A Mersey Mile (25 page)

‘Absolutely. People keep asking me about him when I collect the rent. He’s very well liked in Scotland Road, and I get the distinct impression that I’m a poor substitute.
They’d love to see him again.’

‘Yes, he’s popular, because he has a tendency to make friends of the tenants. He married one, and seems to want to marry another. I’ve learned something, Christine; we can do
nothing and must do nothing if and when they decide to marry someone we see as wrong for them. Frank blames me for Ellen’s death, though I had never been told in detail about her condition.
In my clumsy way, I was trying to help. So that’s another thing I discovered – don’t help and don’t hinder. I may be getting on in years, but I’m still happy to
learn.’

Christine nodded her agreement. There was no help for Elaine. Also, there was no sign of Frank. They travelled homeward, where Norma would have salad and chicken, after which Christine would go
home and endure a pleasant evening with her daughter.

The only trouble was that Christine scarcely knew the person she had reared. But everything must remain happy on the surface, since she dared not speak her mind. She was living with a stranger,
while Norma, doing her best to be kinder and gentler, would spend the evening alone. Life was hard for both women.

‘I bought you that scarf you liked, Christine. The colour suits you well, so I thought you should have it.’

‘Oh, that’s so kind of you.’

‘You’re a very pretty woman, you know.’

‘So will you be when you lose a bit more of the weight. We do all right together on the whole, don’t we?’

‘We do,’ Norma answered. But nothing would be right till she found Frank.

Daniel the spaniel, who had not been christened Jumble after all, was fighting with a bone twice his size. He was black. Because of the dog in the dream, Fred had deliberately
chosen a good, strong, black pup. Mavis had worried, but he’d told her to calm down, because Billy had to learn that not all black dogs were nightmares.

‘I still have the dreams,’ Pest Junior informed Dr Pest Senior. ‘But the dream trap changed them. The big black dog gets the fat man, and the fat man goes away. Only he
isn’t fat any more.’

The doctor sat down. ‘Where is he when you see him in the dream, Billy? Is he on the playing field near the school?’

Billy shook his head. ‘He’s got a tractor. I’ve got a tractor. It’s a Dinky. Daniel has to get injections against distemper. I thought it was paint, but it’s a dog
illness as well. My arm’s nearly all mended, so I have to go back to school in September, but I can’t take Daniel.’

Mavis led the doctor into the kitchen. ‘He has the sight,’ she whispered. ‘My mother had it, and it’s a damned nuisance. I mean, she couldn’t pick a Derby winner,
but she knew everybody’s business before it happened.’

‘I don’t believe in that stuff, Mrs Blunt.’

She put him in his place right away. ‘That makes no difference and doesn’t matter. It’ll happen whether you believe or not. If Billy says Brennan has a tractor, he has a
tractor. See, I’ve wrote down everything he said. It’s here.’ She reached for an exercise book. ‘ ‘‘Sleeping in a wood, very cold. Slept in a barn with rats.
Screaming in the night with bad dreams like I had.” Billy said all those things. I wrote them as he said them. Brennan is thinner because he’s working on the land.’

‘Where, though?’

She shrugged. ‘When it comes to geography, our Billy can find his way to school, church, the chippy and the sweet shop. To him, a farm is a farm, grass is green and a lot of trees make a
wood. Just you mark my words now, Doc. Brennan is living rough and sleeping rough. He’s likely going from one farm to another and labouring. Oh, there’s a bit I didn’t write down,
so I’ll do it when you’ve gone. He’s grown a beard. It’s a different colour from his hair, reddish with grey mixed in.’

Both stood and listened while Billy laughed as he tumbled about with his new pet.

‘He loves his puppy,’ the doctor said.

‘So will I when it stops dirtying in the house, little bugger.’

The psychologist excused himself and went to play noughts and crosses with his patient. Billy was a sweet boy who improved daily. But second sight? It was a load of codswallop. Wasn’t it?
So . . . so how had the boy known the dead monk’s name?

Ida stood up. ‘Look, you lot. I don’t care if I get there covered in coal dust, horse muck or molasses, as long as I get there. The wotsit . . . Industrial
Revolution was up here as much as anywhere, and our mams and dads and grandfolk were part of it. And it was a dirty business. They sit there, them government idiots, on posh green benches and use
big words so working folk won’t know the plot, so why be respectful or respectable? I’ll go on a coal lorry if it’ll get me there in one piece.’

Others jumped to their feet and cheered.

Encouraged by her few moments of fame, Ida blossomed. ‘Which port in this country carried every bit of ammunition through its docks in the war?’

‘Liverpool,’ her audience shouted.

‘And whose dock workers worked like dogs day and night to get the guns and shells and grenades through?’

‘Liverpool’s!’

‘And where did a lot of those too old or too young for war dock workers come from?’

‘Scotland Road!’

‘And which people are going to be torn apart as a big thank you for jobs well done?’

‘Scotland Roaders!’

‘What do we want?’

‘Homes, not roads!’ These three words were chanted repeatedly.

Frank Charleson, chairman of the Turnpike committee, sat at the front with the board. His right hand ‘man’ and deputy chair was seated next to him, and he loved her. Having kept his
distance for a while, he was acutely aware of Polly’s presence. Father Chris Foley, Fred Blunt, Hattie Benson and Denis Davenport formed the rest of the committee, though several self-elected
people attended the meetings. This was an open session at which anyone could have a say.

Frank stood up and held up a hand. ‘Right, calm down. Father?’

Chris Foley unfolded his arms and raised a hand. ‘No rioting, please. I get enough of that on the golf links in Southport. We go in whatever transport we can muster. We make no trouble on
the journey, and we make no trouble in London. The petition will be handed over by Polly and Frank to the police outside Number Ten. And we stand there in Downing Street packed like tinned sardines
and we say not one word. We do not laugh; nor do we cry. There is something quite menacing about a crowd that remains in total silence. They won’t forget us in a hurry.’

The audience clapped. Anyone who forgot this lot wanted his or her head testing.

‘And we go not as Catholics and Orangemen. Our fellows from Everton, some of whom will lose their homes and businesses, will be with us. We travel as citizens of a free country and a great
city that speaks its mind and shames the devil himself.’

The main door of the school hall flew inward and crashed into a stray chair. The gathering turned as one man to see Jimmy Nuttall (tripe, fish, cooked meats and skinned rabbits) trying to regain
control over his breathing. He bent forward, hands on his knees, until he found some oxygen. Slowly, he unravelled himself into a more or less upright position.

Chris Foley walked the length of the room to support him. ‘What in heaven has happened to you, Jimmy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I want Fred. It has to be Fred, Father,’ gasped the newcomer.

‘Come away in with you, then. Lean on me. Try to stagger on, Jimmy, and hand over the burden, whatever it is.’

Jimmy managed the length of the hall. ‘Fred,’ he gasped, ‘they found his body. They’re pretty sure it’s him, but he’s . . . well, he’s been there a
while and animals have had a go at him. Police can’t do fingerprints, cos . . . er, there’s not enough there. They would have took prints, then tried to match them up with stray traces
at Columba’s and the monastery, but it’s no go. The hot weather has . . . well, you know.’

The colour drained from Fred’s face. ‘But they’re certain it’s him?’

‘There was a rosary underneath him and a half-empty bottle of Scotch.’

‘He drinks Irish,’ Chris said.

‘But Scotch is easier to come by,’ Frank commented. ‘He’d drink anything he could find, I’d bet.’

Polly burst into tears. They hadn’t got him. He had escaped his comeuppance by dying, and the courts would never prosecute.

Frank gathered her in his arms and put his mouth to an ear. ‘Don’t you dare weep like this on our wedding day. I carry our pair of knickers wherever I go. Pray I don’t use them
as a handkerchief to dry your eyes here and now.’ He released her and turned to Fred. ‘If he’s dead, he’s dead, and that’s it, finished and done with.’

The place was so quiet that a feather, let alone a pin, would have made noise when landing. Mavis walked to the front. ‘It’s not him,’ she said clearly. ‘Who told you,
Jimmy?’

‘A bloke with a son who works for the print shop that sets the
Liverpool Echo
. The man they found – well, what was left of him – had been fat before he started to rot.
Brennan was always fat.’

‘He’s alive,’ she insisted. ‘Billy sees him when he’s asleep, but it doesn’t frighten him any more. Brennan is thinner, he’s drinking less and
he’s working in the fields. Can they not get an idea from his clothes? Or from his teeth?’

Jimmy answered in the negative.

‘Did the body have a beard?’ she asked.

Jimmy’s shoulders rounded themselves. ‘The head’s missing,’ he said after a pause. ‘Carried off by a dog or a big fox, more than likely. The clothing’s
shredded, fingers chewed off, but they found booze and a rosary. As far as they can work out, there’s a skeleton that would have been Brennan’s height if it was all there, with some
flesh and an amount of human fat. The rest has gone, even the feet.’

Mavis looked at Father Foley. ‘I’m not a Catholic any more, but you are. And I may as well warn you, we’ll still be suing the Church, because if we lose, we pay nothing, and if
we win, the Church pays the fees, too. So, Father, if this God of yours can talk to grown-ups who’re going to be saints and all that, can’t the same God talk to a child in his
sleep?’

‘I believe He can,’ was Chris’s answer.

‘You are wrong, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘He is still alive and kicking. Now, I’m going across the street to be with my son, who has the same sight my mother had.’ She
turned and addressed the people in the main body of the hall. ‘What they found is not Brennan. Ask my boy.’ She stalked out.

Fred made his apologies and followed her.

Frank stood up. ‘Right. I’m sorry this is a bit like church, but please put anything you can afford in the collection box by the door. We’ll convene again in three weeks from
tonight.’ He reclaimed his seat. Beneath the sound of scraping chairs and conversations, he spoke to Polly. ‘You pregnant?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I would have needed to alter the grand plan.’

‘What grand . . . ?’ She was wasting her time; he was talking to Father Foley. She gathered up notebook and biro, lifted her handbag and walked to the door, pushing a folded
ten-shilling note into the box. The bottleneck crush in the foyer was beginning to clear. A hand crept round her waist. ‘You made me jump,’ she accused.

‘I remember,’ he said. ‘Best night of my life so far, that was.’ He led her to his car and opened the passenger door. ‘In you get.’

Untypically, she did as ordered without question.

He joined her, started the car and drove off at speed.

‘Where are we going, Frank?’

‘Somewhere quiet. I’ve got your ball and chain.’

‘What?’

‘Ellen’s ring. Then I have secret surprises to plan and carry out, so we’ll be married in a few months when I’ve done what I have to do.’

She grinned. ‘Don’t I get a say?’

‘No. My mother’s out of the picture, and I understand Cal is much improved, so less vulnerable. I’m making a home for all of us, him included, though I hear he may have plans
of his own.’

‘If you’d take the trouble to visit, you could see for yourself.’

‘Still Miss Clever Mouth, I see.’

‘Of course.’

He found a quiet spot near the river, and they held hands like a pair of children while watching the sun’s glorious au revoir. And he asked again. ‘Will you marry me, Polly
Kennedy?’

She wore a thoughtful expression for a few seconds.

‘Well, madam?’

‘Can I have a big fridge and a washing machine?’

He burst out laughing; she was going to say yes. ‘All right.’

‘Can I have two children, preferably one girl and one creature, a proper sideboard, the
Beano
and
Dandy
delivered every week?’

‘Yes. Though when it comes to the gender of kids, I can’t make a firm promise. As for the comics, we read one each and then swap.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Is that a yes, Polly?’

‘Of course it is, you great lummox. I should never have allowed Mrs Moo to get to me.’

He took the ring from its box and polished it with the borrowed knickers. ‘You get a good shine out of a double cotton gusset,’ he announced seriously.

Polly blinked away a tear. Ellen had been so proud of her aquamarine with its four tiny diamond attendants. She held out her left hand, and he placed the ring on her finger.
‘Frank?’

‘Yes?’

She turned and held his face between her hands. The kiss she bestowed upon him asked nothing but gave everything; it was sweet and innocent, yet quite professional at the same time. ‘I
love you, Charleson. But you didn’t leave home for my sake, did you?’

‘For my sanity,’ he answered. ‘Which you will need to be assured of, so I left for myself, for you, for our daughter and our creature, for Cal, for my own business and our
home. By the way, I love you, too.’

They stayed for a while under dusk’s blanket, inventing their own language for their own love, saying the silly, private words that would accompany them through the rest of their lives.
She didn’t mind about fridges and washers; he was to have the
Beano
first, since he preferred it to the
Dandy
. Chris Foley would marry them, but in St Anthony’s, which
was Polly’s church. Any girls and creatures would be raised as Catholics, as that was their mother’s faith, and he would attend church with the family for their sake.