A Mersey Mile (43 page)

‘Sorry, Richard. I suppose I’ve rather ruined your day, though you did tell me to keep an ear to the ground.’

They drifted away, leaving Polly with a guilty ear to the door. She wouldn’t say a word. Ma was becoming a little too sensitive to be told half a tale. All Polly knew was that Elaine
wasn’t using her qualifications. If Bob wanted Frank to be told, he would do the telling himself. She addressed her curly-haired daughter. ‘Just us then, babe. I know half a truth, and
so do you. Unfortunately, we both know the same half. Bloody Elaine. Sorry. Shouldn’t swear near you. Your dad is, of course, a different matter altogether.’

The door opened slightly. ‘Polly? Are you in there, sweetheart?’

‘Come in, Frank. We were just talking about you.’

‘That’s OK, because I’m your best subject.’ He came in and closed the door. ‘Now, don’t get upset; we don’t want your milk curdling, do we?’

She blinked. ‘Eh? What are you on about now?’

‘Elaine has landed.’

She blinked again. ‘Elaine Lewis?’

‘The very same. Have we any garlic flowers?’

‘Oh my God.’

‘I’m pretty sure God wouldn’t want to be in the same room as her. She gets the local papers sent to wherever she’s based in this country, so she saw the announcement and
drove here this morning. She says there were traffic jams, hence she missed the wedding. Sent a card to Christine’s cottage, but the place is empty, so Christine never received it. But the
poor woman burst into tears of joy when she saw her girl entering the room. It was quite an entrance, too. She came, she saw, she conquered. Dressed like something from a Parisian fashion house.
Very glamorous.’

‘Oh my God,’ she repeated before shifting the baby to the other breast. ‘What’s she wearing this time? Has she turned up dressed like the king’s breakfast as
usual?’

‘Stunning. She’s just started working as a model, but only for the better magazines, not the sort you and I might catch sight of in Ida’s shop. When she walked in, Christine
nearly fainted, and Richard had to hold her up. The silence was deafening. Elaine gave her mother a copy of her portfolio with all her European work in it, then tickets for Paris and the key to a
flat she uses over there. Such drama. She outshone all of us, bride included. The whole thing has turned into a show with her as the only performer. Even her wedding gift is a celebration of
herself, photos and permission to visit the place where she stays in Paris. Yes, it’s all a look-at-me job. Typical.’

‘Poor Christine.’

Frank smiled. ‘She’s over the moon. It seems she always advised Elaine to get a portfolio and do some modelling as long as she returns to law eventually. But, you know, I got the
distinct feeling that very few of the guests were pleased to see Elaine. I’d go so far as to say they think Christine’s better off without her daughter on the scene.’

Polly mulled over the conversation she had overheard. From the remembered tone of Bob Laithwaite’s voice, there was more to Elaine than law and modelling. The half Polly had heard was not
the juiciest part, but she would keep her mouth shut anyway. ‘So all the girls are going to look like country bumpkins while she shines. She always makes me feel as if I need a
bath.’

‘You’re lovely, and so is Linda. It’s the difference between a living, breathing animal and a piece of glass-eyed taxidermy. And you both wear the glow of recent motherhood, so
she can’t hold a candle to either of you. God forbid that she should ever breed.’

‘What’s she wearing?’

‘I think it’s called ivory. A bit darker than white. It’s shiny.’

‘Satin?’

‘Polly, I wouldn’t know satin from synthetic, would I?’

‘It’ll be satin. Fancy wearing near-white to a wedding. It’s all about her, isn’t it? This beautiful house and the garden are her backdrop and she’ll perform as the
main attraction.’

‘And that will always be the case, because it’s the way she’s made. In a sense, she can’t help it, though I’m sure she knows the difference between right and wrong
because of her intellect. We just have to be brave and keep smiling. I’ll stay with you until you’ve finished feeding Moppet.’

‘Her name’s Elizabeth.’

‘Yes, but she makes a lovely Moppet. You’re in a bad mood now, aren’t you?’

‘Probably. The idea of having the lovely lunatic back isn’t attractive. She’ll only break Christine’s heart all over again, and on the poor woman’s wedding day,
too.’

‘She’ll be gone by tomorrow, has to be in Milan by Wednesday. Don’t worry about her – she’s here to celebrate herself and show off how well she’s doing. The
look on my mother’s face said it all; I’m just glad she has no gun, or Elaine Lewis might have been on the receiving end of half a dozen pellets. Come on, put your bosoms away and get
downstairs. This has to be faced, my love.’

‘I know.’

‘Let’s get it over with,’ he suggested.

When they arrived on the ground floor, Elaine, with her mother and Richard, was posing for photographs in the rear garden. ‘Good God,’ Norma whispered to Polly, ‘does she not
tire of fashion shoots?’

‘Hush, Mother,’ Frank advised. ‘We must do nothing to spoil the day for Christine and Richard.’

‘No price on the instep of his shoes,’ Polly said.

‘You’ll never let me forget that, will you?’

‘No.’

‘One mistake. I make one mistake, and you turn it into a pan of eternally bubbling scouse.’

‘Here she comes,’ Norma warned.

The vision arrived and placed herself in front of Frank. ‘What a beautiful child,’ she exclaimed. ‘May I hold her?’

‘No,’ was Polly’s terse reply. Little Beth would be the one in need of a wash if this terrible woman touched her.

After a second or two of embarrassment, Frank stepped into the breach. ‘She’s just been fed, and we don’t want that dress ruined, do we, Elaine?’ He walked her towards
the wedding cake and placed her in a corner. ‘Hurt Christine just once more, and I’ll separate you from your breath, you evil bitch. Stay away from me, my wife and child, my mother, my
brother-in-law, his wife and their baby. Stay away from Bob and his fiancée, because he’s ready to wipe that false smile off your dead, unfeeling face. You are hated. Live with
it.’ He walked away, determination advertised in his stride.

Polly whispered to Norma, ‘I know he’s smiling, but he’s just given her down the banks,’ she said.

‘Down the what, dear?’

‘Sorry. It means he’s given her a telling off. Look, she’s counting to ten.’

‘So she does feel things, then?’

‘Only if they’re about herself. The rest of us could lie down in front of a train, and she’d just send for a few mops and buckets and some men to clear the mess. She’s
here to celebrate herself, not her mother’s wedding. Oh, Ma, I hope she never comes back for good.’

Elaine Lewis righted herself within seconds and returned to the garden. These bloody people. She’d driven all the way from London for her mother’s wedding, had booked into an
expensive hotel where she’d changed her clothes and where she would spend the night, and Frank bloody Charleson had insulted her. She looked for Mum. Mum was in the arms of her new husband.
‘She’s forgotten me already,’ Elaine said under her breath.

But Bob Laithwaite hadn’t forgotten. What the hell was he doing here, anyway? She approached him slowly.

‘I’m a friend of Frank’s,’ he told her when she asked. ‘We were both treated badly by you. You broke your mother’s heart, never even bothered to let her know
where you were. Be careful, by the way. Rumours from London’s Inns of Court do travel northward. Just make sure that your partners have a lot to lose. But you’ve already thought of
that, haven’t you?’

He stepped back a pace, noticing that she seemed to have blanched slightly under the skilfully applied makeup. ‘Judges and members of the Cabinet need to conceal their little peccadilloes.
Don’t worry, I won’t say a word unless you cause any further damage up here. But be aware – one false move in this area of the country and I’ll get the
News of the
World
on to you. I know fashion modelling pays well, but I reckon the lions’ share of your income is earned when you’re on your back. Do we understand each other?’

‘Perfectly.’ She walked away and re-joined her mother. These people didn’t matter; she could buy and sell them twice over any day of the week. Even so, she would be in no hurry
to revisit Liverpool. Blackmail was a dangerous game, and she had no intention of courting its attention.

After the funeral of poor old Matt Mason, Don Hall saved Gladys a sad chore by devoting time to the sorting out of Matt’s many effects. Good clothes and shoes went to the
parish for distribution among the poor, the ancient mattress was burnt in the yard, while all paperwork was placed in a large biscuit tin with a picture of Buckingham Palace on its lid. Life
insurance to the value of twenty thousand pounds was due, so Gladys would be comfortable for the rest of her life. Don was pleased about that. God alone knew what would happen to him in the future,
but he was relieved for the woman he loved.

Gladys was going through what she termed a ‘gloom’. ‘Glooms’ happened after the death of a loved one and, according to Gladys, lasted for a minimum of six weeks. She was
talking about bereavement, of course. ‘Thanks for doing all the jobs for me, Don. I’ll be hanging on to his books. Loved his leather-bound volumes, did Dad, Dickens most of all.
We’ll get a nice bookcase for them, I think. And all his cufflinks, keep them, and his
Book of Common Prayer
, also his photos.’

‘Of course.’

‘And his war medals, too.’

‘I have them all, Glad. And I have the deeds to the farm. They’re framed and under glass; he kept them beneath his bed. The place is called Kingsmead, isn’t it? I’d no
idea about that.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Kingsmead’s its real name from hundreds of years ago.’

‘Yet it’s known as Drovers.’

She nodded. ‘Wild boar got hunted in the woods for ages, and the kill was all piled up in the meadow. Kings or lords often led the hunt, then meadow was shortened to mead and stuck on the
end after ‘‘King’’, because I suppose the king owned all the land in a way, especially when it came to hunting parties.’

‘So why Drovers?’

‘Well, when all the wild boar had been hunted, my ancestors allowed a path through the top of the meadow to be used by neighbouring farmers who drove herds to and from market. Drovers is
the path, the farm was given the same name by locals, and it stuck. I doubt anyone could direct you to Kingsmead Farm, because that name’s long forgotten. It’s from the Middle
Ages.’ She gazed through a west-facing window. ‘He loved sunset.’

‘I know he did.’

‘And Thackeray and Dickens.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the rides in his chair. He seemed to pick up no end every time you took him out. Fifty-four years, I had with my dad. There was nothing he couldn’t do. When Jed Finlay got a
burst appendix, Dad even ran the forge. Yes, he learned to shoe horses so that Jed would have a business to come back to. He made butter, bottled fruit, taught me to read and write, mended roofs,
replaced windows, rebuilt barns. And he helped any other farmer who had trouble. Dad was one of nature’s gentlemen. I don’t remember my poor mother, but I shall miss him till the end of
my life.’

‘I know.’

She smiled at him. ‘He loved you, too, said he was glad I’d got somebody decent and capable at last. And I know you loved him.’

‘I did indeed. But look at it this way – he can have no more pain, so it’s a blessed release in one sense.’ He smiled and touched her face. ‘Will you be all right
just now for a short while? I’ve a catch loose on a chicken coop, and the bloody foxes are everywhere.’

‘I’ll be fine, love.’

Love. She often used that term of endearment. He went out into the evening sun and watched its rays as they disappeared to illuminate some other horizon. Don had loved Matt. The old man had been
like a new father to him, full of praise and encouragement, always grateful for a walk outside, a chapter from Dickens, a drop of whiskey in his tea. ‘You know now, don’t you, Matt? You
know what I am and what I did. No excuses. I was drunk when I hit the boy, and in full withdrawal when I killed the monk. I didn’t take the pills, but that’s a reason born of my
stubborn ignorance. Your daughter will never be hurt by me. We miss you.’

He checked the coops. ‘I’m sure one of those foxes carries a screwdriver,’ he muttered. ‘In fact, I bet the little devil has a full set of tools, saw included.’ He
actually liked foxes, but they were daft. A fox entered a coop, killed a chicken for supper, then, when the others started flapping and squawking, he killed them just to shut them up. No way could
a fox carry twenty corpses, yet he never learned to stay cool. ‘Keep quiet, girls,’ Don said. ‘In your case, it doesn’t pay to advertise. Just concentrate on laying eggs,
and no squawking.’

He sat on a barrel. Things had died down, nothing much in the newspapers since Eugene Brennan had been resurrected from the dead. Strangely, the silence frightened him. Stuff was going on beyond
the limited reach of his senses, and he could only sit and wait. Yes, he was a different man, a healthier and happier man, but the fact remained that his fingerprints belonged to Father Eugene
Brennan, whose marks had been left in the monastery and in St Columba’s presbytery and church. The less he learned, the bigger the terror became. How would she react if or when they came for
him?

Gladys. She was the best woman in the world, hardworking, dutiful, a good cook and not too demanding in the bedroom. He’d grown used to that business, but he wasn’t a natural lover.
She didn’t seem to mind, though. The fact remained that he would have been adequate if he’d avoided ordination. Normal domesticity suited him. As for farming, it was his calling. How
many sent for him rather than paying a vet? How many took his advice when it came to planning crops? ‘I wasted my life, and all to please Mammy.’

Don Hall scarcely drank, while Eugene Brennan had always been a dipsomaniac. A bottle lasted over a week these days, yet he’d shifted one a day when at his lowest ebb. He wasn’t
yellow any longer, and the palms of his hands no longer glowed red like traffic lights on stop. Even his nose was paler. It was all down to Gladys, Matt and this beautiful part of Cheshire. He
belonged.