A Mersey Mile (40 page)

Had they been there today, those followers? Had they pursued her and Lanky Laithwaite to his house in Woolton, and had they seen anything untoward?

This was betrayal on a huge scale.

Constable Peter Furness, off duty and in moleskin trousers with a sports jacket, was led into Father Christopher Foley’s living room. ‘They already think I’m
mad because I’m a Woolly and don’t talk like them. If I start clacking on about little Billy Blunt and his dreams, I’ll finish up in cell three with a straitjacket. It’s all
right for you, Father. You don’t have to go and make a fool of yourself. I’m the one who’s being asked to act like a madman and send the whole station rolling about the floor in
hysterics.’

‘Oh, sit you down and be quiet, man. I’m a permanent fool; it’s my greatest achievement so far.’

Peter sat. ‘So the farm sounds like Rovers, she’s Glad, could be Gladys, and he’s Don. Staffordshire, Derbyshire, John o’ Groats, back of the bus terminus in Burnley
– where do we kick off? And who’s the blooming referee for this stupid match? We can’t get plain-clothes officers in on a kid’s dreams, can we? We’ve no idea where the
farm is, anyway.’

He took a measure of whisky from the priest.

‘The child came here one morning, Peter, to ask me what was a bothy. Bothy is a Scottish word. Glad says she has a bothy, but Billy says she talks more like a Woolly than a Scot.
It’s possible that itinerant labourers named the place a bothy, but Billy didn’t make it up, I’m sure.’

‘And?’ The policeman’s eyebrows travelled up his forehead. ‘Well?’

‘Phone calls,’ was Chris’s reply.

‘Whose phone?’

‘Mine, for a start. We have to practise lying and pretending we’ve gained information in a more acceptable form. I’m reporting to you now the supposed fact that I took an
anonymous phone call. A muffled voice told me that Eugene Brennan’s thinner, living with a Gladys on a farm that sounded on the phone like Rovers, that he calls himself Don and keeps secrets
in a locked box under piles of wood in a bothy.’

The policeman sighed and shook his head. ‘Madness.’

‘Then you and your fellow officers must make hundreds of calls till he’s found.’

Peter took a sip of whisky. ‘This is the first time I’ve been asked by a priest to break a commandment. Do you have a hit list while we’re at it? I could knock off a few
Protestants for you, blackmail some sinners, rob a bank.’

‘Not just yet, thank you. Oh, and sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’

‘Neither does dark blue, but I’m forced to wear a uniform when on duty. Look. How come you believe the child?’

‘Because miracles are not the exclusive property of people with haloes. ‘Because he’s seen things before, always connected to Brennan who beat the daylights out of him.
It’s a gift. His grandmother had it.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Father—’

‘It is, indeed, for God’s sake. Father Brennan killed a monk after battering that poor child. We have to find him, so I’ve written down my statement about the phone call, and I
know I can trust you to back me up.’

Pete drained his glass and stood up. ‘I should have saved a drop so we could raise a glass and toast lying priests. I’m off. See you soon.’

‘Wait a minute. Just listen to me. I was in my bed one night when there came a knock at the door. No one there. Just a shadow like a piece of fog beckoning me. So I got the oils and the
stole and my little crucifix and followed this grey shape. I don’t need to tell you any more, do I? Because I was needed that night by a man outside whose house the fog disappeared. But
I’ll never be a saint. Billy will never be a saint. Miracles happen. Messages get through. So take that lying message of mine and let it do its job. Behind the lie is a miracle, and
don’t forget that.’

‘All right, Father.’ Peter left the room, calling over his shoulder, ‘I think we’re both in the wrong jobs, Father Foley.’

Chris stayed where he was. If a policeman couldn’t find a door he’d already used, there was no hope for anyone, was there?

Frank felt her presence before actually seeing her; an icy shiver crept the length of his spine. When the two women were installed in Norma’s car, he bent down and spoke
through the open passenger door. ‘Don’t turn round whatever you do. She’s about fifty yards away on the other side of the road. Is the boot locked?’

Christine shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered, shocked and worried because the thought of her own daughter being in the vicinity made her feel physically ill. It wasn’t right;
she’d never felt like this before. Or had she?

‘Right. I’ve an early Victorian sewing table inside the shop, so I’ll carry it out and put it in the boot. Don’t move or make a fuss. Don’t cry, don’t scream,
breathe only if you must. Christine, you saw my advertisement in the papers, and you forced Mother to come with you because you wanted to make us speak to each other. Be calm. You’ve won a
lovely octagonal table, anyway. The pedestal is hollow for the storage of knitting needles, and there are compartments under the hinged lid for all your other sewing requirements.’

When he had gone, Norma reached for her companion’s hand. ‘We’re acting normally,’ she said, shaking her own shoulders with pretend laughter. ‘Where the hell are
you going to put the sewing table in such a small cottage?’

‘I’ll find a corner for it, don’t worry.’

‘Are you afraid of her?’

Christine found no answer.

‘Stay with me if you like. Pretend I’m ill.’

‘Well enough to come shopping, though. Well enough to sit here shaking with laughter while she watches. No, we have to carry on as usual.’

Frank brought the small table and manipulated it into the boot. He returned to the passenger side. ‘I think she’s gone, but I won’t look directly. Drive extra carefully because
you may be shaky. Don’t let her win. Don’t let her rule you. If it gets too much, throw her out, and if she won’t go, give the cottage back to the estate and I’ll store your
furniture while you sort yourself out. Off you go. Bye.’

Frank stood and waved till the car disappeared from view. Would Madam buy the story about a sweet, well-restored early Victorian sewing table? Probably not. Her instinct for self-preservation
was well honed; Frank feared for both mothers. Yet he knew he couldn’t follow the car, since that might prove to Elaine that she had been discussed.

He was powerless and angry with himself. If he’d sent the customers away and closed the shop, he could have seen Mother and Christine earlier, and Elaine would have been at work during
that time. He would leave his car outside now, cut through a couple of streets and collect the van. Before setting off, he penned a note for Al, his neighbour.
She’s been outside this
afternoon. I suppose you noticed. Take care, because she’s running out of patience. Custard creams in the barrel, digestives in the Jacob’s tin, a bit of ham in the fridge if you fancy
a sarnie. Frank.

While double-checking locks he noticed the shadow of someone entering the open porch. The bell sounded. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

‘Bob Laithwaite.’

‘Who?’

‘I work with Elaine Lewis. My name’s Robert Laithwaite.’

Frank hesitated. Was this another of her tricks? And he needed to get back to Polly who, in spite of the apparently tough outer shell, was currently fragile underneath all the laughter and
cheek. He drew back the bolts and opened the door. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘I need to talk to you about Elaine Lewis. May I come in?’

Frank stepped back. ‘I can’t stay; I have to get back to my fiancée, because she isn’t very well.’

Bob placed his cards on the table both literally and metaphorically. ‘That’s my work number, and the other’s my house phone. She’s dangerous. I suspect that you’ve
been on the receiving end of her attentions. I went through her files to find you. Have you been singled out for her special treatment?’

‘Yes, I have. What about you, Mr Laithwaite?’

‘Bob. I was foolish enough to bed her. Big mistake. On top of all her other little foibles, she seems to be a rampant nymphomaniac. There’s something very wrong with the
woman.’ He eyed Frank up and down. ‘We look similar, could be brothers. Anyway, to cut the opening paragraph short, my uncles are the senior partners in the firm, both bachelors who
consider her to be the greatest discovery since the wheel. Nothing will persuade them to be rid of her. I don’t know what to do. And I can scarcely put my finger on the truth, because
it’s just so hard to explain.’

‘I know. She’s not right, yet she’s always correct. It’s like trying to convince yourself and others that Michelangelo made a pig’s ear of David. Look, Bob, I have
to go and make sure Polly’s all right. We’re waiting for a phone to be installed so that I can talk to her without driving home, but there’s a bit of a queue for phones. Come here
for lunch tomorrow, one o’clock. We’ll get privacy in the upstairs flat.’

‘Thank you. I know you were her real target and that I was her second choice.’ He opened the door. ‘I’m a bit scared of her.’

Frank felt his shoulders sagging with relief. Someone else knew, and that someone else was a lawyer. ‘See you tomorrow, Bob.’ He repeated the ritual, snick down on the Yale, bottom,
middle and top bolts shot home, all because of that bloody woman. And halfway up the mile, that stretch of Scotland Road owned for the most part by the Charlesons, the best girl in the world waited
for him. He was late, and to hell with Elaine bloody Lewis. Polly mattered. While lights still blazed upstairs, he left his property by the rear door and walked towards his hidden van. What a
life.

The cafe was closed, but full. Inured to the vagaries of Scotland Road residents, Frank parked his van in a disused stable and used his key to let himself in. Oh, no. Polly
would have his guts for garters, because he’d forgotten a meeting of the Turnpike committee. In Polly’s list of commandments, this was mortal sin. He smiled sheepishly before finding a
chair near the door.

She was in charge, of course, standing at the front with her full teapot and her cheeky attitude. ‘Did the wind change and blow you in the right direction, Frank? Glad you found time to be
here before the end.’

‘Sorry,’ he mouthed, pleased to see Cal occupying an ordinary cafe chair. The committee had grown again, because ordinary members were too nosy to stay at home. Ah well, this was
democracy.

‘We’ve decided we can’t do anything till next year,’ Polly told him. ‘I’m going nowhere till this baby’s a few months old, and our Cal agrees about his
and Linda’s baby. You could all do it without us, I suppose, but the march started off as my idea, cos I was the only one who took the trouble to look at the history of this road. So we
reckon October or November next year. Hattie?’

Hattie stood up. She’d canvassed one side of the road with all adjacent streets, while Ida had done the other side. ‘Children will go to school halls for minding. Every teacher from
every school has volunteered to look after kids. Each street has to elect two or three mums to cater for children too young for school.’

‘And the old folk?’ Polly asked.

‘The same. They won’t be neglected, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.’

Ida stood up. ‘Can I say something?’ she asked.

‘Can we stop you?’ was Hattie’s reaction.

‘Well, it’s good news. Father Foley’s been in touch with three firms that run charabanc trips. They’ll need the date well in advance, but we’ll have every coach and
two drivers in each, because we’re not stopping in London. This is the good bit – they’ll do it for free and bring us home the same day. Well, I mean the same night, I
suppose.’

‘Thank goodness,’ Polly said. ‘That leaves us with money for food.’

‘No need,’ Jimmy Nuttall shouted. ‘Those of us who sell food will cater and charge only cost. We don’t want anybody losing out money-wise because of a march that
shouldn’t need to happen. And don’t forget, we march on Liverpool after London. We’ll need no food or transport for that.’

‘Thank you,’ Polly said. ‘Now, all who have a business on or near Scotty, signs will be made for you. Each condemned business will identify itself in writing. Every street will
have a sign, as will all churches and schools. Older children will carry those. We’ll probably have priests with us, too, plus a few family members from Ireland and Scotland. Let’s hope
and pray that Father MacRae doesn’t bring his bagpipes and drummer, because we want absolute silence. Let them think of us as louts, and let us teach them something.’

Hattie chimed in. ‘As well as us not being louts, we’re reminding them that they’re liars and murderers. How many grannies and granddads will survive the clearances? How many
have been told that new houses will be built here for them in time? The killing of Scotland Road was promised by the Home Office over thirty years ago, but we’ve no concrete proof. And
concrete’s what this bloody government needs; we should bury them in it.’

‘Before they’re dead?’ Frank asked.

‘Either way,’ snapped Hattie.

Polly looked at the watch Frank had bought her. ‘Any other business?’ she asked.

And he simply couldn’t do it. Frank had intended to bring up the subject of Elaine Lewis, but there stood Polly with a child in her womb, and Frank’s throat was suddenly paralysed.
He would need to tell individuals, and he would require a photograph of Elaine. Oh, that bloody woman! Why him? Why Bob Laithwaite, who’d seemed decent enough during their short encounter?
Once again, Frank felt powerless. But he looked at his girl with her shining eyes and glowing skin, with her attitude and her cheeky little smile, and he felt emboldened. Together, they could
overcome anything, please God.

The front window rattled. Frank rose to his feet and went to see who had dared to be later than he had. Pete Furness fell in, fingers curled round the collar of Billy Blunt’s winter coat,
which item was still attached to its owner. ‘Mrs Blunt?’ the constable called.

‘I’m here.’ Mavis folded her arms. ‘Back to normal, is he?’

Pete fought for air. ‘Tell you what, missus, this here lad can’t half shift.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I’ve put both our names down for next year’s Derby,
and neither of us will need a horse.’ The accent continued to advertise his status as a son of inland Lancashire.