peed on your rug and the front’s chewing a stocking.’

  Hattie went to fetch a cloth and disinfectant. At this rate, she would be getting shares in Dettol and she’d be out of nylons. ‘When’s his birthday?’ she asked as she mopped yet again. ‘And it’ll be his poor housekeeper who gets lumbered, just you mark my words, Ida. I’ve yet to see a man clean up after himself, never mind wiping up after a leaky puppy.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You were asking about Father Foley’s birthday. It’s tomorrow.’

  Hattie glanced at the clock. ‘Can we do it now, love? Only I can’t manage another night with Oonagh here. I’m running out of antiseptic for a start, and she attacks the legs on that chair. Poor little thing’s teething already. My furniture will be legless, and it’s not even my dog. Oonagh doesn’t suit, does it?’

  ‘Big name for an old astrakhan glove with feet, Hattie. You should have left it where it was and let him fetch it himself. It’s going to be hard work, so let’s take it to him now, get rid and wish him a happy birthday. I’ll just go and get a couple of birthday cards from the shop, Hat.’

  Alone, Hattie picked up the little Kerry Blue terrier. She was falling in love with the tiny dog. It was a happy soul, always a wagging rudder and a pink tongue ready to impart the canine version of kisses. It wriggled in her arms and chewed gently on a finger. ‘When we go to Kirkby, me and Ida will have a doggy. Yes, we will, yes we will. But it’ll be grown up and trained, cos me and Ida aren’t as young as we were.’

  They both dreaded leaving. They would be among the last to go, because shops along the mile served the local populace, and only when continuing became impossible would they move. The retailers on the mile should stick together and fight any eviction order until their services were no longer required by customers.

  Ida returned with birthday cards and a box of chocolates. ‘He has a sweet tooth.’ She looked Hattie up and down. ‘You like that little bugger, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s why she has to go. If I keep her any longer, he’ll have no chance of getting her. I keep moaning and saying life was easier without her, but ooh, I’ll miss her. So when we move, we’re getting a dog.’

  ‘All right. You can see to it, though.’

  ‘I will. But it’ll be a grown dog, trained and everything.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  They signed their cards and donned coats. Hattie tied a red ribbon on the pup’s collar while Ida wrapped the box of chocolates in tissue paper. They began the walk towards what used to be the Other Side, where Protestants live
d. St Columba’s was close to the edge of Catholic territory, but emerald and orange were joined now in the fight against governments local and national. They even drank together, though all that would change on walking days, when the fun would kick off yet again.

  Priests were quiet, God-fearing people on the whole. Father Brennan had been different, of course, but he was the exception that— Both women stopped in their tracks. Father Foley was chasing Polly across the school yard, and Frank Charleson was chasing Father Foley. ‘Stop in the name of the Church,’ cried the custodian of souls for the parish of St Columba.

  ‘Run, Polly,’ Frank shouted. ‘I’ll get him.’

  Chris stopped running and gasped for oxygen. He doubled over, hands on his knees. ‘She’s got . . . she’s got my dominoes.’

  Frank howled with laughter. ‘Just be grateful that’s all she’s got. Give up – you won’t catch her.’

  Cal was propped in the presbytery doorway. He noticed the new arrivals, stuck finger and thumb in his mouth and delivered a whistle fit to strip paint. Everyone froze. Everyone except Oonagh. She yapped and tried to jump out of her temporary mistress’s arms.

  Chris found enough air and walked to the gate. Although none of his company lived in the parish, he was familiar with most who had businesses on the main road. ‘Oh, gracious me, it’s Kaybee. Or maybe just Kay till she grows a bit. Come away in, ladies.’ Like many a customer at the cafe, he sang ‘Polly, Put the Kettle On’ till Frank joined him.

  ‘You’re in enough trouble as it is. Carry on singing that, and she’ll have your testimonials, let alone your double six.’

  Hattie handed over the pup. ‘Be good to her, Father. Happy birthday tomorrow. Oh, she’s not house-trained.’

  ‘Neither am I. We’ll be great together, so. Thank you both. Follow me.’

  Somewhat perplexed, the new arrivals walked behind Father Foley into the house.

  ‘I can smell fire,’ Ida remarked. ‘Where’s Cal?’

  Frank answered. ‘The fire’s out. God’s servant here started it. Cal’s in the kitchen putting the kettle on. Polly’s in a mood.’

  Polly entered, her nose in the air. ‘You’re right, Frank – he cheats.’ She walked up to Chris, saw the pup and melted. ‘Hello, gorgeous.’

  ‘She still loves me,’ said the priest.

  ‘No, I don’t. You cheat at cards, you cheat at dominoes, and you’re a disgrace.’ She removed the little dog from her master’s arms. ‘I’m keeping you. You don’t want to live with the nasty man, do you?’

  Hattie and Ida seemed bemused. They were from a time when priests weren’t normal human beings, when God’s mediators were grim-faced, harsh and unapproachable. And here was Father Foley in a bright orange jumper, fawn trousers and brown slippers, messing about like a kid at playtime. He was just an ordinary bloke.

  ‘Polly, let me have Kaybee,’ he pleaded.

  ‘You owe us ten bob each,’ she replied. ‘Plus danger money, plus interest for keeping us waiting to get our dominoes back.’

  ‘They’re my dominoes, woman.’

  ‘Which you knocked on the floor accidentally on purpose. Then you mixed them up with malice aforethought.’

  ‘I haven’t got any of that; tomato ketchup, HP brown and a bottle of salad cream, that’s all I’ve got. And you have my dog.’

  ‘Thirty bob and you can have her back.’

  ‘I don’t want her back. I want all of her, front, back, legs, tail and teeth. Kaybee is mine.’

  ‘Thirty bob.’

  ‘Have pity on a poor ordained soul whose life is dedicated to the betterment of others, whose parishioners always come first, who—’

  ‘Who cheats at cards,’ Polly snapped. ‘Here, have your Kerry Blue. Kaybee is from the initials, I take it?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  She pushed her face close to his. ‘Listen, Chris. Once I get to grips with the rules of poker, I shall wipe the floor with you. I’m going now to help my brother with the tea.’ Polly sniffed, turned and walked off.

  Hattie and Ida perched uncomfortably on the edges of two dining chairs. They watched round-eyed while their host babied his puppy, listened when he spoke to the animal in nonsense. Daddy’s little girl was happy; they could tell by the movements of that silly tail. Frank, Polly and Cal called Father Foley Chris, and it all seemed so wrong. Weren’t priests supposed to sit and pray or study when they weren’t out ministering?

  Chris went and sat with them. ‘Ladies, have I shocked you? I’m just a fellow who sometimes dresses up for God. In His house, I wear my best because He deserves it. Like you with your hats and gloves and newest rosaries. Sunday best. But priests play, too. Frank’s my closest mate. We fight like cat and dog – don’t bite, Kaybee – but it’s all in fun. As for Polly, she’s a credit to you ladies, because I know you stepped in when their parents died. Anyway, apart from the getting married bit, we priests are just like everyone else.’

  Ida smiled tentatively. ‘I suppose you must be.’

  ‘And we sin, so we go to Confession. You just have to give us room to be human.’

  ‘Be as human as you like,’ Ida replied. ‘But I want two sugars in my tea, and a few biscuits wouldn’t go amiss. Hattie has one spoonful and a drop of milk.’

  The three of them turned their heads towards the kitchen door where a miracle stood. Cal, steadied from behind by Frank and Polly, carried a tray into the room.

  Chris wiped his eyes. ‘Thanks be to God,’ he breathed.

  ‘Amen,’ chorused the two older women.

  Eleven

  Having a love life was all very well and good, but it didn’t bring home the bacon on time. Polly opened the cafe ten minutes late, and five people fell in. ‘Just a minute,’ she said. ‘I’m doing my best, because I can’t be in two places at once, can I?’

  Dusty Den Davenport removed his workday pork pie hat, Ida tutted loudly, Hattie handed over a few carrots for Flick, the butcher’s wife gave Polly a couple of pounds of pork sausages and Jimmy Nuttall demanded to know why Polly was running late. ‘We’re all bloody starving here, Pol. It was like queuing in the war; it all flashed before me eyes, it did, no oranges, no bananas, Pasha cigarettes and saccharin instead of sugar. Nightmare.’

  ‘Sit down and shut up,’ Polly advised him quietly.

  Ida sniffed. ‘She’s in love,’ she said to nobody in particular. ‘I’ve noticed this before in quite a few people. In love means broken clocks, no calendar and no chance of any sense. I’ll bet anybody a pound to a penny that Frank Charleson’s upstairs, because they’re practically living over the brush.’

  Polly glared at the woman who had been an excellent substitute mother to her and Cal. ‘That’s enough from you, Mrs Pilkington. Right, people. Cal and I overslept, so you’ll have whatever he’s cooked, like it or lump it. He’s worn out with exercising, and I’m worn out, full stop. It’s one of those days.’

  More customers arrived. Polly went through to the kitchen and stood in the scullery doorway.

  ‘Six ready,’ Cal said.

  Like greased lightning, Polly shifted into serving gear. She ran about with bacon, eggs, tomatoes and anything else that happened to arrive on a plate. Breakfasters bartered black pudding for a fried slice, an egg for more bacon, hash browns for an egg.

  The taunting began. ‘It’s musical bloody plates,’ Hattie complained. ‘Has anybody got mushrooms or a bit of sausage?’

  Polly paused for a moment and watched them swapping plates or items of food. They didn’t mind. Had they minded, they would have said so, because nobody living in these parts was afraid of speaking his or her mind. Yes, Ida had pretended to chastise her, but that, too, was par for the course. All this would be lost. Her eyes felt prickly, but she mustn’t weep. The bloody government was planning an autopsy on a living body, and there was no way of forcing the powers to rebuild here. The schools, whose standards were high, churches, shops and homes would all be crushed by Westminster’s dirty boots.

  Peter Furness, s
till breakfastless, stood up with his notebook. ‘Miss Polly Kennedy?’

  ‘Yes, Constable?’

  ‘I’m booking you for loitering with intent.’

  ‘I haven’t got a tent.’

  He licked his pencil. ‘I’m booking you anyway, no fixed abode.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ She went to collect more breakfasts. God, she would miss this cafe.

  Christine Lewis had travelled far beyond the merely worried and upset stage. Elaine was all she had; Elaine was the only person in the world she truly loved. Elaine had taken life by the scruff of its neck and shaped it to suit her ends. But Elaine was . . . disturbed. This house, usually a happy place, had become more than sad. Christine didn’t want to be here.

  She sighed heavily, feeling as if she were dragging air from the soles of her feet. She was so damned tired, bone-weary and afraid. There was something very wrong with her beloved daughter and, for a while, Christine hadn’t known which way to turn. She had many friends and acquaintances in the village, but it was a tiny place where gossip seemed to travel successfully through walls as thick as the trunk of a hundred-year-old oak, and Elaine must not become a topic under discussion. Nevertheless, something needed to be done, and help was needed, as this was all too much for one woman.

  ‘Help me, God. Please help me. If only she would talk to me.’ But there remained the terrifying possibility that Christine’s daughter did not realize how altered she was. Out of her mother’s reach, the young woman might not have any insight into her own condition, and if that were the case, how could the situation be remedied? How was she behaving out there in the city of Liverpool? One thing of which Christine was fully sure was that the people of Liverpool missed very little, if anything at all.

  In truth, Elaine’s mother had known for some time that her girl was different, but she’d managed to persuade herself that it was the result of years of complete dedication to study, the deliberate lack of a social life and the humdrum nature of her initial legal work. Describing her career thus far, the young lawyer had often depicted herself as an i-dotter and a t-crosser, though that had begun to change some weeks ago.