A Mersey Mile (6 page)

‘Yes. Well, I’ll go and talk to your mother, then I’ll do your sling.’

‘Don’t talk to her in Cow. Use English. Don’t be mooing at her.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

He swallowed. ‘I love you.’

‘I know you do.’

‘Is there any chance?’

Smiling, she ruffled his hair. ‘Where there’s life, there’s always hope. You know the score, Frank.’

‘Cal first?’

‘Always.’ The smile broadened. ‘A rich man’s bed is warmer, eh?’

‘Don’t mock me, Pol. But you’re welcome in my bed any time.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘Too fat for my taste. And my name’s not Oedipus. I . . . I wrote you a letter, by the way.’

‘I never got it.’

He smiled ruefully. ‘You wouldn’t. I hadn’t the guts to post it. It was a bit Renaissance for my taste, Venus rising from the waves and all that kind of rubbish. I’m more
inclined towards Impressionism.’ He flexed the hand and grimaced. ‘I’ve started my own little business. She doesn’t know about it, but I’m dealing in junk with the odd
antique thrown in by accident. Because when Mother Moo isn’t with us any more, that’s what I want to do.’

‘Oh. Right. I’ll just go and talk to Mother Moo, then.’ She went.

‘Exit stage left,’ he muttered when the cafe door closed. His eyelids were heavy. As he dozed, he heard the screams of that child. They mingled with screams of his own echoing down
the years; he’d been beaten, too. Suspended from school for a week, he had carried the great shame resulting from the kicking of a nun. Yes, he had kicked Sister Po-Face Paul, and she had
deserved it. Being whipped at all was horrible; being whipped when innocent was completely unacceptable.

His eyes flew open. The ‘good’ sister had disappeared from the school by the time he returned. No one apologized to him when the true culprit was discovered, because he was only a
child, and children weren’t people back in 1935. Billy Blunt wasn’t a person either, it seemed, so had there been no improvement in twenty years? Billy was a punchbag. Perhaps Eugene
Brennan had run out of whiskey; perhaps he’d needed the money stolen by the child. Thou shalt contribute to the support of thy pastors? That one hadn’t come down the mountain with
Moses; it was the law of Rome. Why should a parish, especially one as poor as St Columba’s, give money to be spent on booze?

He looked round at the Kennedys’ life. Heaven alone knew when this place had last been decorated, and it was a bit late in its life to start now. It was very brown and dark green, so
Victorian and depressing. She deserved better; they both deserved better. Lois Monk and Greg Johnson had disappeared faster than sand off a shiny shovel when it became plain that Cal and Polly were
trapped by circumstances. Life was hard, and he needed to speak to the police.

Polly returned. ‘There’s a bloody riot out there,’ she said breathlessly.

‘Oh, God,’ he replied. ‘Oh, God, God, God.’

‘No, God was one of the few who didn’t turn up; must have been eating His supper. But Fred Blunt’s brother’s outside the Holy House with a gang. There’s a plot on
for Sunday. Young Billy’s not woken up. He threw some kind of a dizzy fit and went unconscious. Johnny Blunt’s organizing a protest, I think, while Fred and Mavis are in the ozzy with
their little lad. And you know Johnny. He’s not what you might call delicate when it comes to expressing his feelings.’

Frank lowered his head and shook it thoughtfully. ‘I’m going to the police,’ he said.

‘You’ll stop where you are, mate. I’ve asked Pete Furness to call round when things quieten down a bit. He’s doing his best, but he’s outnumbered. He was blowing
his whistle and waiting for reinforcements. But stop here, and he’ll take your statement. Oh, he’s not a Catholic, by the way.’

‘You chose well, Polly.’

‘There was no choice, because the poor lad was on his own. And your mother’s horrible.’ She found the sling and slipped his arm into it. ‘With your hand raised, it should
feel a bit better.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Who?’

‘My mother – who else?’

‘That she’d send a taxi for you. So I had to tell her you wanted to talk to the police because you’d seen a child beaten up. Then she went on about you being forced to deal
with the dregs of society, and she couldn’t wait for this area to be demolished.’

‘And?’

She shrugged. ‘I put the phone down. No way was I going to listen to that. Let’s face it, she used to live not far from here, so who the hell does she think she is? Princess
Margaret? Oh, and our Cal was mixed up with Johnny Blunt’s lot, but he wouldn’t let me push him home. What the hell have you started, Frank?’

‘A fight for children’s dignity,’ he answered. ‘It’s time for some lawyers to start specializing in the defence of children. Kids have the same inborn rights as
everybody else. Just because they’re young and foolish, they get branded as criminal, and that turns them criminal. A beaten child becomes a poor parent. It has to stop. Somebody has to stand
up for children’s rights.’

She went to make a pot of tea. Frank hadn’t been home, so she cooked bacon and egg for him at the same time. He’d had similar food this morning, but beggars couldn’t be
choosers.

She had to cut up the bacon, since he had just one hand, while the egg could go into a sandwich if she cooked the yolk right through. Having seen his vulnerability, she liked him all the more.
How many inches away from loving him did she stand? Oh, she’d known the answer to that one for a while. But she warned herself at the same time, as any relationship between the two of them
promised to be fiery.

He reminded her of herself, because once he developed strong feelings, he preached his gospel and entered killer mode. Frank had abandoned the Catholic faith. His attitude was that anyone who
lived a decent life was a good enough person; if there was a heaven, nobody had an unfair advantage on account of a particular creed. He was probably right.

Clearly ravenous, he ate his egg sandwich while Polly fed him pieces of bacon each time he paused. She wiped bits of egg from his lips, realizing that these moments were becoming more intimate
with every tick of the clock. The man was flawed, adorable and very, very human. She was feeding him as she might have fed a toddler.

‘It’s written in the stars in your eyes,’ he said, feeling foolish after delivering the statement.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full. Mother Moo would be so ashamed, she’d go green and buy a different son.’

‘If I had both hands, you’d be in trouble.’

‘Shut up and eat, because you’ve had a bad shock.’

Their eyes remained locked as he ate his way through her offerings. By the end of the strange repast, Polly was in no two minds. She couldn’t win this one. Much as she needed to dedicate
herself to the care of her twin, Frank Charleson was going to be a major player in her life. It was written in the stars glistening in two pairs of eyes. ‘It can’t happen yet,’
she whispered. ‘It just can’t.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘Until you’ve got both hands?’

‘Until forever.’

‘Quite the romantic, then?’

He nodded. ‘Like my dad. I still look after his other half.’

‘Your mam?’

‘His lover. She’s a sweet woman, lives in a ground-floor flat over in Walton. I make sure she’s comfortable and fed, and we talk about him. Dad ignored my mother, and that was
how he managed to keep his sanity. But she still succeeded in killing him with all her complaints and fads, so he mustn’t have managed to ignore her completely.’

She wondered how Frank could live with that horrible woman.

He read her thoughts. ‘She’s my mother, Polly. Whatever she is, she gave me life, and she’s a frightened and very stupid woman. I seldom so much as eat with her. As far as
business goes, I have a free hand.’ He grinned. ‘Just the one free hand at the moment, but I could lose even that if I walked out of the house. She hangs on like a bulldog. Or is it
bullbitch?’

‘A kind of blackmail, then?’

‘Oh, yes. Most women are manipulative, but she’s special. Diabetic and eating herself to death, so I doubt she could manage the job of landlord now.’

Exhausted, Polly sat on the floor with her head in his lap. No words were required. In that split second, she gave herself to him as completely as if they had gone to bed together. He felt like
home, smelled of soap with a slight whiff of tobacco, and he stroked her hair, played with the curls as if she were his child. This would be a good husband and father; he would do right by Cal, who
remained at the forefront of her thoughts even now.

‘Will you learn to love me, Polly?’

‘No need.’ She yawned. ‘I’m already there. Been there for a while, but I didn’t listen to myself. Well, I never listen to anybody, come to think about it. And
Cal’s always my main focus.’

Joy rendered him breathless for a few seconds. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he finally achieved.

She chuckled quietly. ‘We’ll fight.’

‘Oh, I know that. But let me make myself plain. Cal comes with us.’

‘And your mam?’ she asked sleepily.

‘No bloody way.’

She relaxed. He teased rogue strands of hair from her forehead, looked down and smiled because her eyelashes touched her cheeks. This was trust at its most poignant and beautiful. Polly was here
with him and for him. He could take on the Pope himself as long as she stayed by his side, and he would help her tackle Westminster if the Turnpike March happened.

She worked too damned hard. He hated knowing that she did seven hours a day in the cafe, followed by two or three more upstairs in the evenings. On Saturdays, the cafe was open all day, serving
drinks and snacks, but no full meals, since Cal needed his rest. Sunday was her day off. On her day off, she cleaned the house from top to bottom, including Cal’s kitchen and the cafe. Frank
wanted to look after her, but he needed to bide his time until he could buy a place for all three of them.

‘Don’t stop,’ she mumbled. She loved having her hair played with.

He remembered asking her why she’d called the proposed demonstration the Turnpike March, and she’d glared at him, a tray in one hand, an empty sugar bowl in the other. ‘Because
Scotty used to have a turnpike on it where people paid to get to northern Lancashire. Don’t you know anything? Then it became part of the road from London to Scotland. They changed horses
here. The road got widened in the early eighteen hundreds.’

‘I’ll make a princess of you, Polly,’ he said now. ‘Sleeping Beauty.’

‘Princesses don’t swear.’

‘Then you’ll have to stop bloody swearing, won’t you?’

‘Hmm.’ She dozed her way towards sleep.

He wished he could stay like this forever, with her head on his knees, the cap of silky curls in his fingers, the soft sound of her breathing a blessing to his ears.

But life would break in at any moment in the form of Constable Furness, a decent enough cop with a good nature and plenty of humour. That priest should be in jail. It wouldn’t happen. A
bishop would have a word with a cardinal, and Eugene Brennan’s disappearing act would follow. After a few months in a monastery or some such institution, the swine would be sent to a parish
far away from Liverpool. No one was allowed to pick the scabs off Catholic sores.

‘I could tell she’d just written the card.’ Christine Lewis polished off the last of her steak. ‘That was good, thank you,’ she said. ‘No
pudding for me, Elaine. Watching Mrs Charleson scoffing is a great appetite suppressant.’

‘How?’ Elaine asked.

‘The table manners are sadly absent. She eats like a pig at a trough.’

‘No, I mean how did you know she’d just written the card?’

Christine smiled broadly. ‘I heard her jump up the minute I left the room; she can move when she needs to. And the moths were still circling when she called me back in.’

‘Moths?’

‘From her purse. It creaks when she opens it.’

‘Oh, Mother. Stop making me laugh, or I’ll choke. So she wants her son to marry me? I have seen him, and he’s handsome, but probably not my type.’

Christine took a sip of wine while her daughter ordered coffee. Elaine fitted in just about anywhere. She had grown up in a steady and loving home in a beautiful little village, had been quick
to learn and good at studying, and was now a woman of the world. ‘Do you think you’ll marry?’ Christine asked.

‘Possibly. But I’ll choose my own victim, thanks. I’ll advertise for a sugar daddy with a weak heart, then choose the one who seems nearest to death.’

‘You are a terrible girl.’

‘And Mrs Charleson is a terrible woman. So her attitude changed the moment you told her I’m a lawyer?’

‘Oh yes. Very impressed, though a little jealous. She has absolutely no idea when it comes to hiding her feelings. But I don’t know how I’ll cope if she continues nice.
Something will happen very soon, perhaps a little dinner party for you, me, him and her. Just mark my words, because an extra birthday celebration for me is being arranged as we speak. If
you’re busy, she’ll postpone it. She’s made up her mind that Frank will marry someone useful, and she’ll fire all guns till she gets her own way.’

‘Mother, just say no.’

‘She doesn’t accept no.’

‘Neither do I, and you have to live with me.’

They sipped their coffee and indulged in a couple of after-dinner mints.

‘Right,’ Christine said at last. ‘Is it all right if I say you’ve met someone?’

‘Not really, Mother. Haven’t you always said that liars seldom thrive?’

‘So?’

‘So tell her you want your relationship to continue professional.’

It was Christine’s turn to almost choke. ‘Then she’ll treat me very badly.’

‘Leave.’

‘I need a job.’

‘We’ll find you another one. You can’t let her win.’

As Elaine drove homeward, they passed Brookside Cottage. ‘Frank isn’t home,’ Christine commented. ‘He never puts his car away in the garage. It’s a bit late for him
to be working, so she’ll be worrying about the company he’s keeping.’

‘Oh, forget them, Mother. Happy birthday, no more parties, get a better job. Let’s talk about something else, please.’