A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

  When they passed St Paul’s, Fred spoke up. ‘See that there? London was burning and Winnie was probably somewhere underneath it in his little cell. And what did he say? ‘‘Save St Paul’s.’’ This church mattered to him. I suppose it mattered to a lot of folk.’

  ‘I’m glad we came,’ Mavis murmured. ‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’

  Her husband nodded. ‘It’s gorgeous and it was built by the labour, blood, sweat and tears of the ordinary man. Credit went to Christopher Wren and all the rest who did nice drawings, but there’s no mention of those who fell off roofs and died while this lot got put together.’

  ‘Like Liverpool Proddy cathedral,’ his wife replied.

  ‘Yes, something like that,’ he said.

  They parked the vehicles on land owned by a London coach company. Coffin lids, wreaths and banners were distributed before Frank called the assembly to order. ‘We walk from here to Whitehall, but we don’t talk, even if people speak to us. When we get to Downing Street, the same rule applies. There’s something menacing about a few hundred silent people standing in too little space. That’s why the House of Commons is kept small, because packed government facing packed opposition is not a situation to be taken lightly. Small works, you see. They talk a load of cra— rubbish in the House, anyway, but we say nothing. Not a word. This has gone beyond the point where meaningful negotiation is useful. So, onward Christian soldiers.’

  Billy stood at the front with his parents and Father Foley. Behind them, six nuns and several priests, all in their usual black, carried small cardboard coffin lids with the names of threatened schools and churches printed in red on the undersides. Shopkeepers bore wreaths stuck to cards with the titles of businesses printed in the centres. Others held the names of streets on plain sheets, and tall men supported banners bearing damning epithets like MURDERERS, DESTROYERS, THE STREETS BELONG TO US and HOMES, NOT ROADS.

  Polly and Frank took lead position in front of the Blunts.

  Polly turned to Billy. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she whispered, ‘but seeing as you are, you can take the petition to the door. A policeman will knock, then someone will open the door, and you give that person the petition. It’s heavy.’

  ‘Will it work?’ the child mouthed.

  Polly shook her head. ‘It may make them think in future before they break up families and neighbours.’

  ‘Stop talking,’ Frank ordered.

  They walked towards their target just as the Westminster chimes heralded the arrival of noon. Although this was a cold October day, the air was still. Londoners stood back and watched while the procession of silent, black-clad invaders walked on. No one spoke. All eyes were fixed resolutely ahead until they reached Downing Street, where press photographers jumped and pushed and elbowed each other in search of a clearer view.

  A Pathé news crew was in attendance, but no one would speak into a microphone. Shadows moved in the windows of numbers 10 and 11. Frank smiled grimly; the fools who were about to attack Egypt had been interrupted by ordinary working folk who were just dropping by for a quiet, peaceful visit.

  And they stood in lines, packed so closely together that breathing became a privilege. Names of streets, schools, businesses and churches were held aloft, as were banners bearing accusations. Nuns prayed on their rosaries while little Billy carried the petition to the black door. When it opened, he broke the rule of silence. ‘Why can’t we have new houses where we live now, sir?’ he asked, his voice shrill.

  ‘Billy?’ Frank called. ‘Come here, son. They’re deaf, blind and stupid.’

  Billy returned to his parents.

  Not another word was uttered when the Prime Minister came to the door. He stared impassively at the gathering, nodded, looked at his watch and backed into the lobby. Just before the door closed, his eyes locked with Frank’s. It was just a moment in time, a time of great trouble in North Africa and in Hungary, but the man was distracted for a split second by the sight of loathing and contempt in the eyes of a citizen.

  Frank squashed a grin. He would love to cross verbal swords with Eden one day, but it couldn’t be yet. Today must be civilized, and the kind of debate that took place in the House of Commons was scarcely that.

  The people of Scotland Road remained where they were for a further hour. When the clock struck one, they left coffins, wreaths and banners in the street and wandered off to find cafes and pubs where there would be longer than usual queues for bathroom facilities.

  Frank, Polly, Chris, Hattie and Ida walked further along Whitehall and spoke to the news crew.

  Only Christine and Richard Pearson remained at the end of Downing Street. Frozen and fearful, the former clung to the latter.

  On the opposite pavement, a beautiful young woman stared at her mother. Elaine Lewis took a step forward and opened the purple purse.

  Seventeen

  For Father Chris Foley, everything slipped into slow motion. Riveted by shock to the pavement, he could only watch while Frank, his best friend, floated in the direction of Elaine Lewis. It was weird, because he knew that Frank was a fast runner, yet on this occasion everything moved at snail’s pace. ‘Dear God,’ Chris mumbled after remembering to breathe. He watched aghast as the young woman raised her gun, pointing the weapon in the direction of her mother and stepfather. Would she fire? Would she really injure or kill her own mother?

  Frank shouted, ‘Elaine – no, don’t do it!’ He stopped moving.

  Inch by inch, long second by long second, Elaine changed target. When she finally looked at Frank, she wore an absent, almost other-worldly expression on her face. Like an automaton, she froze, as if her power supply had suddenly failed or been switched off. But the hand that held the gun seemed to know what it was doing.

  The Downing Street police also owned legs made of lead; they were running, but getting nowhere. Chris Foley heard the shot and watched horrified as Frank folded onto paving stones. There was blood. Elaine dropped the gun and fell to her knees, crawling until she reached her victim. She stroked the head of the man she had shot, her lips moving, until she was dragged away by police. ‘I love him,’ she screamed, hitting out at the men who held her. She was forced against a wall and cuffed. ‘Why couldn’t he love me?’ she cried. ‘Frank, Frank!’

  The pace altered and life was suddenly in top gear. Polly flew past Chris and squatted at her husband’s side. An ambulance, probably ordered by one of the policemen when Elaine produced the gun, ground to a halt near the fallen man. Chris moved at last. When Frank had been stretchered on board the vehicle, Chris climbed in with Polly. ‘Will he die?’ she asked. ‘He’s my husband.’

  No one answered. ‘Will he die?’ she screamed. ‘Answer me.’

  ‘Not if we can help it, ma’am,’ the attendant replied. ‘Looks like the bullet’s gone in and through, but I’m no doctor. Ah, he’s with us. What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Frank. She bloody shot me.’

  ‘Hello, Frank, I’m Harry. It seems you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don’t worry, Tommy’s will put you straight. Best hospital bar none, St Thomas’s.’

  ‘Polly?’ Frank whispered. ‘My Polly?’

  ‘I’m here, love,’ she wept.

  ‘Don’t cry, Pol,’ he managed. ‘The baby.’

  She couldn’t get near Frank, because ambulance staff were working on him to stop the steady flow of blood. Instead, she drew up her knees and leaned against Chris, her head resting on his shoulder. ‘Pray,’ she begged.

  ‘I’m praying,’ he answered.

  ‘Hard,’ Polly ordered.

  ‘Any harder, and God would need a bullet-proof shield.’ He planted a small, chaste kiss on the forehead of a woman who bore a close resemblance to the wife he’d never had. ‘Are you praying?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  The bell ceased its clanging as they turned left into the forecourt of St Thomas’s. A plethora of people awaited the arrival of this vehicle; an incident on or near Downi
ng Street was always taken so seriously that the precision was almost military. Frank was whisked away within seconds, though he did manage to smile weakly at Polly and Chris before disappearing into the hospital.

  Inside the building, Polly exploded, just as Chris had expected. She had to be with Frank. They shouldn’t do anything to him unless she granted her permission. He wouldn’t manage without her. She needed to know what the bullet had hit and should she tell his mother. He didn’t like doctors. His blood was A positive and he was allergic to fabric plasters. She should be holding his hand, and no, she didn’t want a bloody cup of bloody tea. If she couldn’t be with him, she wanted to be nearer than she was. ‘We’re very close,’ she ended stubbornly. ‘We’ve never spent a night apart since we married. He sleeps better if he knows I’m near. He’ll get better quicker if you put me with him.’

  ‘Just leave him with us and trust us to do our best,’ the harassed sister said. ‘He’ll probably be anaesthetized anyway.’

  ‘He won’t like that.’

  ‘It’s no fun for us, either,’ the blue-clad woman snapped. ‘This is a busy hospital, so sit down and shut up.’

  Polly sat down and shut up.

  Chris shook his head slowly. ‘So that’s the answer. You’ll do as you’re told by a woman, but not by a man.’

  ‘You shut up,’ Polly barked at the parish priest.

  ‘He’ll be all right; he’s tough.’

  Polly sighed heavily. ‘Why did he call her name, Father Chris?’

  ‘To save her mother’s life.’

  ‘Oh. He’s a hero, then?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Well, he’d better be a live hero rather than a fallen one. Did you see how that terrible woman stroked his head? And did you hear her shouting that she loves him?’

  ‘I did. What she feels for him is probably as near to love as she’ll manage to experience. There’s a lot wrong with Miss Lewis.’

  ‘I know; I do read the papers. She’s a prostitute.’

  ‘She’s ill, Polly.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re a doctor now, are you?’

  He turned and took her hands in his. ‘Polly, stop being mad at me. I told them that if he looked near to death, they should send for me to bless him. They haven’t come and asked me, have they?’

  ‘No.’ Her tone was uncharacteristically soft. She bit her lip for a moment. ‘I suppose she thought if she couldn’t have him, nobody should. But she’s seen Beth, Father Chris. She knows Frank’s got a daughter.’

  ‘Beth means nothing to her. She can’t reach outside herself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I’m sure of is that she’s not right in the head. Polly, calm down, or you’ll be needing a bed here yourself. Oh, Lord help us,’ he mumbled. ‘Here comes Armageddon on a first-class ticket.’

  Ida and Hattie staggered in. ‘She fainted,’ Hattie declared.

  ‘I fainted,’ Ida agreed. ‘How is he?’

  ‘No idea,’ Chris replied. ‘Is Cal resting in a coach? It’s been a tough day for him.’

  The reply to his question was being pushed through the waiting area in a wheelchair. The wheelchair had been added to the Turnpike March in order to intensify the drama. In charge of the chair was Dusty Den Davenport, who seemed better at steering his horse. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he muttered after bumping into several chairs. Linda was there, as were Jimmy Nuttall, three nuns, the Blunt family and the Pearsons.

  ‘I don’t know what this world’s coming to at all.’ An angry Ida folded her arms and shook her head. ‘Guns now. That’s just what we need. Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘Do us a favour,’ Hattie begged. ‘Faint again and leave the rest of us to try and cope. Polly has enough on without worrying about the state of the rest of the world.’

  Christine bent down and hugged Polly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she wept. ‘That bullet was meant for me, not your Frank. I managed to get a message to Norma, and I promised to let her know what’s going on.’ She turned to Chris. ‘We’ve been interviewed quickly by the police, but we have to do proper statements. What’s happened to her, Father? She was always a good girl.’

  Polly stood up. ‘Just you listen to me, Mrs Pearson. It’s not your fault.’ She swallowed a lump of fear. ‘He’s strong. He’s going to be all right.’ She clung to Ma’s best friend. The ambulance men had said that Frank would be OK, hadn’t they?

  Matron arrived. A spherical figure in black and white, she bristled as she addressed the gathering. ‘What’s this?’ she demanded to know. ‘A prayer meeting?’ She eyed the nuns and the priest. ‘There’s a church up the road.’

  ‘We’re from Liverpool,’ Den answered with the air of a man who had just explained the law of thermodynamics.

  ‘We’re on a protest,’ Linda added.

  ‘Then why are you protesting in my hospital?’

  ‘Because one of us got shot.’ Chris rose to his feet. ‘Everybody’s leaving now except for me and the wife of the victim.’

  ‘I want you to go, too, Father Chris.’

  ‘But Polly—’

  ‘Go. Do as you’re told. There you are, Matron, you can have your hospital back. This lot’s supposed to be on its way back to Liverpool.’

  Chris glowered before moving to stand with the rest of the crowd.

  Mollified, the large, uniformed woman stepped back. ‘We need this space,’ she said. ‘So, you’re the wife?’

  Polly nodded. ‘He’s Frank. Frank Charleson.’

  Matron smiled. ‘Ah, the Whitehall incident. He lost some blood, Mrs Charleson, so he’s being topped up by transfusion. No major damage, just a chipped rib and a tear in one of his veins. There’s some slight damage to the diaphragm, but he’s as strong as a horse. We’ll keep him for a day or two because the homeward journey’s a long one. Oh, and the police want to talk to him as soon as he’s a little better.’

  The Liverpool contingent was making its way back from the large porch.

  ‘He’s going to be all right,’ Polly told them. ‘So go home.’

  Christine dashed off to find a phone. Norma needed to know how her son was. Thank God, thank God Frank had survived; had Elaine killed him, that would have been . . . she closed her mind against the thought.

  Ida was on her horse again. ‘Me and Hat promised we’d look after you and Cal, Polly—’

  ‘I’m fine, and Frank’s not Cal. Go home, Ida. Make sure Ma and Beth are all right. In fact, you should all have left by now, so why did you come back? That includes you, Father Chris. They’re going to let me sit with Frank, aren’t you, Matron?’

  Matron folded her arms – a difficult task, given so vast a bosom. ‘If you can get rid of all these people, Mrs Charleson, we’ll give you a cot to sleep on. I can’t have my waiting area looking like a newly opened sardine can.’ She glared at the interlopers, many of whom seemed to quail beneath her flinty gaze. ‘Well? Do I have to get you shifted forcibly?’

  Polly fisted her hands and placed them on her hips. ‘You heard the lady, so get gone. I’ve trouble enough without keeping an eye on a tribe.’

  She was kissed and cuddled many times over before they left. As the last stragglers passed through the outer door, she spoke to Matron. ‘Can I go to him now, please?’

  ‘Not until you’ve eaten and he’s out of theatre. Come with me, and I’ll sort you out. We’re breaking all my rules here, Mrs Charleson.’

  Polly moved in for the kill. ‘Erm . . . can I have a bath later on? And have you any spare underwear in the hospital? My name’s Polly, by the way.’

  Matron grinned. ‘Cheeky Cockney sparrows? They don’t hold a candle to you, Polly. Yes, we’ll manage something. Step into my office, and I’ll feed you.’ She was fast growing fond of the little minx, just as Scotland Road had grown fond many years ago. If Matron had married and had a daughter, a girl like this would have filled the bill.

  Someone knocked on the door. ‘Come,’ Matron called.

  A nurse entered and announced
that Mr Charleson was out of theatre.

  Polly gulped down some tea before following Matron to the lift. Her Frank was alive.

  They exited on the first floor. Matron, in an almost unprecedented show of empathy, held Polly’s hand. ‘He’s going to be quite pale. Don’t worry about it, because he’ll pick up soon. We’re intending to drug him against the pain once the anaesthetic wears off, but we don’t want to interfere with his breathing, so he’ll be awake for some of the time. Don’t tire him. Try not to talk about what’s happened. In you go. He has his own room. His mother phoned and she’s paying for a private bed.’

  Polly nodded. That was typical of Ma Charleson. ‘Thanks, Matron.’

  She opened the door and looked inside. Frank was a big man, tall and with good muscle tone; this fellow looked smaller, ashen and weak. In that moment, Polly wanted her fingers round Elaine Lewis’s throat. But she swallowed her anger, sat, took his hand carefully and stroked it.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he rasped.

  ‘Hiya, kiddo.’

  ‘Have you missed me?’ he asked.

  ‘Only a bit. I had another boyfriend with me – Father Chris. Then the rest piled in – even a few of the coach drivers. They’ve all gone home now, because Matron was thinking of reading the Riot Act.’

  He tried to sit up.

  ‘Behave,’ she chided quietly. ‘You’ve blood going in at this side and some other stuff dripping into your right arm. And I’ve no clean knickers.’

  He smiled weakly. Polly was great at non sequiturs. ‘In my jacket pocket,’ he told her. He noted the surprise in her eyes. ‘So I’m a romantic fool – shoot me again. They’re my good luck charm. I hope there’s no bullet hole in them.’

  She took his suit from a small wardrobe and found her underwear. ‘You’ve carried them ever since then?’

  ‘And slept with them under my pillow when we were apart.’