A Mersey Mile (16 page)

‘Yes, I’m still in the same place,’ she whispered. ‘But sitting on a hospital lav.’

She went to wash her hands. It was time to look at her brother.

Breathing was suddenly difficult for Polly, and she stopped dead in the doorway. Cal couldn’t see his sister, because he was walking away from her. He was walking. She
clapped a hand over her gaping mouth. Strong arms on parallel bars took much of his weight away from lower limbs, but he was definitely moving. He was walking towards Linda, a white-coated
attendant at each side of him outside the bars. The left leg dragged a little, but the right foot was doing the job well.

When he reached the end, the two men turned him and placed him in the wheelchair. Even from the door, Polly could see sweat pouring down his face. She watched while Linda dried him. If only he
could take the girl dancing or to the cinema; if only he could go for a drive up to Southport or Formby. ‘Slow down, Pol,’ she ordered herself in a whisper. She must be patient.

She ran through a maze of equipment to her brother’s side, knelt on the hard floor and hugged him.

‘I’ll call at your house soon,’ Linda promised her. ‘I’ll show you how to help Cal exercise while he’s lying down or sitting. And seeing that you run a cafe,
you can feed me, Cal Kennedy.’

Polly grinned. ‘Is the back of his neck red, Linda?’

‘A bit.’

‘Then we have a problem. Come on, O sweaty one. Let’s get you home and hosed down.’

But Cal wasn’t going home. ‘I want to see Billy,’ he said.

‘You smell of sweat,’ his sister accused.

‘And you’ve got red eyes. What is this – some kind of competition?’

Linda stepped in. ‘I’ll push him, Polly. Follow me.’

They wandered through what seemed like miles of corridors, all green and cream, all smelling of disinfectant and floor polish. Linda and Cal looked so right together. Polly ached for Frank, but
she wanted her twin settled, too; wanted him to have the chance of love and a life as near normal as possible.

Frank would be back; she had no doubt about that. And with her brother safely out of Norma Charleson’s reach, Polly would manage Frank’s mother. Probably. Possibly. She really must
stop jumping the gun.

Mavis Blunt was pathetically grateful for company. Billy, sitting up in bed, was playing one-handed with Dinky cars on his wheeled over-bed trolley. Cal joined him while Polly kept Mavis
company. Billy’s mother shared all her worries about her youngest boy. ‘He’s gone nervy, Pol,’ she whispered.

‘I’m not surprised. No child should go through what he suffered. He’ll get better, though, won’t he?’

‘I hope so. He’s always been so lively, even cheeky. It’s the nights, though. Terrible dreams, he has. We have to keep our voices down now – he hates being talked
about.’

‘Don’t worry, Cal has him occupied. Two kids together, eh?’

They looked at the boy. He was smiling. Cal was causing multiple pile-ups on the trolley. ‘Fire engine, Billy,’ he called. ‘And the ambulance.’

‘You’ve a lovely brother, Polly.’

‘And he seems to have collected a lovely nurse. Don’t say anything.’

‘I won’t. Go and grab us a cuppa, Pol. The longer I sit, the more tired I get. There’s a little kitchen for visiting parents – make one for Cal, too.’

Mavis watched Cal playing with her little lad. There were cars everywhere. An off-road race was taking place on the bed. ‘You’re cheating,’ Billy cried. ‘You went in
reverse, and that’s cheating.’

‘I play poker, you know,’ Cal said. ‘Now you’ve lost the Morris Minor. You did that on purpose, William Blunt. That’s my best car. You’re the cheat, not
me.’

Polly returned. ‘Cal’s nurse is making us a brew. Says she’s off duty. Linda Higgins, she’s called, very nice-looking. Cal’s neck will go red. Just you
watch.’

The two women giggled when Linda entered with a tray. Cal’s neck did seem rather colourful. They noticed how the girl’s hand lingered on Cal’s arm.

‘Now stop it with the cars, both of you,’ she advised the males. ‘This tea’s hot, so no playing cars for a few minutes.’ She sat with the two women. ‘Your
brother’s good with children, then.’

‘He’s still a kid himself. Everybody likes Billy, though. He’s a good lad.’

‘Your eyes are red,’ Mavis said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Polly answered. ‘It’s only a man. It won’t kill me.’

They drank their tea before leaving Mavis to her lonely vigil. Cal asked Linda to have a word with the medical powers, because the boy needed to come home for his mother’s sake. When Cal
and Polly were in the ambulance, Linda waved them off.

‘Wedding bells?’ Polly asked.

‘Who knows? I’m making no changes till I can walk properly without bars and two big bruisers watching out for me. What about you?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ll wait till you walk me up the aisle, babe. Never mind that now. We’ve half a ton of spuds to peel for tomorrow’s dinners.’

Christopher Foley, priest for the parish of St Columba, did his duty. To God, he owed one Mass per day, and he had done his Mass at nine o’clock, when the totally
dedicated attended church no matter what. But when eleven o’clock came, he was seated on a stool at the church gates, cigarette in one hand, mug of Typhoo in the other.

‘Aren’t we having Mass?’ a lone, anxious parishioner asked.

‘Go to St Anthony’s, Mary. I’m with the pickets.’

‘Oh.’ She walked a few paces before turning back. ‘Can a priest picket?’

‘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.’

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.