A Mersey Mile (17 page)

‘You don’t know him. He’s stubborn like his dad. Charlie used to go days without saying more than a few words to me.’

Christine sighed. It sounded as if both men in her boss’s life had worn internal armour in order to protect themselves from this impossible woman. ‘Do you want me to go to that cafe
you told me about and ask if Frank’s there?’

Norma was suddenly quiet. She needed to think about that. She needed to think about rent collections, too, and then there was the maintenance side of things. Some of her properties were
scheduled for demolition, but the rest needed to be kept in good order. She must buy more, too . . . ‘Make a pot of tea, Christine. Saccharin for me, and just a drop of milk.’

The housekeeper went to do as she’d been told. Frank seemed to be in the Scotland Road area, as his photograph was plastered across several newspapers together with his plea for
children’s rights. He’d been picketing with other people, one of them a priest who objected to the behaviour of his temporary replacement. He was quoted, too. ‘All we want is
peace of mind for a little boy and his family. My church and school are places of safety, yet this terrible thing happened in the grounds.’ The poor man could lose his parish for speaking his
mind, as few bishops liked their priests to broadcast opinions. It was rather like Parliament – three-line whip, go in, you’re a free man, but vote as we dictate.

Meanwhile, Norma’s mind was in top gear. But when it came to actual gears, her car hadn’t been touched for months, so that definitely needed to be first priority. Christine had a
licence, but she owned no car. If the Morris could be serviced and returned to working order, perhaps Christine might do the collecting for a little extra money. Once her own health had improved,
Norma could take over.

Christine returned with the tea.

They sat and sipped while Norma’s train of thought reached the station. ‘Look, if I get the car working, I’ll lend it to you and pay for petrol. Shopping would be so much
easier and cheaper if we didn’t pay delivery charges. And if you’d like to earn extra, there’s another job you might like to consider.’

The housekeeper listened. Sitting and listening had been her main job for a few days now. She was being invited to become an employee of Charleson Holdings. Her function would be to collect
rents, note complaints and pass the list of required repairs to Norma, who would then send a firm of builders to mend the roof, the guttering or whatever required attention. ‘And it’s
not a job for life, my dear; it would be just until I’m better and fit to handle things myself.’

‘Er . . . yes, I suppose I could do that. But I’d need maps, because I’m not familiar with many areas of the city.’

Norma nodded. ‘Of course, I understand.’

‘Are they widespread?’

‘Well, I do try to concentrate on clusters when purchasing, but that’s not always possible. There’s Scotland Road and the streets either side of it, a few nearer the river,
some in West Derby, Bootle, Litherland, four in a terrace near Sefton Park – oh, I’ll get you a list. I would be so grateful. And you may use the car for yourself, too.’

‘Is it all right if I think about it until tomorrow? I’m not ungrateful, but I have to be sure that I can cope with so much responsibility.’

‘Of course you need to be sure. Another drop of tea, I think.’

While pouring more of the cup that cheers, Christine realized that her companion’s tears had dried at the speed of light. She was solving her problems, and Frank had disappeared completely
from her thoughts. What Norma Charleson needed was a servant, and a blood relative had no more value than the next man or woman. Where were people like Norma made? In some well-hidden engineering
factory? Because she wasn’t quite human. Christine knew someone else who was similarly uncaring when it came to other people, but she didn’t want to think about Elaine just now.

The housekeeper told herself inwardly to try to find Frank, mostly to get his advice about the business. His mother had done nothing during recent years, and Frank could turn the tenants into
people, would be able to give advice about who paid willingly and who didn’t.

The day blundered on unsteadily. Problems were doubled because Norma had gone from one extreme to another. Thus far, she had eaten all her meals, snacks between meals, and chocolate almost
continually. Now, she was taking herself right to the edge in the other direction, so she wasn’t making full sense on occasion. The doctor had spoken to both women about the testing of new
drugs for type two diabetics, but they were not yet available. All the woman had was a system that tested urine.

It was a disease in which, for the most part, the patient needed to be her own doctor. Until now, Norma had lived in a make-believe world where nothing could touch her. Christine felt that so
drastic a change was dangerous, so she tried one more time before going home. ‘If you don’t eat enough, you’ll collapse. It’s called hypoglycaemia. Your brain pinches every
last bit of sugar and you feel OK, but suddenly, your brain runs out. So, these are glucose. Keep them by you at all times, even in the bathroom. If your thinking alters, take one. If you have
difficulty when walking, always take glucose.’

Tears again. ‘You are so kind to me, like the sister I never had.’ This was genuine thankfulness; Norma truly believed she had found a friend at last.

‘And you are losing weight already. If you look after yourself, we’ll be off to Liverpool or Southport on a shopping spree to get you new clothes.’

The tears stopped immediately. ‘Oh, I’d love that.’

‘Good. So keep yourself steady, stick to the doc’s diet sheet more or less, and your clothes will be hanging off you in a few months. It will be a new beginning for you.’

‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

On her way home, Christine decided that she knew what was wrong with Norma Charleson. At the age of fifty-two, she remained a child in many respects. She was still the centre of her own
universe, hungry for food and attention. Her relationships were few and difficult; she wanted praise, approval and pampering. The mood swings might be attributable to her physical illness, though
she used tears as a weapon, as might a five-year-old.

‘And I’m all she has.’ That was a sobering thought.

Linda Higgins and Polly were moving furniture in the living room behind the cafe. In order to help Cal exercise, there needed to be space all round his bed, which had lived
until now against the wall under the stairs. While the women worked, he shouted directions from his wheelchair in the doorway. ‘Don’t forget space for my wheelchair’ and
‘Don’t drop the bookmark, it’s keeping my place just before Jack the Ripper strikes again’ were just two of his many orders.

‘Will you shut up?’ Polly yelled. ‘You’re not a traffic cop down town. What about my couch and sideboard? They were our mam’s and I’m not parting with
them.’

‘Why don’t you just stick me in the backyard under a tarpaulin?’

‘Don’t tempt me, brother. But can we afford a tarpaulin? Linda, is he worth the price of waterproof covering?’

Linda called a halt. ‘You’ll have to put the sideboard against the wall where you walk through from the cafe to the kitchen, so you’ll need to do a bit of a swerve. There is
plenty of space for his wheelchair between the end of the sideboard and each doorway.’

‘How do you know?’ Polly asked.

‘I measure by eye, the same as when I’m making clothes. And if you put some sort of protective cover on the sideboard instead of over your brother in the backyard, you can leave the
dirty dishes on it instead of walking through and cluttering his precious kitchen every time.’

‘I never said my kitchen was precious—’

‘Shut up,’ chorused the women.

Cal chuckled inwardly. He’d been under his sister’s thumb since the accident, but now she was collecting troops. Some of the torture they were planning to inflict involved two
people. If Linda was at work, he’d be at the tender mercies of Polly, plus Hattie next door or any passing stranger who looked soft enough to be dragged in. Oh, life was so bloody
wonderful.

They emptied the sideboard and lifted it into its new position. It was Utility, so it wasn’t large and wasn’t heavy. Linda straightened her spine. ‘We’ll be the ones
needing treatment,’ she said. ‘Right, handsome. Take yourself into the cafe, then get back in here and see if there’s room for your chair to turn.’

‘I’d never have thought of that,’ Polly admitted.

‘True,’ her brother said. ‘Never thinks about her poor crippled twin.’ He did as ordered and managed the turn. ‘See? I’m an expert in my field.’

‘If we had a field, you’d be out to grass,’ Polly said.

‘Another four inches towards the kitchen, because his turn was a bit tight,’ Linda ordered. ‘Now, do the same with the other door, Cal,’ she suggested when the sideboard
had been edged along the wall.

He manoeuvred his way into the back kitchen and out again. ‘God help you two when I can walk,’ he said. ‘I have every intention of running you ragged, so just you wait and
see.’

‘Empty promises,’ Polly said. ‘Ignore him.’

The sofa finished up facing the foot of Cal’s bed. ‘Do I have to sit looking at him?’ Polly asked.

‘No,’ Linda said, her voice trembling with contained laughter. ‘Lie down, head on cushions, watch television. Or send him to the pub. Failing that, stick him outside as he
suggested. You might even fit a small shed out there.’ She positioned his bedside table. ‘Right. Your wheelchair will fit at the other side, and it can be moved while the exercises are
going on. Give Polly one bit of trouble, and I’ll tan your hide, Mr Kennedy.’

‘More empty promises,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll go and make coffee for the workers.’

The girls repositioned the sofa and moved the television table an inch or two. ‘There we are.’ Linda clapped her hands. ‘Done, but not dusted. You can do that later. He’s
looking well.’

‘I can hear you,’ Cal shouted. ‘My hearing wasn’t affected by the accident.’

‘Nor was his brain,’ Polly said loudly. ‘He’s still as daft as ever.’

Linda, suddenly exhausted, threw herself on the sofa. ‘I’ve brought the exercise instructions. They’re in the fruit bowl. The first time, I’ll partner you and perhaps
Hattie will watch.’

‘What am I? The bloody cabaret?’ called the voice from the kitchen.

Polly marched to the connecting door. ‘Listen, they wouldn’t want you at the Rotunda on a wet Friday even if no other acts turned up. Your muscles have shrivelled up like Mother
Bailey’s gob, and she’s older than God.’

‘She has a lot of worry, Pol.’

‘So she should, running a secret brothel everybody knows about. But your legs need building up, so you won’t be a star turn or even a Punch and Judy show. We need to strengthen
muscle, hopefully without damaging nerves. But I’m telling you now, you are getting on my bloody nerves, so I’m going next door to look at Hattie’s cabbages, then you can do your
worst with bubble and squeak.’

Alone for the first time ever, Cal and Linda sat at a small table, she on a conventional chair, he in his usual means of transport with the brake on. The bigger table, Mam’s best, had been
given to Ida Pilkington, whose brother’s Alsatian bitch had chewed part of a leg off her Utility dining table. Balanced for months on
Wuthering Heights
and a child’s
illustrated dictionary, it was now consigned to Dusty Den’s scrap and rag yard, and the Kennedy table took pride of place, a ten-year-old aspidistra acting as its centrepiece when no one was
eating.

They both missed Polly. She was the buffer, the surface from which their light-hearted remarks were bounced. Embarrassment held them back when no one was with them.

‘You’ve a lovely sister,’ Linda said. ‘I really like your Polly.’

‘She keeps me going, and she’s a damned good worker.’

There followed a short, awkward silence. ‘I think you’ll walk, but you may need a caliper on that left leg.’

He agreed. ‘More feeling in the right one,’ he confessed, ‘though I have had some pain in the left. Wait and see, eh?’

The conversation was stilted, and there was very little eye contact.

‘You seem to have good neighbours,’ she said. ‘Helpful types.’

‘We’re blessed,’ he answered. ‘Ida Pilkington is newspapers, tobacco and sweets; Hattie Benson’s fruit, veg and all kinds of bits. Jimmy Nuttall does fish, tripe
and cooked meats, Ernie Bradshaw’s a baker. Jack Fletcher, he’s a costermonger, and we’ve loads more, every one of them a diamond.’

‘I live in Waterloo,’ Linda said.

‘Posh?’

‘Not really. Mam needed a bungalow, because she lost her legs when Bootle was bombed.’

He put down his cup. ‘I’m sorry, love. Was that what made you become a nurse?’

Linda pondered for a moment. ‘I think I always fancied nursing. But I suppose with Mam being the way she is, I felt drawn to people with mobility problems. I’m sure you’ve
noticed folk asking whoever’s pushing you whether you need something. Mam’s funny. She always tells people she’s there and she’s not daft, and orders them to talk to the
organ grinder. She says any monkey can push a chair.’

‘I like the sound of her.’

‘Yes. She rather likes the sound of you. She’s talking about forming a union, the National Union of Disabled.’

Another silence ticked by. ‘You’ve talked about me?’

Linda nodded.

‘To your mother?’

‘Yes. She’d like to meet you. Your neck’s gone red.’ Polly was right – he did blush all the way down to his shoulders.

‘So has your face.’

They burst out laughing simultaneously. Like teenagers, they giggled and held hands in the centre of the table that separated them. It was the beginning of something, but neither understood what
the something was. At last, they were trying to look at each other, and fingers tightened their grip slightly. Was this going to be love? Whatever it was, it remained young and needed nurturing
gently so that it would get the chance to discover its own identity. Meanwhile, each enjoyed the stumbling company of the other, and life was worth living.

Hattie had hit the sherry. This didn’t happen often, and it was seldom a pretty event. Her specs were crooked, her hair was a mess, while her pinafore was definitely
inside out and covered in debris from stock in the shop. ‘Come in. Sorry I’ve not cleaned up proper, but I’m a bit out of sorts, like.’