They were silent for a few minutes, each contemplating the non-existence of real freedom. Ida, in revolutionary mode, was seething inwardly. She wondered whether the whole country could be persuaded not to vote at all at the next General Election. A nationwide strike would take some organizing, and some soft bastards would vote anyway. Hattie was pondering taxation levels. ‘If we all refuse to pay tax,’ she said eventually, ‘they’d soon notice that.’
Ida nodded. ‘Or if we refused to go out and vote . . .’
‘It won’t happen,’ they said simultaneously. They both grinned. After many years of near-sisterhood, each was attuned to the other.
‘Polly’s in today, so you don’t need to be a waitress,’ Hattie said. ‘Mrs Moo’s minding the baby.’
‘They don’t call her that any more.’
‘I know. Polly’s tamed her, got her trained. Mrs Lewis – I mean Mrs Pearson – had a lot to do with it, too. She thinks the world of our Pol now, does the old cow.’ Hattie sighed. ‘Still, I suppose it’s just as well, because she babysits Beth for Polly.’
‘It’s all changing, isn’t it, Hattie? There’s a mood on round here these days, as if hope’s dead. Little things like no hairdresser above the cafe, Carla plating up breakfasts and dinners, me having help in the shop so I can do the waitressing, you selling less stock, Polly and Frank living bloody miles away, Cal training to be Cordon Blue, Sergeant Stoneway retiring.’ She lowered her head sadly. ‘No matter what we do, it’s over.’
Hattie shrugged. ‘That can’t be allowed to count, because we’re going to London. Polly’s worked hard at this plan.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, let’s get our breakfast. God knows we’ve earned it. Politics is exhaustifying.’
Polly was radiant. The glow came from within, radiating outward to tint her face, brighten her eyes and make her dark curls shiny and bouncy. She’d imagined that things would be different after the arrival of a baby, but she’d been wrong. Frank continued affectionate, spoiling his wife to a point where she was sometimes embarrassed, because he wasn’t afraid to show his devotion even when they had company.
And they often had company, since they loved entertaining friends, and the ex-Mrs Moo stayed with them a couple of nights each week. Norma Charleson doted on her granddaughter, though she usually remained in the granny flat until needed. However, she’d caught the pair of them canoodling on several occasions, and a sight that might once have infuriated her now made her smile. They were so right together, so deeply in love. And it showed in Polly even when she was away from Frank.
She was away from home this morning. Ida and Hattie arrived at Polly’s Parlour. ‘Look at her,’ Ida whispered.
‘I am looking at her, you soft girl. My word, she’s happy. That’s what a good marriage does.’ Hattie’s tone was tinged with sadness. She automatically raised a hand to her face, which had often sported bruising in the bad old days. ‘She deserves him, Ida. And that lovely house and the baby. It’s like watching a flower opening, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. A real English rose.’
The real English rose was currently demonstrating the sharp tips of her thorns. ‘Jimmy, you asked for mushrooms. See, I’ve got it written down here.’
‘That’s not mushrooms; it’s a number five.’
‘Number five is mushrooms,’ she enunciated slowly, as if addressing a deaf person or a young child. ‘There’s no time to write the full words. One’s bacon, two’s eggs fried, three’s eggs scrambled, four’s—’
‘It’s you what’s scrambled, Pol,’ Jimmy said, grinning broadly at her.
‘Four’s eggs boiled, five’s mushrooms, six is black pud—’
‘I’ll have that instead.’
‘You’ll have the back of my hand, Nutter. And you’ll be wearing your bloody breakfast if you don’t behave yourself. You like mushrooms, anyway.’
He clicked his tongue at her and winked. ‘You’re lovely when your dander’s up, Pol. I must try this more often. Thanks for the mushrooms and the floor show, babe. You should get one of them jukeboxes like they have in the milk bar, then you could show us how to bop.’
She bridled before flicking a tea towel at him. ‘Entertainment’s extra,’ she snapped. ‘Come next week, I’ll be doing the seven veils dance, but yous will all be blindfolded and glued to the chairs.’ She stopped, turned, then turned again. ‘And number thirteen’s weedkiller, so watch it.’
Jimmy scanned the whole room, a huge smile on his face. ‘I feel sorry for Frank,’ he announced before winking again.
The cafe door was flung inward. The subject of Jimmy Nuttall’s sympathy stood on the step, his daughter in his arms. ‘Here you are, Polly,’ he called. ‘You needed a joint for dinner, and there’s plenty of meat on this one.’ He passed the baby to Hattie. ‘A bit of mint sauce, and she’ll go down lovely with spuds and veg.’
Hattie cuddled the pretty bundle. ‘He’s right – she’s very well upholstered.’
Frank stood back to allow his mother into the parlour. ‘I’ve got the pram in the back of Frank’s van,’ Norma Charleson announced. ‘Oh, he’s lifting it out now. You can walk Beth about if you like, Hattie, or take her to your shop. I’ll have a boiled egg, please, Polly. One slice of toast.’ She sat down in the very basic cafe she had damned not too long ago and smiled at everyone.
‘Coming up, Ma,’ Polly replied. She swivelled on her heel and clouted Jimmy Nuttall again with her tea towel. ‘Behave, or I’ll set my Beth on you. She’s got teeth now, you know, and I sharpen them for her.’
Frank returned after parking the pram outside the cafe. ‘I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours, Mother. Watch the pram; kids like the wheels for go-carts.’ He winked at his wife. ‘Next one had better be a boy. I’m out-bloody-numbered.’
‘Oh, go away,’ Norma scolded. ‘You love being surrounded by women, and you know it. Shoo. Buzz off and build your empire; leave us to eat in peace, son.’
Ida stole Beth from her best friend and stood near the window to watch the pram.
Frank decided to go for the kill. ‘Polly?’
‘What? I’m busy, in case you haven’t noticed.’
He blew her a kiss. ‘I love you,’ he shouted before running for his life.
The standing ovation brought more colour to Polly’s cheeks. Three tens. Yes, she wanted three full English and a gun. ‘I’ll deal with him later,’ she muttered to herself. OK, she needed to calm down and get three tens, and one four for her diabetic mother-in-law, plus just one slice of toast. She had to stop this blushing; she was a twenty-six-year-old mother, for goodness’ sake.
The middle room, which had been Cal’s, was now the living quarters of Carla, whose hair had been saved in the nick of time by Polly. Carla’s husband, a Paddy’s Market trader, also lived behind the cafe. He helped out when he could, but Carla was the mainstay, and she was improving daily. In Polly’s opinion, this was just as well, or the whole neighbourhood might have gone down with food poisoning.
‘All right, Carla?’ Polly handed over the orders and watched Carla’s modus operandi, which was unusual. Because of the lowered level of equipment, she used an office chair with wheels on. She scooted back and forth, always on the go, usually talking to herself while wearing a smile. For a few moments, Polly lingered in the doorway. This was her place, Cal’s place. From the corner of one eye, she could almost see the hospital bed with a wheelchair parked to one side. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine Scotland Road and its adjoining streets without buildings; no houses, no shops, no bustle. It was impossible.
She blinked and pulled herself up. The era was almost over. Cal was doing great. Currently waging war with flaky and choux pastry, he was studying under a pint-sized Parisian whose aim in life was to save England from ze blandness of feesh and cheeps. Cal did a wonderful imitation of Maître Henri. ‘Fold eet, fold eet. Mon Dieu, zees is no a sheet for ze bed. Zees is art; we are eat avec ze eyes.’
‘Carla?’
‘What, love?’
>
‘When it happens, when we’re all gone, my Frank wants you to live over the shop down Rice Lane. No rent. You’ll mind the shop while he’s out, if you agree, and there’ll be a wage. Leave Frank to do the plundering while you sell the spoils.’
Carla swung through a ninety-degree turn. ‘Thanks, Pol.’
Polly swallowed a lump of anger and grief. ‘We have to stick together, kid. It’s only geography.’
‘No. It’s cold-blooded murder. They could build here, Pol.’
‘I know.’
‘But they won’t, will they?’
‘No. No, they won’t, not for a good few years. It won’t be a painless death, either, because the place will be destroyed a bit at a time.’ And she was suddenly wrapped tightly in Carla’s arms. ‘Carla?’
‘I’m scared, Polly. They can just hurt us like this even though we don’t agree to it. Scotland Road’s our home, three or four generations of history in it. I was born in Virgil Street, and so was my mam and her mam. There weren’t enough chairs, so me and the other kids ate on the stairs. And we had so much fun with Uncle Jim and his accordion and our Eileen what sang like an angel—’
‘And your dad, who sang like a dying horse.’
‘And playing cards and dominoes. Remember hopscotch and ball on the wall and long skipping?’
‘I do.’
‘Tig-tag and ollies, four glassies for one ball bearing?’
‘Salt, pepper, mustard, vinegar on cellar steps,’ Polly mused.
‘Queenie-o, who’s got the ball?’
‘Yes. Carla?’
‘What?’
‘Your bacon’s on fire.’
While Carla extinguished small flames, Polly sat for a few minutes in the middle room. She listened to the cook’s colourful expletives, closed her eyes and thanked God for Frank. He was naughty, happy and adorable. Ma Charleson had finally grown up, Beth was beautiful, and their home was spectacular. ‘I’m one lucky woman,’ she breathed. ‘The luckiest. What about the rest of them, though?’
The orders arrived, and she carried them through. Ma would stay once her breakfast was finished. She would go through to the back of that greasy, basic cafe, would wash dishes, mop the floor and clean all surfaces so that Carla and Ida could have an hour’s rest. There was good in everybody, though some mineshafts needed to be dug deep before a decent seam could be found.
When she’d finished doling out the meals, Polly started back to the middle room. Jimmy Nuttall blocked her way and planted a kiss on her cheek. Untypically docile, Polly returned the favour.
He blushed bright crimson. ‘I should get double for that,’ he shouted. ‘The bet was I’d kiss her. Well, she kissed me back. Ten bob twice, I’m after.’
The owner of Polly’s Parlour watched while Norma handed over a pound note. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘I thought she’d kill you.’
Polly’s jaw dropped. ‘Ma?’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘You’re a terrible woman, as bad as the rest.’
Norma frowned. ‘I always was,’ she said. ‘I just hid it well.’
Polly poured herself a much needed cup of tea. She couldn’t beat them, so she joined them. And there wasn’t a single mushroom left on Jimmy Nuttall’s plate.
For Don Hall, the sun had ceased to rise. Whatever the weather, whatever the time of day, he lived in a permanent, bone-chilling darkness. It was the silence. It sat solid in his chest and his stomach like a lead weight, and nothing would shift it. Gladys had been fussing about with liver salts, vitamins and milk of magnesia, but no patented medicine offered a remedy for naked fear. He couldn’t tell her, of course. Well, he had to tell her, but not in person. The clock was ticking, the calendar’s pages turned, and he sensed that his time was almost up.
He stood near the hens he had nurtured and protected, spoke to them, had a word with pigs and goats. After gazing round at the land he had come to love, he set off on heavy legs to join Gladys for the last supper. There had been nothing in the newspapers, yet he knew that Drovers was, for him, situated in the still, quiet eye of a deadly storm; they were coming to arrest him. They would blow in at gale-force nine any day now, and the dreams were coming back again.
Gladys started on him the minute he stepped into the kitchen. ‘You look terrible, love. You shouldn’t be working, and I’m fetching the doctor no matter what you say.’
He held up his right hand in a policeman’s stop signal. ‘Tomorrow, Glad. You can get the doctor in the morning.’ By then, it wouldn’t matter; by then, it would be too late. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, sat down and managed the soup. For a reason that eluded him, he ate most of his meal, including half a bowl of rice pudding. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Stomach’s picking up, so it is.’ The condemned man had eaten heartily. She would miss him, and that thought hurt him as much as the idea of death.
‘Thank God,’ Gladys murmured. ‘Because I don’t know what I’d do without you. A godsend, that’s what you are, Don.’
He blinked, then stared at her. She loved him. For the first time since Mammy, somebody loved him. That her love was almost unconditional was clear, yet how could it survive the knowledge that he’d half-killed a child and murdered a monk? He glanced at the mantel clock. ‘I’m going to watch for foxes from the caravan,’ he said, the tone almost too casual.
‘You’re not fooling me with your shotgun,’ she replied, a smile stretched across her face. ‘I’ve seen you feeding them, you daft lad.’
He felt the heat on his cheeks. ‘Then they don’t eat the chickens, do they? If I’m ever busy elsewhere, you feed them. They’re hungry, that’s all. I’ve one eating out of my hand, so.’
She stood, arms akimbo, in front of the kitchen fire. Round, short and rosy-cheeked, she looked beautiful. ‘I’ll let you out, then,’ she announced, ‘but only because you seem a bit better than you were. Who am I to stand between a man and his best friend, the chicken killer?’
Don walked to her and kissed her grey-streaked hair. ‘Benedicta tu in mulieribus,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘Ah, just a bit of Gaelic nonsense,’ he offered as translation of a sentence from the Ave.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked.
‘Blessed art thou among women.’ He meant every syllable of it. ‘I’ll go now. Get yourself off to bed, and don’t worry about me or the foxes.’ He left the house, pausing only to watch through the window as Gladys cleared the table. The strange calm accompanied him while he walked away. It had to be done. It was a sin, but who was counting? He’d already won a place by Lucifer’s fire, so why worry about the final act?
The night was clear and cold, with a thousand stars shining down on him. There was a chance that those faraway suns shone on worlds like this one, so had Christ died on each and every one of those possible planets? Where did God fit in with endless space, endless time, and myriad Earths to save? Did it matter? ‘I’ll know soon enough,’ he muttered.
In the bothy, he collected up all the old newspaper cuttings and photographs, packing them neatly into an attaché case. The world needed to know. These articles, together with the letter he’d composed for his beloved, would be found with his corpse. The idea of killing himself on Drovers land had been dismissed from his agenda, because she must not be the one to find him. Police would take the letter, but Gladys would receive it eventually. The strange serenity persisted. Even while he left food for Reynard and his family, nothing disturbed his mood. He would never again see his fox; he didn’t deserve any happiness, so he was on his way out.
Back in the bothy, he picked up the implements he required before beginning the trek to common land. Half an hour later, he was where he needed to be, and he set out his altar and stripped off most of his clothing. Before facing St Peter, he needed to do penance in the vain hope of achieving repeal and Purgatory rather than hell. The whip he had made owned nine tails, and each tail had a sharpened hook affixed to its end. This was positively mediaeval, yet it had
to happen. A bucket of ashes waited on the floor, a small shovel by its side.
‘Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, et vobis fratres,’ he began.
In the distance, campanologists practised their skills in preparation for Sunday, and he paused partway through his confession. ‘For whom do the bells toll?’ he whispered. It was time.
The night Fred Blunt stole (though he preferred the word borrowed) a Liverpool Corporation double-decker bus would become legendary among Scotland Roaders and their descendants. Fred needed three people, and they were a bit spread out. He collected Father Foley, Cal Kennedy and Frank Charleson. When questioned, he just told them to shut up, because they’d see for themselves when they all got back to Billy. ‘Let me concentrate,’ he demanded. ‘I had a couple of pints earlier on.’
The trio huddled together in a vehicle designed to transport at least fifty people. It was cold, it was midnight, and a half moon glistened in a clear sky that offered no cloud cover to earthlings. Fred was driving like a lunatic. However, the lunatic was experienced in the driving of buses, so passengers had to place their faith in him, since no other choice was on offer.
‘I was reading the Marquis de Sade,’ Chris grumbled.
‘For a priest, you don’t half choose your reading list well,’ Frank told his best pal.
Chris sniffed. ‘Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.’
‘You’re just a dirty old man, and that’s the top and bottom of you.’
‘This is true, so. I should maybe give up the cloth and find me a good woman.’
Cal grinned lewdly. ‘Father, you’d do better with a bad one if you’re reading sadism.’
The priest whispered under the engine’s noise, ‘What the blood and sand is going on with Fred and this bus? We haven’t even paid our fare.’
His two companions shrugged. Cal was still wrapped up in flaky pastry, and he had an exam at nine in the morning. Frank worried about Polly worrying. She had Moppet to look after, but Mother was there, so she wasn’t on her own. Even now, he could scarcely believe that Pol had taken him on . . . But heck – what was happening here? Why wouldn’t Fred speak? Polly would have made him talk. Frank grinned. His Pol could get blood out of a stone – or gravy out of a brick, if she needed it.
A Mersey Mile Page 36
