A Mersey Mile (8 page)

Pete Furness scratched his head. ‘They won’t attack him, will they?’

Johnny answered for everyone. ‘Much as we’d like to kick seven shades of muck out of him, the answer’s no. A prison sentence is what’s needed. Let’s see how he goes
on living among his own kind. They’ll sort him for us, cos actually most of them serving time aren’t really his kind. Big difference between thieves and kiddy killers.’

‘Nobody’s going to die,’ Mavis managed through quieter sobs.

‘That’s right, love.’ Fred held her close. ‘But it won’t be for want of Brennan trying, the drunken old bugger.’

Constable Peter Furness left them to their vigil. He stood for a few minutes outside the hospital gates and pondered. Scotty was a largely Catholic area, but it was ready now to turn on one of
its pastors. Roaders were a tough breed, stoic, humorous and usually kind, but if one vulnerable member of their society was injured, all were hurt. He stirred himself and climbed into the borrowed
car. They had better not clout the bloody priest. In court, righteous anger would count for next to nothing.

Polly was forced to open the cafe. This had happened before in times of crisis, when what she termed the Mothers’ Union turned up for a meeting. Kids got under
everyone’s feet as usual, yet the gathering of females was a necessity. Wives and mothers made most household decisions, and when husbands and older sons were out of reach, the activities of
those missing menfolk merited as much concern as children’s.

Polly produced a huge pot of tea and left it on the counter where the women could help themselves. Frank’s contribution was to be put in charge of half a dozen youngsters in the middle
room. He switched on Cal’s television, and his charges were immediately riveted to the news. Television remained a novelty to most, so they were fascinated.

Meanwhile, Hattie Benson, greengrocer and spokeswoman separated from a brutal husband, was in full flood and off-topic, as ever. ‘That dog’s never chewed its food proper. Breathes it
in, more like, which is what it did with me dad’s teeth. I’ve been stuck down Maddox Street listening to folk planning on giving a dog an enema. Well, let’s hope me dad’s
set does its job down there, cos the bloody hound never chews with its gob. Me dad’s waiting on his choppers coming out the other end. Can you imagine using teeth what have come out of a
dog’s arse? Oh, I left them to it and came home.’

Polly called the impromptu meeting to order. ‘Right, girls. Let Hattie’s dog deal with her dad’s falsies, because there’s worse trouble on. Ida? I believe you know the
score.’

Ida Pilkington, who was newspapers, sweets, tobacco and local gossip, stood up. ‘There’s about a dozen of our men in the priest’s house with him, and the rest are outside
singing – definitely not hymns. Anybody with kids out loose, go and find them, because the language down St Columba’s is shocking.’

‘Why singing?’ Polly asked.

‘To cover the noise of Father Brennan pleading for his life. Now it’s a case of who gets there first. There’s four police waiting for help, only there’s been a big
robbery down the builders’ yard; the watchman got beat up. We’ve Evertonians lined up looking for the bishop, because a Catholic won’t tell him to bugger off, but they
will.’

‘The bishop?’ several whispered in near awe.

Ida nodded vigorously. ‘The housekeeper phoned him before locking herself in the bathroom. She keeps screaming through the door, telling our lads the bishop’s on his way. It’s
a great big stand-off. We can only wait and see what happens.’

Hattie, who appeared to have given up on her dad’s dentures, spoke some words of warning. ‘If the bishop gets there first, the men in the house will cripple Brennan. Because the
bishop will make sure there’s no case, no prison, so they’ll batter him. I mean the queer feller, not the bishop. What can we do?’

‘Nowt.’ Pete Furness stood in the doorway. ‘Stay out of it. Polly, tell Frank I still need his car. I’d best get round there and see what’s what.’ He left as
suddenly as he had arrived.

Hattie carried on regardless. ‘See, they’re like kids. If you keep them in, they read their comics or their newspapers, eat their dinners, cut their toenails, behave themselves, cos
they know we’re watching. But when they go out to play, it’s a different story. They’re either fighting or drinking, sometimes both. Well, I’m not going down there, girls. I
don’t want nothing to do with police or bishops.’

There was little to be done, but at least they were together. These were the core of the Scotty Road mamas’ mafia, and each drew comfort from company with the rest. The women in the cafe
and others like them had carried generations through war, diphtheria, TB, and many births and deaths. Their wealth sat in no bank; it was here in toughened faces and gentle hearts. Mavis
Blunt’s lad had been attacked, so they fretted with and for her. ‘This is what they’ll take away,’ Polly said. ‘Us sitting here because we know the Blunts are sitting
watching over Billy in a hospital bed. When they destroy our houses, we lose this strength.’

Mary Bartlett, the butcher’s wife, came in. ‘I’ve fetched your bacon, Pol. We’ve only just cleared up. Harry’s gone down Columba’s. I hope he stays out of
trouble.’ She placed a parcel on the counter. ‘I hear Frank clobbered the bugger.’

‘He did,’ Polly replied. ‘He’s in the back with the rest of the kids.’

‘I heard that,’ he shouted.

Polly grinned. He was meant to have heard it. ‘Hurt his hand, poor lad.’

Carla Moore, resplendent in blue, pink and yellow plastic curlers, fell in at the door. ‘The Proddies have stopped the Bishop of Liverpool,’ she gasped, fighting for breath.
‘Shut in his car, he is. One of them . . . I can’t breathe . . . I think he has a chip shop near St Columba’s . . . ooh, I’m winded. He said respect and all that, but a
common criminal was under citizen’s arrest . . . Give us a cuppa, Pol.’

After a few noisy slurps, Carla carried on. ‘So the bishop’s in his car, and he can’t do nothing. There must be fifty men down there outside the wotsname – presbytery.
They’re hanging on for the cops, but there’s been a robbery somewhere, so Pete Furness is going to phone town for reinforcements. I just seen him. He said we’ve to stop here safe,
like.’ She sat down. ‘And I’ve laddered me stocking.’ This final incident clearly meant more than anything else to Carla. She would shop happily in the city centre in
colourful curlers under a scarf of transparent nylon chiffon, but laddered stockings were a source of great shame.

‘Hush.’ Ida put a finger to her lips. ‘Bells.’

‘If they’re for Brennan, they’re hell’s bells,’ Hattie whispered.

Mary Bartlett, bringer of bacon, opened the cafe door and listened. ‘Yes, the cavalry’s on its way. If our lads and Everton’s can hold the bishop back, Brennan will be spending
his first night where he belongs.’

Knitting needles, crochet hooks and wool appeared while Polly went to make more tea. Communal gatherings like this one took place in times of trouble, and the cafe was chosen by all whose
businesses were contained in what Frank termed the mile. With the exception of pubs, Polly’s Parlour had the most chairs, so she had no competition, but she was only too delighted to be their
place of safety. For how long would this cafe continue to be their refuge?

She found Frank and his companions playing dominoes at the table. He would make a lovely dad.

‘They cheat,’ he said as she passed through to the kitchen.

‘Course they do,’ was her answer. ‘It’s all part of their culture.’

Pete Furness followed her. ‘We got him, Polly. Hi, Frank, and hello, kids.’ He placed the keys to Frank’s car on the sideboard. ‘Thanks for the car, pal. Little Billy
Blunt has internal bleeding, a punctured lung and compound fractures to one arm. They’re keeping him asleep for a while, but he’ll have to sit up soon for his chest’s
sake.’

‘How was Brennan?’ Frank wanted to know.

‘Crying like a baby.’ Pete struggled not to laugh. ‘They gave him a guard of honour, all standing to attention and saluting as he passed. Now, they’ve gone down Everton
way with their new Orange mates. I’ll never fathom folk round here.’

‘Foreign parts for you,’ Polly told him. ‘Took you three years to understand the language. Are you having a cup of tea?’

‘No, I’m going to run and be there when he’s charged.’

Frank told him to keep the car till morning.

‘Thanks.’ The good constable retrieved the keys and rushed off to watch while the wheels of justice began to turn. As he passed once more through the knitting circle, he was
bombarded with questions, though nothing was going to stop him, because he’d visited Billy. For Billy’s sake and for the Blunt family’s peace of mind, Pete wanted to see Brennan
in front of the magistrates tomorrow morning. Sometimes, being a copper was OK.

Cal was drunk and snoring, the resulting noise reminiscent of the trumpeting of a rogue elephant. His attendant had been and put him to bed, which had proved a difficult task,
since Cal had made very little sense after an unusual amount of alcohol. The poor lad still needed nappies during the night, as he couldn’t always manage to reach the commode by himself
during the hours of darkness, though he had regained some daytime control. Frank was failing to settle on the sofa. There was too much noise from the man in the bed, and Polly was just above their
heads in the rear bedroom.

He wanted her. But he was determined to be patient, so he urged himself repeatedly to remain strong. After dragging sheet and blanket round his ears, he reminded himself to be thankful. Mavis
and Fred Blunt were the ones in real trouble, with their youngest child in hospital.

His hand hurt. Again, he concentrated on the little lad with his broken arm and rib, because an injured hand was nothing in comparison. She was so near. He longed to feel her breath on his
cheek, her hair under his good hand. But it was going to be a difficult night, and he must grin and bear it. He might manage to bear it, though grinning might well prove to be impossible.

Cal’s snoring had started to deliver a different sound; he was making as much noise as a ship moored in dock on New Year’s Eve. Sleep promised to be impossible to achieve, so Frank
counted his blessings. Polly came top; his mother was not on the list.

There was no peace to be had down at the local police station, either. Father Brennan screamed constantly for whiskey, brandy – anything to combat the pain in his face.
He was given tea and aspirin, which he threw at the wall while using language seldom heard from a man whose life was supposedly dedicated to the betterment of mankind through belief in Christ.

Pete Furness hung on, though there was no overtime to be had. He found himself fascinated by the concept of an evil priest who went through life drunk, disorderly and dangerous. The visiting
bishop had managed to quieten Brennan in his cell, but the old drunkard had kicked off again once the primate had left the building. ‘I want a decent drink,’ he yelled repeatedly.
‘Get me some whiskey.’

The desk sergeant, a burly Scouser called Mike Stoneway, found himself longing for retirement, a nice bungalow in Fleetwood, a bit of sea-fishing and little picnics with the wife and Toby, their
Jack Russell. ‘If he doesn’t pipe down in there, I’ll kill him. I’ve a nice big pair of scissors in my desk.’

Pete finished yet another mug of tea; if he drank much more, he’d drown in it. ‘He’s not worth hanging for, Sarge.’

‘He should swing. He only got away with it on a technicality. If Den hadn’t rescued him, that little lad would have bled to death. And as for Frank Charleson, the man deserves a
medal.’

Pete made no reply. He nursed the suspicion that Frank had his reward in Polly, because he’d noticed little glances, a flush along her cheekbones, hope in his eyes. God, the cleric was
making a hell of a din. Another man on remand until morning was clearly being driven mad by the noisy priest. He was threatening to sue the police force and the Vatican, because he’d paid his
taxes and put money in the Sunday plate for years.

‘Shut up, Paddy,’ the sergeant yelled. ‘Whatever you paid, you’d stolen it. Father, be quiet or I’ll get a doctor to sedate you, then we can all enjoy a bit of
hush.’

A few minutes of total silence ensued. ‘Go home, Pete. You’ve been on duty for about ten hours. We’ll manage. Your wife’ll be thinking you’ve left home, lad. But
thanks for hanging on. You’re a born copper, believe me.’

Brennan kicked off yet again, this time murdering the
Tantum Ergo
and the
O Salutaris Hostia
. He was clearly performing Benediction, though he had no bread to bless and was
definitely without wine. He needed a bloody good hiding and yes, Pete had endured enough. ‘Good luck, Sarge.’

The constable left his bike at the station and prepared to drive home in Frank’s car. He remained uneasy; it wasn’t over yet. As far as he knew, no Liverpool priest had ever stood in
the dock at the Crown Court. Because of the severity of the attack on young Billy, Brennan had been charged with inflicting grievous bodily harm on a child, so tomorrow’s magistrates would
have no choice: the case would have to be passed on for judge and jury.

It wasn’t going to happen. This near-knowledge sat in his stomach like lead settling in a pit already filled by tea. Lead didn’t float; neither would the case against Brennan.
Pete’s much-loved territory, Scotland Road, would be up in arms. And he could only agree with them. ‘Life’s a bugger, then you die,’ he informed Frank’s dashboard. He
started the car and drove home.

Norma Charleson gave up trying to read. Surrounded by magazines and snacking on sweets and chocolates, she lay in her bed and pondered her situation. Having relinquished most
of her house for her son’s sake, as she saw it, she was reaping no reward, because he was currently in the bed of his dead wife’s friend, Polly Kennedy.

She remembered Polly. Polly was a pretty little thing; Ellen had been Frank’s second choice. Norma had not known that before she saw the letter, a letter she was not supposed to have read.
Underneath the elaborate apology for happening upon the girl when she was naked, Frank had written his truth: he had loved Ellen, but Polly was and always had been the fulcrum of his existence.
What was a fulcrum? The trouble with sending a son to a fee-paying school for a couple of years was that he knew too many words.