A Mersey Mile (9 page)

He wouldn’t be satisfied just by sexual favours. The stupid boy was head over heels yet again with a woman who was wrong for him. Older now, he should know better, yet he still followed
his heart. Why did the male of the species have so little sense? A woman weighed things up better, mixed a bit of thought into the ingredients.

She longed for sleep. ‘Charlie, if you’d gone two or three years earlier, I wouldn’t be in this mess.’ She spat out a Turkish delight and wrapped it in paper. Turkish
delight and caramels were the only chocolates she disliked. To cover the unpleasant taste, she turned to strawberry creams.

The girl lived with a disabled brother behind a very primitive cafe on the mile. Along that stretch, the Charlesons owned most of the commercial properties, many of which had residential
facilities behind and above the shops. The buildings had been cheap, and there would be some compensation due to owners from Liverpool Corporation when demolition became due.

Polly’s Parlour was the name of the establishment. The eating parlour was at ground level, while the hairdressing salon was above in the front bedroom. The girl had a good business head
and was willing to work hard. ‘But I don’t want you managing my affairs or my son, Miss Kennedy. You should have married Greg. If you’d married Greg . . .’ If, if, if. That
was a huge word. If Charlie had died earlier, if the girl had wed her intended . . .

Norma’s heart started leaping about again. That bloody stupid doctor had probably over-prescribed on the thyroid medication. It was a delicate balance, and she was her own worst enemy.
With chocolate, cake and biscuits as her only pleasures, she knew she was digging her own grave with her teeth. Should she go on a diet, shed a few stone and take back the reins? Better still, she
and Frank could share the business, as long as she managed the Scotland Road side of things.

The decision seemed to make itself. She found herself outside in the rear garden, a brand new security light flooding the area where the dustbins lived. To prevent herself from returning, she
emptied remaining confectionery into the rubbish unwrapped and unboxed; this way, she would not be tempted to retrieve the objects of her desire. Norma intended to save her life and Frank’s.
He would be introduced to Elaine Lewis, and there would be a lawyer in the family. A maker of breakfasts and lunches – the latter termed dinners along the mile – would not hold a candle
to such a well-educated and high-earning young woman with prospects.

Surely Frank would see the sense in her plan? Elaine could well save the firm thousands over the years. And Frank was a man of substance, since he would inherit the business and the house when
his mother died. But she needed to live for a while yet. Fifty-two was no age these days. All she needed to do was lose weight, take a bit of exercise and remove some of Frank’s freedom. She
could and would manage it. Lying around here all day was a waste of life.

Yes, it was time for the captain to steer the good ship Charleson once more. She refused to allow Frank to enter a second Scotland Road marriage. Her sweet tooth would ache, but that was the
least of her problems. Wasn’t it? If she had the courage . . . Why couldn’t she harbour that thought? If she had the courage, Polly Kennedy might suffer a fatal accident, and then . . .
‘Shut up, Norma,’ she ordered. She was not a killer. But she knew people who might just step up to the mark. ‘Stop it,’ she snapped. ‘Out of the question.’

Polly crept downstairs. The aged treads creaked a lot, and she was afraid of waking poor Frank, though she harboured little concern for her brother. After a particularly heavy
night of drinking, he would sleep like a log until morning, at which point he would wake with a headache the whole world might well hear about. When drunk, Cal was a noisy sleeper; sometimes, she
wondered how the house managed to remain standing with her twin rattling its old, fragile walls and windows.

Frank was, of course, wide awake. Cal’s snores bounced round the room like dried peas in a tin can. ‘Hello, babe,’ Frank whispered during a quieter moment. ‘Your
brother’s a noisy bugger.’

‘You can talk in a normal voice,’ she told him, ‘because our Cal won’t wake till the booze is out of him.’ She thanked goodness for the rubber sheet on the
mattress, because there’d be enough washing in the morning without having to worry about the bed itself. She knelt on the floor next to the sofa.

‘Are we engaged?’ he asked, touching her hair with his good hand.

‘I suppose so. But I’ve come to tell you a secret.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘He’s on painkillers. He can feel pain in his legs, Frank. I’m going to hospital with him on Thursday afternoon.’

‘Does it mean he’s going to walk again?’ Frank asked.

‘There’s a chance. I’ve never seen anyone grateful for pain till now. Pain means his nerves have found a way to his brain. It’s unusual, but not unheard of. Any progress
has to be slow, because damage could be done, so I want to be there, then they can tell me what to do and what to expect. He’ll win no races, but we may be able to wave goodbye to
bedsores.’

‘That’s great, love. Give us a kiss to celebrate.’

She kissed him. He was lovely. ‘How’s your hand?’

‘Sore. But not as sore as poor Billy.’

‘I know, love. Cup of cocoa?’

‘Yes, please.’

He lay there listening to the normality of domestic sounds, a pan being set on the hob, cups and spoons clattering, Cal snoring like a tranquillized dinosaur, a cocoa tin opening. Mother would
go mad, though that would be a short journey for her. She hadn’t approved of Ellen, and she would hate Polly, because Polly was cheeky. If only Mother could remarry, he might be free. But who
would want her? He thought about advertising her in the
Echo
. No. He wouldn’t have the slightest idea when it came to description.
Free to good home, one almost housetrained
female, buyer to collect
? Hardly.

Polly carried in two mugs of cocoa. ‘Might help you sleep, though I doubt it. He’s a noisy swine when he’s drunk. And by the way, remember what I told you is a secret. If he
doesn’t walk again, he’ll feel like a failure.’

‘I won’t forget. Are we engaged, by the way?’ he asked again.

‘I believe we are, though we can’t set a date. My brother will give me away, and not from a wheelchair, I hope.’

‘So I have to buy you a ring.’

She stirred her cocoa. ‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

It was a delicate subject, but she pursued it. ‘Ellen,’ she said. ‘When she died, did you bury the ring with her?’

‘She still has her wedding ring, but not the engagement one.’

‘You have that?’

‘Yes.’ His mother had tried to acquire it, though it wouldn’t fit even the smallest of her podgy fingers. He swallowed some cocoa and, in spite of Cal’s snoring, wished
he could stay here forever. Here was normal. In spite of the wheelchair and noise, this was the place for Frank.

Polly swallowed. ‘Ellie was my best friend all her life, Frank. It would make her part of us. She’ll always be part of us, whatever happens, but I’d love to wear her ring. But
if it makes you sad, we’ll get a new one.’

He pondered. ‘She’d want you to have it, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, she would.’

‘I can afford something a bit better now, Polly.’

‘There is nothing better. Ellie was like a sister to me.’ She lit a night light on the mantelpiece.

‘Take me upstairs and have your wicked way with me,’ he begged.

‘What about your hand?’

He thought about that. ‘We can leave it down here and I’ll pick it up in the morning.’

‘OK. But I won’t have my wicked way, and neither will you. I’m only rescuing you from my noisy brother. Also, I don’t want a baby just yet, so behave yourself or
I’ll come downstairs and squeeze your hand.’ She glanced at her brother. ‘In fact, I’ll use it to strangle him if he doesn’t shut up.’

They spent a giddy hour in the bed that had once belonged to Polly and Cal’s parents. There was giggling and kissing and sighing, and his hand hurt every time he moved it. He accused her
of taking advantage of his injury, of being a torment and a witch, then he fell asleep like a dropped stone.

‘Charming,’ she whispered. ‘You go out of your way to help the afflicted, and they sleep. I don’t know why I bother.’ She was lying. She knew full well why she
bothered. Frank was handsome, generous, genuine and daft. The daft part was vital. He mumbled in his sleep. Even when unconscious, he could find something to almost say.

‘Moo,’ she whispered.

‘Shut up.’ Well, that had been clear enough.

She found herself praying for Cal’s recovery, and not just for his sake. Yes, she needed her freedom, wanted Frank, wanted his babies. But Frank had promised to take care of Cal, and Frank
always stood by his word. So she fell asleep in the one good arm of the man she cherished.

‘Don’t cry, love. Eat your butty – our Johnny’s Kathleen made them special.’

But Mavis couldn’t take her eyes off Billy. He was her youngest, therefore her smallest, but he looked tinier than ever in the hospital bed. The tubes frightened her, too. It wasn’t
easy sitting here watching while blood and other stuff dripped into his little arms. He’d been playing out, for God’s sake. And he wasn’t a bad lad, wasn’t a fighter. There
was mischief in him, yes, but nothing really bad, nothing that made him deserving of such a beating. ‘Fred?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘That priest’s committed a mortal sin.’

‘He has.’

‘So if he died tonight, he’d go to hell.’

‘He would, damn him.’

‘So there are bad priests?’

Fred nodded. ‘There’s bad everything, Mavis. There’s nuns in Ireland that have locked up young girls who had babies out of wedlock. They got the babies adopted and labelled the
young women insane so they could keep them in there for life. They grow old, them poor girls, with next to no skin on their hands, cos they run a laundry service six days a week. If they
don’t shape, they get whipped. And the bloody nuns keep what people pay for their laundry to be boiled and ironed.’

Mavis turned in her chair. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I can be without crossing the water and seeing for myself.’

She looked down at the rosary in her hands. Nothing made sense.

‘Eat something,’ Fred urged.

‘Our Billy doesn’t even go to that school. He’s at St Anthony’s.’

‘I know, but he has mates at Columba’s, Mave.’

‘What have you been up to, lad?’ She leaned over the child.

‘Eat,’ Fred ordered yet again.

She obeyed, though swallowing wasn’t easy. The decision she made took little effort, though. At two o’clock in the morning, Mavis Blunt ceased to be a Catholic. She didn’t
announce or discuss it, didn’t even turn it over in her mind. There was no perfect faith, and there were no perfect people. And the potted meat sandwiches were stale.

Many people suffered a sleepless night for a variety of reasons.

In Little Crosby, where the houses were small and steeped in history, Christine Lewis stared through her window at a moonlit scene where roses grew round doors and ivy clung to walls, and
buildings of thick stone protected inhabitants from all weathers. So deep was the recess containing her bedroom window, she had made a window seat, and there she lingered, looking at the
sun’s light reflected in silver tones on Earth’s single satellite, which, in its turn, bounced white light onto the planet.

It wasn’t that she liked Norma Charleson, it was just . . . it was just that she knew the job well and it was near home. Also, she had to allow that Frank was a lovely, gentle man who
would make a wonderful husband for someone. Elaine found lawyers very dull and self-obsessed. They fought cases not for the clients, but in order to chalk up their scores and compare wins and
losses with those of their fellows.

Elaine didn’t really want a lawyer. Mrs Charleson’s unspoken idea made a great deal of sense. Frank was a businessman with a decent level of education. He was a good
conversationalist and a thoroughly admirable human being. If Elaine came to know him, if she could just be persuaded to spend some time with him, she might arrive at her senses. Yes, it was a
reasonable plan. She shouldn’t have mentioned her suspicions to Elaine . . .

She closed her curtains and returned to bed, her brain still alert. The way Norma Charleson ate meant that her life might well be shortened. Christine imagined herself in the annexe with Elaine
and Frank occupying the main part of the cottage. Oh, this was a terrible way to think. Really, all she wanted was Elaine’s happiness. She needed little for herself . . . well, not much,
anyway.

Meanwhile, in the next bedroom, Elaine was dreaming. A man was making love to her. When she looked up into his face, he was Frank Charleson. Her eyes opened suddenly. Not her type? Who was she
trying to kid? Bugger it, she had to go to work in a few hours. She fell asleep within minutes, but the dream resumed . . .

Billy woke. Mam and Dad were dozing in two chairs. The backs and seats were padded, but they had wooden arms. His own arms weren’t comfortable, and one was worse than the
other. Clear fluid dripped into one tube, bright blood into a second. Breathing hurt a bit. The bank robber in the mask had gone. Except he wasn’t a bank robber, he was a doctor, one of those
who cut people open and stitched them up again with somebody’s old sewing machine. That had been a joke, of course.

The light was poor, but he wouldn’t complain about that, because illumination in the bank robber’s lair had been cruel and painful. His mouth was dry. He didn’t want to wake
his parents. There was no way of working out how long they’d been here; Billy and time had parted company. It was 1955, though the month, the date and the day remained a mystery. He was seven
years old, it was summer, and a priest had kicked him.

Half a crown. All this for half a crown. He should have saved his spends, but hadn’t been able to resist that Dinky fire engine. The money would have been returned to the church, although
to St Anthony’s rather than St Columba’s. A lot of Columba’s people went to a different parish whenever Father Brennan filled in for Father Foley. No one liked Father Brennan.