A Mersey Mile (46 page)

‘What? I’m busy, in case you haven’t noticed.’

He blew her a kiss. ‘I love you,’ he shouted before running for his life.

The standing ovation brought more colour to Polly’s cheeks. Three tens. Yes, she wanted three full English and a gun. ‘I’ll deal with him later,’ she muttered to herself.
OK, she needed to calm down and get three tens, and one four for her diabetic mother-in-law, plus just one slice of toast. She had to stop this blushing; she was a twenty-six-year-old mother, for
goodness’ sake.

The middle room, which had been Cal’s, was now the living quarters of Carla, whose hair had been saved in the nick of time by Polly. Carla’s husband, a Paddy’s Market trader,
also lived behind the cafe. He helped out when he could, but Carla was the mainstay, and she was improving daily. In Polly’s opinion, this was just as well, or the whole neighbourhood might
have gone down with food poisoning.

‘All right, Carla?’ Polly handed over the orders and watched Carla’s modus operandi, which was unusual. Because of the lowered level of equipment, she used an office chair with
wheels on. She scooted back and forth, always on the go, usually talking to herself while wearing a smile. For a few moments, Polly lingered in the doorway. This was her place, Cal’s place.
From the corner of one eye, she could almost see the hospital bed with a wheelchair parked to one side. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine Scotland Road and its adjoining streets without
buildings; no houses, no shops, no bustle. It was impossible.

She blinked and pulled herself up. The era was almost over. Cal was doing great. Currently waging war with flaky and choux pastry, he was studying under a pint-sized Parisian whose aim in life
was to save England from ze blandness of feesh and cheeps. Cal did a wonderful imitation of Maître Henri. ‘Fold eet, fold eet. Mon Dieu, zees is no a sheet for ze bed. Zees is art; we
are eat avec ze eyes.’

‘Carla?’

‘What, love?’

‘When it happens, when we’re all gone, my Frank wants you to live over the shop down Rice Lane. No rent. You’ll mind the shop while he’s out, if you agree, and
there’ll be a wage. Leave Frank to do the plundering while you sell the spoils.’

Carla swung through a ninety-degree turn. ‘Thanks, Pol.’

Polly swallowed a lump of anger and grief. ‘We have to stick together, kid. It’s only geography.’

‘No. It’s cold-blooded murder. They could build here, Pol.’

‘I know.’

‘But they won’t, will they?’

‘No. No, they won’t, not for a good few years. It won’t be a painless death, either, because the place will be destroyed a bit at a time.’ And she was suddenly wrapped
tightly in Carla’s arms. ‘Carla?’

‘I’m scared, Polly. They can just hurt us like this even though we don’t agree to it. Scotland Road’s our home, three or four generations of history in it. I was born in
Virgil Street, and so was my mam and her mam. There weren’t enough chairs, so me and the other kids ate on the stairs. And we had so much fun with Uncle Jim and his accordion and our Eileen
what sang like an angel—’

‘And your dad, who sang like a dying horse.’

‘And playing cards and dominoes. Remember hopscotch and ball on the wall and long skipping?’

‘I do.’

‘Tig-tag and ollies, four glassies for one ball bearing?’

‘Salt, pepper, mustard, vinegar on cellar steps,’ Polly mused.

‘Queenie-o, who’s got the ball?’

‘Yes. Carla?’

‘What?’

‘Your bacon’s on fire.’

While Carla extinguished small flames, Polly sat for a few minutes in the middle room. She listened to the cook’s colourful expletives, closed her eyes and thanked God for Frank. He was
naughty, happy and adorable. Ma Charleson had finally grown up, Beth was beautiful, and their home was spectacular. ‘I’m one lucky woman,’ she breathed. ‘The luckiest. What
about the rest of them, though?’

The orders arrived, and she carried them through. Ma would stay once her breakfast was finished. She would go through to the back of that greasy, basic cafe, would wash dishes, mop the floor and
clean all surfaces so that Carla and Ida could have an hour’s rest. There was good in everybody, though some mineshafts needed to be dug deep before a decent seam could be found.

When she’d finished doling out the meals, Polly started back to the middle room. Jimmy Nuttall blocked her way and planted a kiss on her cheek. Untypically docile, Polly returned the
favour.

He blushed bright crimson. ‘I should get double for that,’ he shouted. ‘The bet was I’d kiss her. Well, she kissed me back. Ten bob twice, I’m after.’

The owner of Polly’s Parlour watched while Norma handed over a pound note. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘I thought she’d kill you.’

Polly’s jaw dropped. ‘Ma?’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘You’re a terrible woman, as bad as the rest.’

Norma frowned. ‘I always was,’ she said. ‘I just hid it well.’

Polly poured herself a much needed cup of tea. She couldn’t beat them, so she joined them. And there wasn’t a single mushroom left on Jimmy Nuttall’s plate.

For Don Hall, the sun had ceased to rise. Whatever the weather, whatever the time of day, he lived in a permanent, bone-chilling darkness. It was the silence. It sat solid in
his chest and his stomach like a lead weight, and nothing would shift it. Gladys had been fussing about with liver salts, vitamins and milk of magnesia, but no patented medicine offered a remedy
for naked fear. He couldn’t tell her, of course. Well, he had to tell her, but not in person. The clock was ticking, the calendar’s pages turned, and he sensed that his time was almost
up.

He stood near the hens he had nurtured and protected, spoke to them, had a word with pigs and goats. After gazing round at the land he had come to love, he set off on heavy legs to join Gladys
for the last supper. There had been nothing in the newspapers, yet he knew that Drovers was, for him, situated in the still, quiet eye of a deadly storm; they were coming to arrest him. They would
blow in at gale-force nine any day now, and the dreams were coming back again.

Gladys started on him the minute he stepped into the kitchen. ‘You look terrible, love. You shouldn’t be working, and I’m fetching the doctor no matter what you say.’

He held up his right hand in a policeman’s
stop
signal. ‘Tomorrow, Glad. You can get the doctor in the morning.’ By then, it wouldn’t matter; by then, it would
be too late. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, sat down and managed the soup. For a reason that eluded him, he ate most of his meal, including half a bowl of rice pudding. ‘There you
are,’ he said. ‘Stomach’s picking up, so it is.’ The condemned man had eaten heartily. She would miss him, and that thought hurt him as much as the idea of death.

‘Thank God,’ Gladys murmured. ‘Because I don’t know what I’d do without you. A godsend, that’s what you are, Don.’

He blinked, then stared at her. She loved him. For the first time since Mammy, somebody loved him. That her love was almost unconditional was clear, yet how could it survive the knowledge that
he’d half-killed a child and murdered a monk? He glanced at the mantel clock. ‘I’m going to watch for foxes from the caravan,’ he said, the tone almost too casual.

‘You’re not fooling me with your shotgun,’ she replied, a smile stretched across her face. ‘I’ve seen you feeding them, you daft lad.’

He felt the heat on his cheeks. ‘Then they don’t eat the chickens, do they? If I’m ever busy elsewhere, you feed them. They’re hungry, that’s all. I’ve one
eating out of my hand, so.’

She stood, arms akimbo, in front of the kitchen fire. Round, short and rosy-cheeked, she looked beautiful. ‘I’ll let you out, then,’ she announced, ‘but only because you
seem a bit better than you were. Who am I to stand between a man and his best friend, the chicken killer?’

Don walked to her and kissed her grey-streaked hair. ‘
Benedicta tu in mulieribus
,’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘Ah, just a bit of Gaelic nonsense,’ he offered as translation of a sentence from the Ave.

‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

‘Blessed art thou among women.’ He meant every syllable of it. ‘I’ll go now. Get yourself off to bed, and don’t worry about me or the foxes.’ He left the
house, pausing only to watch through the window as Gladys cleared the table. The strange calm accompanied him while he walked away. It had to be done. It was a sin, but who was counting? He’d
already won a place by Lucifer’s fire, so why worry about the final act?

The night was clear and cold, with a thousand stars shining down on him. There was a chance that those faraway suns shone on worlds like this one, so had Christ died on each and every one of
those possible planets? Where did God fit in with endless space, endless time, and myriad Earths to save? Did it matter? ‘I’ll know soon enough,’ he muttered.

In the bothy, he collected up all the old newspaper cuttings and photographs, packing them neatly into an attaché case. The world needed to know. These articles, together with the letter
he’d composed for his beloved, would be found with his corpse. The idea of killing himself on Drovers land had been dismissed from his agenda, because she must not be the one to find him.
Police would take the letter, but Gladys would receive it eventually. The strange serenity persisted. Even while he left food for Reynard and his family, nothing disturbed his mood. He would never
again see his fox; he didn’t deserve any happiness, so he was on his way out.

Back in the bothy, he picked up the implements he required before beginning the trek to common land. Half an hour later, he was where he needed to be, and he set out his altar and stripped off
most of his clothing. Before facing St Peter, he needed to do penance in the vain hope of achieving repeal and Purgatory rather than hell. The whip he had made owned nine tails, and each tail had a
sharpened hook affixed to its end. This was positively mediaeval, yet it had to happen. A bucket of ashes waited on the floor, a small shovel by its side.

‘
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, et vobis fratres
,’ he began.

In the distance, campanologists practised their skills in preparation for Sunday, and he paused partway through his confession. ‘For whom do the bells toll?’ he whispered. It was
time.

The night Fred Blunt stole (though he preferred the word borrowed) a Liverpool Corporation double-decker bus would become legendary among Scotland Roaders and their
descendants. Fred needed three people, and they were a bit spread out. He collected Father Foley, Cal Kennedy and Frank Charleson. When questioned, he just told them to shut up, because
they’d see for themselves when they all got back to Billy. ‘Let me concentrate,’ he demanded. ‘I had a couple of pints earlier on.’

The trio huddled together in a vehicle designed to transport at least fifty people. It was cold, it was midnight, and a half moon glistened in a clear sky that offered no cloud cover to
earthlings. Fred was driving like a lunatic. However, the lunatic was experienced in the driving of buses, so passengers had to place their faith in him, since no other choice was on offer.

‘I was reading the Marquis de Sade,’ Chris grumbled.

‘For a priest, you don’t half choose your reading list well,’ Frank told his best pal.

Chris sniffed. ‘Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.’

‘You’re just a dirty old man, and that’s the top and bottom of you.’

‘This is true, so. I should maybe give up the cloth and find me a good woman.’

Cal grinned lewdly. ‘Father, you’d do better with a bad one if you’re reading sadism.’

The priest whispered under the engine’s noise, ‘What the blood and sand is going on with Fred and this bus? We haven’t even paid our fare.’

His two companions shrugged. Cal was still wrapped up in flaky pastry, and he had an exam at nine in the morning. Frank worried about Polly worrying. She had Moppet to look after, but Mother was
there, so she wasn’t on her own. Even now, he could scarcely believe that Pol had taken him on . . . But heck – what was happening here? Why wouldn’t Fred speak? Polly would have
made him talk. Frank grinned. His Pol could get blood out of a stone – or gravy out of a brick, if she needed it.

‘Would you ever look at the cut of him?’ Chris asked Cal. ‘Well and truly captured, he is. Captured and captivated.’

‘So he should be. She’s my sister, and he’s a lucky man.’

‘Till she chases me,’ Frank said.

‘Well, you’ve habits.’ Chris was laughing nervously as the giant vehicle swung into Dryden Street. ‘Pawing and nuzzling at her while she’s ironing. She’ll
clock you with hot metal one of these days, mark my words.’

‘She won’t,’ Frank told him. ‘She says my good looks save me, and I must continue ornamental. I think she’ll get me framed soon, or glued to a pedestal. Being so
handsome is a burden.’

The vehicle shuddered to a halt. ‘Right.’ The driver turned to look at his companions. ‘He asked for you three, so I got you. Father Foley, you’re a man he trusts –
same goes for you, Cal.’

Chris pointed at Frank. ‘Sensible so far, but why does he need my idiot friend here? Is there a cabaret?’

Frank clouted his best mate across the shoulders.

‘Now he’s after striking a priest.’

‘Shut up,’ Fred ordered. ‘Sorry, Father, but it’s all to do with that feathered thing with mirrors on it. Dream-catcher. Billy says it came through the big hole, and it
wasn’t a bad dream. He said it was a bit like watching an old film, all jerky and a funny colour. Mavis ran and fetched Hattie, then our Billy asked for yous lot. We want witnesses, because
if my lad’s right, Brennan’s dead.’

This statement put an end to all the nervous jocularity. ‘Dear God,’ Chris breathed. ‘Right, lads. Let’s get inside.’

Billy was playing with his cars on the floor. It was the middle of the night, and it was great being up and about; it made him feel older, important.

‘He’s not upset,’ Mavis said quietly. ‘But I want you to listen to him, then look out for the news tomorrow. It looks like Father Brennan died about an hour ago.’
She reached and grabbed Hattie Benson’s hand. ‘Thanks for sitting with me, Hat.’