A Mersey Mile (5 page)

‘Does she work?’

‘Oh, yes. She won a place at grammar school, then university. Elaine’s a lawyer. Not criminal stuff, more conveyancing, wills, that sort of thing.’ Pride made her stand taller.
‘Only seventeen when she went to Oxford, so at twenty-two she’s well into her first job and almost fully qualified.’

Norma’s eyes narrowed. Already made small by rolls of flesh, they almost disappeared whenever she was displeased or envious. ‘Is she courting?’

‘No. To be honest, Mrs Charleson, she seems married to her work, brings piles of papers home at night, burns the midnight oil. And she’s still learning, of course. She says you
don’t start understanding properly until you’re in the job. Ambitious, I’d say. Now, are you comfortable? Cup of tea or coffee?’

Norma’s mind was doing about seventy miles an hour in a built-up area. Frank should look higher up the ladder. It would all dovetail so nicely with the mother as housekeeper and the
daughter as wife to Frank. In fact, it would suit everybody. The girl could do all the legal work on the properties, mother and daughter would see each other as often as they liked, and Frank would
stop writing letters to a girl who ran a dilapidated cafe on Scotland Road. Oh yes, it was as clear as daylight. Frank could have a decent future if he could find the sense to change direction.

‘Mrs Charleson?’

‘Sorry. Daydreaming again. No, I’m all right, dear. Go and enjoy yourself.’

‘Dear’ withdrew from the room. Never before had she been awarded a friendly title. Was Norma Charleson teetering on the brink of premature senile dementia? Because she was seldom
pleasant with anyone other than her son. He must have taken after his father, because he was a lovely man, easy on the eye, naturally kind and amusing.

Norma rooted about in a drawer, found a suitable card, scribbled in it and pushed it into the envelope with five pounds. It was a large sum to give to a servant, but she wanted to appear
generous. She rang her bell, and the housekeeper returned. ‘What am I like, Christine?’ Norma asked. ‘I had this all ready for you, and I forgot because of daydreaming. Have a
lovely birthday, and enjoy your meal with Elaine.’ In a strange way, the daughter’s name seemed right as well, because he’d been married to an Ellen, which wasn’t a mile
away, was it? Even the surnames, Lucas and Lewis, began and ended with the same letter. Was all this written in the stars? Had it been foretold in the grand scheme of things? Oh, she must go for
another reading soon.

‘Oh. Thank you, Mrs Charleson.’

Norma smiled, and her eyes disappeared again. No matter which extremity of the mood spectrum she visited, she always lost her eyes. ‘I think we’ve known each other long enough now,
Christine. My name’s Norma. Right, be off with you and get changed. Make your Elaine proud of her mother.’

At the other side of the door, Christine rested her back against its solid surface, her legs suddenly weakened. What on earth had happened to Norma Charleson? Only this morning, she’d been
her usual snippy-snappy self: this was the wrong cushion, open the middle window instead of the end one, is there sugar in this coffee? What was going on at all? Christine opened the envelope,
looked at the card, picked out the money. Half-turning to go back and thank her employer, she changed her mind. That could wait until tomorrow; she’d pretend to have opened the card at
home.

She was halfway to the village and still mulling over recent happenings when the answer fell into her head. Oh, goodness. Leaning against the perimeter wall of St Mary’s churchyard, she
smiled to herself. The letter. She’d seen Norma shuffling through papers on Frank’s desk and, being only human herself, had taken a look at the letter once the boss had returned to
prostrate herself yet again in her sitting room. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled in Christine’s throat, but she swallowed it. This was so funny.

A love letter. The lazy old bat was worried because her Frankie was writing to some woman or other. At last, the crazy conversation and the change in attitude made sense. Norma Charleson wanted
to pair off her son with Elaine. This was ridiculous. Tonight’s meal would be fun. The person addressed by Frank as
My dear, sweet Polly
was clearly not good enough for Madam
Chocolate. Heavens above, life was about to become dangerous. Interesting, though, she mused as she opened her front door. Once Norma fixed an idea among her few brain cells, it stuck.

‘Hello, Mum. Happy birthday.’ Elaine dashed in from the kitchen. ‘Mum? Why are you giggling?’

‘Oh, don’t. Wait till we get to the restaurant. Have I got a tale for you.’

‘Mum?’

‘Believe me – it will be worth the waiting.’

Trouble abounded. It rattled the door handle, rang the bell, banged on windows, shouted through the letterbox and disturbed customers in the makeshift first-floor salon.
‘Keep your mucky hands off my clean glass,’ Polly screamed as she ran downstairs. The cafe windows had been washed just a couple of hours ago, and some loony was messing them up. She
had a perm almost done, an ongoing deep conditioning and one dry cut to complete. There was no time to be messing about if she was to save Carla’s hair from the ravages of bleach. The
treatment had to be sweated into the bundle of hay that used to be Carla’s crowning glory, and— Oh, no. Yes, this was trouble, indeed.

Trouble had a name. Its name was Frank Charleson and it was with some other people. ‘We’re closed,’ she shouted. ‘Breakfasts and dinners only – you should know that
by now. Go away and let me get on with what I’m trying to do upstairs.’ She turned to walk away.

‘Let us in, Polly, or I’ll use my key.’ He banged on the door yet again.

She opened it and he fell in, left hand cradling the right. ‘I think I broke my hand,’ he said. ‘It hurts like buggery.’

‘Broken it on what?’ she asked as three other people tumbled in untidily behind him. Two were women, one was a man, and all three looked vaguely familiar. ‘Not on my windows or
door, I hope.’

‘No, I was banging with my left hand, clever clogs. I cracked the right one on the face of a plug-ugly, raving mad bastard,’ he snapped. ‘Lock the door and close the blinds. I
need time to think about what’s happened.’

She folded her arms and tapped a foot.

‘Polly, find some patience,’ he begged. She wasn’t good at patience, but she was terrific in the nude.

‘I’m working, Frank. You know I have to work.’ One of the women was closing the blinds. ‘Look, I can’t just abandon customers upstairs with their heads half-cooked.
Carla could go all limp and greasy if I leave her too long.’

‘So go and bloody work,’ he advised. ‘We only need asylum for an hour or two. It’s all right, we won’t break anything. We’re fully house-trained. These people
are my witnesses.’

Polly drew herself up. ‘If you need protection, go to a church. The church gives sanctuary to anybody, even a fool like you. And isn’t the priest down at St Columba’s your best
mate apart from our Cal?’

He sat down in a cafe chair. Slowly and painstakingly, he spoke. ‘I can’t start crawling into church, because I just half-killed a flaming priest. Oh, go and sharpen your scissors on
somebody else, will you?’ She was still lovely, but his hand hurt and Polly could be an annoying little monkey if she worked at it.

She blinked rapidly. A priest? Gentle, good-hearted Frank Charleson had battered a priest? She found herself gabbling. ‘See, Carla’s got this stuff being sweated into her hair cos
it’s breaking off. But Cal’s out with his mates, so go through. I’ll . . . er . . .’ She dashed back upstairs, but paused halfway for thought.

The people with him were from St Columba’s, she believed. St Columba’s sat over towards Everton, and it had always been a nice little church and school. A Father Brennan was
temporary spiritual head while the parish priest was away on retreat. Mind, knowing Father Foley, retreat might well mean golf. He loved his golf, and his parishioners loved him. She ran down
again, still struggling to digest the words Frank had spoken. ‘What have you done, Frank? And why?’

He tutted at her. ‘I hope you’ve left the half-cooked on a low light up there.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she blustered, ‘but I have to look at your hand.’

He held out the injured party.

Polly ran her fingers over his. ‘Open and close, Frank. Carefully, now. Oh, what a mess.’

‘You should see the other fellow.’ Like a child, he did what Mother told him. ‘Will I live, Mam?’ he asked.

‘I think so. But you should go to hospital just to be on the safe side. Take your friends through to the back while I sort myself out.’

He couldn’t tell her how he felt when she touched him, didn’t dare speak about his rampant emotions, since the room was full of teachers. She wouldn’t want to hear, anyway,
because she’d turned him down years ago, and he’d fallen for Ellen. He had no regrets about Ellen, as he’d learned to love her dearly, but this little firecracker was probably the
core of his life, damn her. And damn Father bloody Brennan, too.

When Polly finally got back to the salon, the women were full of questions, but she managed to field them. Somebody had fallen and hurt his hand, and it was all being sorted out downstairs.
‘Get out from under that dryer, Carla. Let’s look at the damage.’ She cut Mary’s hair, neutralized the perm, set it and shoved it under the second dryer. Then she washed the
conditioner out of Carla’s brittle mop, collected money, and sorted out her lotions and curlers before returning to the ground floor. Carla, who was saving to be married, donned a scarf and
dashed home to do her own set.

As the last customer left through the cafe door, Polly joined Frank and his three companions. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said. In Cal’s low-level kitchen, she sat down,
put the kettle on a hob and reached out for a few cups and saucers. While she waited for the water to boil, she listened.

‘Exactly how long’s it been going on?’ Frank asked. ‘I’ll just keep on asking till one of you tells me. We’ve sat here forty minutes and got nowhere, but
we’ll stay here till morning if we have to.’

The man answered. ‘As I said earlier, he’s always been ready with his cane or his whip, but I’ve never seen a child beaten as badly as that. We should go to the hospital to see
how he is. You can get your hand looked at while we’re down there.’

Frank cleared his throat. ‘You might go and visit the poor lad, but I’m going to the police station to confess my sins and report Brennan’s crime.’

A lengthy pause followed.

‘I think you’ll find very few people in these parts will speak against a priest,’ the man said eventually. ‘Billy Blunt stole money from the vestry. He had to be
punished.’

Frank’s jaw dropped. ‘Punished? Beaten by a massive drunk to within an inch of his life? You were witnesses. You all stood there and did sod all—’

‘Our jobs, Frank. Who’d employ us again if we stood up in court to testify against a priest? We have families to keep, you know.’

‘Then work in state schools, you brainwashed idiots. And how can you possibly believe that Brennan will go to heaven just because he’s a Catholic priest? He could have killed that
boy, and you’d have stood there like wet nellies in a cake-shop window. You say you have families. What if your child was treated like that?’

No answer arrived.

‘Why did you drag me off him? Have you no normal human decency? Oh, bugger off, all of you. And yes, I can throw you out, because I own this place, for what it’s worth in the current
climate. Go on, get lost.’

The three teachers left, heads bowed in shame.

Polly picked up the first-aid tin, crept in and sat beside Frank. ‘What happened, babe?’

Babe didn’t mean much in Liverpool, yet coming from her it cracked him wide open. But no, he must stay in control. To Polly, he was just another injured bloke, and she dealt with those all
the time in the cafe when they drifted in from their workplaces. He allowed her to stroke cream on a split knuckle and dab witch hazel on developing bruises. ‘It would be better in a
sling,’ she told him. ‘It might make the throbbing ease up a bit.’

‘I can’t drive in a sling,’ he said.

‘Sleep here on the couch, then. I’ll go to the phone box and tell your mother you’ve hurt your hand, then I’ll do your sling when I get back. Frank? Frank, don’t
cry.’ He wasn’t sobbing, but water coursed down his face. She hadn’t seen a man in this state since Cal had cried himself out over his injury and Lois’s abandonment.
‘Frank? Come on, calm down. We’ll be needing Noah to build another ark if you don’t stop weeping.’

He struggled with his left hand and gave her a card. ‘My home number’s on there. She’ll answer eventually. Go and phone her.’ He wanted Pol to go away for a while. She
was seeing the child in him, just as he’d seen himself in the boy he’d rescued tonight. ‘Please do it. Let me settle down a bit.’

Polly couldn’t help herself. She had an unwritten commandment all her own: no one in her company was allowed to cry alone. With her head on his shoulder, she burst into tears. ‘Look
what you’ve done now,’ she sobbed. ‘You should be locked up.’

How had he managed to forget this? She used to weep whenever Ellen wept;
Brief Encounter
,
Gone with the Wind
, even a Charlie Chaplin film had resulted in two bereft females
howling in the picture house. He dried his eyes. ‘If Cal comes in and finds you upset, he’ll run over me with his chair.’

‘Then stop crying.’

‘I’ve stopped.’

‘You haven’t.’

‘I have.’

‘I’m going.’

‘Go.’

‘I don’t like your mother.’

‘Nobody likes my mother. Just go. I want to keep a low profile. God alone knows what Fred Blunt will do when he hears about Brennan.’

‘Fred’s a big man. So is his brother.’

‘He was good to your Cal.’ Fred Blunt was the salt of the earth. Twice a week he’d gone out of his way to see Callum Kennedy during his long stay in hospital and the
convalescent home. ‘When he hears that I was there tonight while Billy took a hiding, he’ll come to me for an explanation. I don’t know what to say, Polly. Fred’s a great
family man. When he finds out I dragged that fat bastard off Billy, he’ll want me to speak up. That’s why I need to talk to the police first, make it right before the news spreads and
gets worse. Chinese whispers? They should change that to Scotty gossip.’