A Mersey Mile (49 page)

‘A good woman with a problem daughter. No regrets on my side.’

‘You’re my rock, darling.’ She sat down. ‘All that work her dad and I put into her, all that love and care and education. And there she is now, passport confiscated, bail
conditions to answer, her . . .’ she swallowed a bitter taste, ‘her clients suspended from their work, diplomats in bother, and she has the gall to expect us to take her in. When they
asked her did she have parents to vouch for her . . .’

‘I told you, Christine. My staff could have kept an eye on her.’ His private opinion was that Elaine should have returned to the north, since her erstwhile clients were people of
influence, and a false passport might be obtained more easily if she remained in London.

Christine shook her head once more. ‘Why should your staff have to do that? Why should we have journalists and press photographers outside our house? Let her loose on a city that deserves
better? I don’t think so. No, she made her bed and filled it with rich folk. Let her lie in it alone from now on.’

Richard placed himself next to his wife on the sofa. ‘You deserve better, my love, but never feel that you’re responsible for what she’s done. Our kids are influenced by all
sorts of people once they’re out and about.’

Christine closed her eyes. Elaine had wanted a pony, so her wish had been granted. Toys, books, the latest fashions in shoes and clothes, holidays, trips to the theatre – the list was
endless. ‘She was indulged,’ she told her husband. ‘I should have kept her in check. She was spoilt.’

‘As were my kids. We all do it wrong, you see. Think about it; we’re amateurs, no training. All we can do is follow a template given by our parents, who were also amateurs. By the
time we qualify for a certificate in competence, we’re about seventy, and we’re watching our own offspring while they struggle against the tide. Now.’ He slapped his knees, stood
and offered a hand to the woman he loved. ‘Come. If we’re going, let’s get on with it.’

‘Yes.’ She had to make an effort and offer her support to those whose rents she collected. The tale told by Polly sat near the front of her mind, just behind Elaine and all the
trouble she had caused. After the police strike and loot of 1919, the Home Office was believed to have decided to clear Scotland Road. While this was only rumoured, the threat had been relayed many
times. The neighbourhood was to be flattened, and no new houses would be built. Stripped down to its bones, the plan amounted to a decision to divide and disperse Catholics. All the government of
today wanted was access to tunnels under the Mersey. That was now the official reason, a decision that would break up families and shatter hearts. It just wasn’t fair, and she must show her
face today.

‘Christine?’

‘Yes, I’m ready. And thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For being you.’

Gladys Acton remained sane enough to realize that she wasn’t right in the head department. This was described by her team of doctors as awareness of and insight into her
own condition. She would have been better without said insight, because her brain was full of pictures and information that made her wish she’d been deaf, blind, or both. Don had scourged
himself before pouring a bucket of ashes on his wounds.

They brought her pills, and she swallowed her pills; they brought her food, and she swallowed her food. What she couldn’t quite ingest was the news about Don’s criminal history. It
had filtered through and, of course, she’d seen his body with the flesh ripped off, with his wounds full of ashes from the fire, with sacks attempting to cover what remained of him. The
medicines, Dad’s medicines, empty bottles, empty boxes . . . Don had planned it all carefully.

She ate, she drank, she existed. All farmers ate well, no matter what their state of mind. It was a hard life, and a body needed fuel to get through a day on the land. But she was not at home .
. . How many days had she been in here? When would she go home? Would it be home without Don and his efficiency, his kindness, his gratitude?

And she was with some very strange people. One old lady ate paper, while a girl who looked about twenty years of age rocked all the time. A woman called Sal walked up and down the ward every
day, and another elderly female with a flourishing moustache threw food at members of staff. At least Gladys was noticing her environment, and her main doctor was arranging for her to be released
very soon into the care of the Cropper family.

Here he came now. Small, earnest and gentle, he wore half-moon spectacles and a white coat that probably wasn’t his, as it hung like a two-man tent from his slight frame. ‘Hello,
Gladys,’ he said. ‘You’re looking better than you did.’

‘Hello, Doc.’

He pulled up a chair and sat next to her bed. ‘Mrs Cropper will look after you, and her son has organized a posse to deal with your farm.’

‘Oh.’

‘But I want to make sure you’re ready, so I’m going to read something to you before we complete arrangements. If this upsets you too much, tell me to stop and we’ll wait
till you’re ready. OK?’

Gladys nodded just once.

‘It’s from Don. A very decent policeman copied it for you – they have to keep the original as evidence for the coroner.’

Her heartbeat, driven by a sudden surge of adrenalin, quickened. ‘Right,’ she whispered.

‘Don was a Roman Catholic priest, Gladys.’

‘Yes.’

The doctor moved his chair closer to the bed. ‘You know what he did – I mean his crimes?’

Again, she inclined her head.

‘Well, I’m not going to dwell on that. It’s been in every newspaper from Land’s End to John o’Groats, so it’s all in the public domain. He didn’t tell
you he was a priest.’ These last four words conveyed a statement rather than a question.

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Quite. Are you calm?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t be afraid to ask me to stop, but I’ll carry on even if you weep. I shall wait for the word stop.’

‘All right.’

‘Tears are good. They cleanse the soul and provide release for emotions of which we are scarcely aware.’ He unfolded a sheet of paper and held it with both hands. ‘
‘‘My sweet Gladys, I had no joy before you. I am an alcoholic who was in the wrong job for almost the whole of my adult life. Then I found you by accident and everything changed the
minute I came to live in your house.

‘ ‘‘I am a farmer born and bred; it’s in my blood, always has been. My mother guided me towards priesthood, and I was desperate to please her. Two women in my life have
loved me; Mammy was one and you are the second. But I felt that Mammy’s love appeared to carry clauses like some sort of treaty, and, though I realize now that she would have loved me no
matter what, I allowed myself to be swept along a path that was not right for me.

‘ ‘‘Drink was my answer. I should have left the priesthood long ago, but I was usually too inebriated to organize the details. My temper was unleashed many times. Under the
influence, I committed my first noticeable offence and was sent to the monastery. In withdrawal, I refused the drugs that were offered and we all know what ensued.

‘ ‘‘You looked after me, Glad; we looked after each other. You cut my hair, washed my clothes, made my meals, praised and scolded me. You sewed and knitted while I sowed and
reaped. You held me in the darkest hours of night, and I love you. Please understand that I can’t stay. I’m saving the hangman a job, I suppose.

‘ ‘‘Get the Croppers in, especially young Paul. You could bequeath the farm to them if your cousin doesn’t need it. That’s just an idea that popped into my head,
but I thought you might like to consider it. Or you might sell it to them and find a nice little cottage for yourself.

‘ ‘‘I miss you already and I certainly miss your dad. He was a good man and I enjoyed his company greatly. Read this bit carefully, Glad. Make sure you go to Annie Cropper. She
is a woman with a big heart and a large family. A way will be found to keep Drovers going. That Scots traveller – Big Mac – is an honest and useful person, and he has some strapping
sons. You are not alone, my love.

‘ ‘‘When this is all over, think of me sometimes with kindness in your heart. I don’t know where I’m going. God will decide my fate, because I have no way of wiping
clean my soul.
Dominus vobiscum
– that’s a blessing from my alter ego, who was not the best of men.

‘ ‘‘I remain, no matter what, your lover, your servant and your friend.’’ ’

Dr Evans raised his head. ‘He signed himself as Don, then as Eugene Brennan.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

‘How do you feel, Gladys? My name’s Tom, by the way.’

How did she feel? Like a car with no steering wheel, a ship without a compass on a cloudy night, no stars to show the way. ‘I’m better than I was.’

‘It’s OK to cry.’

‘Have I not cried, Tom?’

‘No, but you screamed a lot. I believe you’ll do your weeping on Mrs Cropper’s shoulder. It’s a friend you need, not me.’

She plucked at the quilt on her bed. ‘So can I go home?’

‘No. But you can go to Netherleigh and recover with the Croppers.’

‘Do they want me?’

‘They want you.’

Gladys continued to fiddle with her bedding. ‘Do they know what Don did before he came to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does everyone know?’

‘Yes. You must stay inside the Croppers’ house until the press people get bored and bugger off.’

A slight smile played at the corners of her lips. Dr Evans swore. ‘You swore,’ she said.

The psychiatrist grinned broadly. ‘That, my dear Gladys, was nothing. You should hear me when I miss a meal. Low blood sugar makes me go ballistic, as do Jung and Freud. Mine’s a job
you make up as you go along, trusting to instinct rather than to published sages. You were in shock. You were an easy patient.’ He glanced across the ward. ‘Get out while you can,
before you start eating paper or wearing out the floor.’

‘Or growing a moustache.’

The doctor emitted a sigh of relief. She was back. ‘We’ll send for Annie Cropper. She did visit, but you were out of it, under sedation. You’re bereft.’

‘Gloom time.’

‘That’s the one.’ He shook her hand. ‘I hope I don’t see you again soon as an inpatient, young lady.’

‘I’m over fifty.’

‘So am I, but I don’t brag about it. You’ll be given medication, so take it. Your family doctor will prescribe further doses until you’re completely recovered. See me in
a week in the outpatients’ clinic. You can bake me a cake in Mrs Cropper’s kitchen. Are you a good cook?’

‘I am.’

‘Good. Then I may keep you as a weekly visitor for some considerable time. I like cake.’ He turned on his heels and walked away.

Gladys blinked. She was going nearly home. What should she make for him? Fruit cake, chocolate, Victoria sponge? Didn’t fruit cake mean a mad person? Fruit cake it would be, then. He was a
nice man, but quite mad in his own special way.

There it was, on a board outside the newsagent’s shop. Elaine Lewis bought several dailies before sitting to read in a nearby park. The weather was chilly, so the park
was almost empty, though London’s streets continued their usual journey towards the commencement of their working day. LIVERPOOL COMING TO LONDON was the headline on the front page of a paper
published for the masses, one she had seldom purchased.

A smaller line was printed below.
The Jarrow march all over again?
She perused the article.