A Mersey Mile (12 page)

The newspaper reporter then questioned Mr Charleson about standing for Parliament, and his reply was interesting. He chose his words and his company carefully.
I could not enjoy working
under whips in a place where partisanship overrides morals. We should be slave to no party. Perhaps an independent MP has freedom, but he is one voice among a babble of nonsense.
And thus
Frank Charleson dismissed Westminster and a whole system of government, a template of democracy that had been copied, adapted and shaped to form the political back-cloth of many civilizations.

Elaine folded her newspaper. There was more to Frank Charleson than met the eye, and what met the eye was pleasing. Perhaps an extra little celebration for Norma Charleson’s birthday might
be a good idea after all. The man was clever, outspoken and filled with enthusiasm. Elaine leaned on the wall outside the office and lifted her face to the sun. She wanted to know him better. She
wanted him. And Elaine Lewis always got what she wanted.

They lay rigid side by side in Polly’s bed. She wasn’t speaking to him, because she’d caught him combing his hair with his supposedly wrecked right hand. He
managed to persuade her that while some movements gave little pain, he wouldn’t have been capable of steering a car. He’d got Cal drunk, and she knew he’d done it on purpose. Yet
these misbehaviours made him all the more desirable, since the last thing she wanted in her life was a yes man.

As Polly wasn’t speaking to him, Frank decided not to talk to her. But Frank in non-speaking mode was unlike any other person Polly had ever come across. He turned his back on her and,
with his left arm, inflicted grievous bodily harm on an innocent pillow before throwing his head into the hollow he had created. He muttered. Most of his words were incomprehensible, though she
caught the odd one or two. If she filled in the missing letters like a crossword, he was moaning about her, his mother and the price of underwear.

‘Bloody sizes all wrong,’ he mumbled.

Polly coughed.

‘Can I rub some Vicks on your chest?’ This request was delivered fully formed.

She turned to face the window. There was a moon. Perhaps he was a lunatic, one who responded badly to phases of Earth’s companion. She loved him. No matter how naughty he was, she adored
him. The curtains weren’t quite closed and she thought he probably looked gorgeous on the end of a moonbeam. But she was the moonstruck one, wasn’t she?

‘Polly?’

‘We’re not speaking.’

‘OK.’ He attacked the pillow all over again.

‘Stop doing that.’

‘You spoke?’

‘Yes. I told you to stop attacking the pillow. I don’t want feathers everywhere.’

He groaned.

‘Behave,’ she snapped, though she was dangerously close to laughter.

He sat up. ‘Feathers tickle,’ he said gravely. ‘And you’re ticklish. I remember Cal sitting on you whenever you got out of hand, which was almost every day. He used to
tickle you.’

‘Don’t even think about it, or you’ll need slings on both arms. Now, let me get some sleep. We’ve early breakfast tomorrow, two sittings.’

She was in charge. It was her bed for a start. She knew she was in charge, and she knew that he knew she was in charge. Hmm. What would Admiral Lord Nelson have done? Load the cannon, hoist the
mainsail, shiver his timbers? Horatio certainly knew how to kick the frogs’ legs from under the French, while Polly was a Scouser. She was tough.

He altered his position and put an arm round her waist. It was his left arm, because he didn’t want further injuries. ‘Polly?’

’What now?’

‘Love me?’

‘You know I do.’ Mercurial as ever, she moved into his embrace. And this time, she allowed nature to take its powerful course. It was a warm night, so bedding was tossed to the floor
while the pair of them made love in moonlight. There was joy, passion, laughter and tears, and, above all, there was gentleness and a very real love.

Afterwards, she lay stark naked next to him, also stark naked, and stroked his face till he slept. Then she picked up all the covers and spread them over him. Early mornings could be chilly,
even in summer. He would be gone tomorrow back to his extended cottage with his mother in the annexe. Mrs Old Cow would question him closely, though most of the answers were in this evening’s
newspaper.

Polly would miss him. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she whispered. Physically, he was quite a specimen, just over six feet in height, brown hair, green eyes, a slight bump on his nose
rescuing him from perfection. Ellen had adored him. She had dashed straight to Polly’s house to show off her ring. The only secret that Polly had kept from her close friend was the fact that
Frank had been turned down by her. She’d met Greg, who was exciting. Oh yes, he’d been exciting and immeasurably shallow, as had Cal’s fiancée. One whiff of a damaged
spine, and they’d both disappeared, no real goodbyes, no excuses.

Frank was not shallow. He was a decided man, determined to the point of stubbornness, but he was gentle, affectionate and amusing. She grinned; she might have been describing a pet dog, and he
was no pet. ‘Don’t go home,’ she mouthed. ‘Find somewhere for the three of us.’ Oh, if only he would. Although she dreaded the loss of her cafe and the hairdressing
business, a part of her wanted the pain over with. As things were, the streets would disappear first, leaving the road a blank, deserted page with all marks erased.

The barrel organ man with his monkey no longer visited. Roundabouts used to be towed along and parked so that children could take a penny ride. Polly remembered Mam telling her about kids
leaping about in front of trams while passengers threw pennies onto the pavements to save the children’s lives. It was quieter now, though only a small percentage of the populace had been
moved. Soon, the uprooting would begin again; soon, Scotland Road would be a memory for a few decades until everyone was dead. There would never be a finer place.

It was time to start preparing to invade London where, in silence, the people from this precious part of Liverpool would rage against the dying of the light. But first, a priest must be brought
to book. How the hell would he be tracked down? Polly had no idea.

Eugene Brennan was in prison. He had a tiny cell with a hard bunk, an upright chair and a desk, a crucifix on the wall above his bed and a missal as his only reading material.
There were no police; his jailers were grey shapes who wore hooded grey garments that matched the grey walls and the grey floor.

Disorientated and seriously close to complete sobriety, he teetered on the brink of knowing exactly what he had done. He could easily kill for a drink. He had almost killed a child because of
drink. Was he contrite? No answer to this unspoken question sprang to mind. Self-pity consumed him almost completely. Where was he? What was this dreadful place where no one spoke? They sang. Every
bloody six hours, they sang the Angelus. They sang Mass twice a day. They sang Benediction. They probably sang for their supper, and the food was rubbish. Or perhaps their diet was better than the
swill they served up for prisoners.

One of the grey men unlocked the door and placed a tray on the desk.

‘Where am I?’ the prisoner asked.

The grey man left. The cell was three paces long, two paces wide. Brennan heard another door being unlocked, then another. Each time, the door was locked when the almost invisible left a cell.
The prisoner was sober enough to realize that he was incarcerated in a drying-out monastery. Next to a bowl of porridge on the tray stood a glass of water with four pills on a small saucer.

With an inhuman roar escaping from his throat, Father Eugene Brennan hurled the tray and its contents at the wall. Glutinous white slop travelled slowly over unplastered brickwork. A hooded head
peered through the grille in the door. While the monk watched, the priest picked up his slop bucket, removed the lid, and threw his own effluent at the same wall. The space was so tiny that he was
soaked in urine.

‘I am not a priest,’ he shouted. ‘I resign and I am a free man.’

After this rather strenuous outburst, he placed himself on the hard bunk and slept. When he woke, his cell was clean. On the desk sat a plate of plain biscuits, a glass of water and four pills.
Starving, he gobbled up the food, drank the water and hid the pills under his mattress. The holy brothers were trying to sedate him. Oh, God, he had to get out of this place. The window was barred,
the door was heavy, and the monks each carried just one key. It was a skeleton, he felt sure. He had to get his hands on a key, and his hands were trembling uncontrollably.

The corridor was silent. He pushed his fingers through the grille and yes, he felt the air move. Somewhere near, a window was open. Turning, he sought a weapon. All he had was a wooden cross
with the figure of Christ nailed to it.

His insides quivered. Resigning from the priesthood was one thing; battering a monk with a crucifix was on a different level altogether. His mind worked well enough to inform him that here was
the safest place, that the Church might save him from facing a judge, yet the price was high. Plainchant, plain food, plain environment – this was not living, and it might go on for years. He
needed his real medicine, a pint of ale and a double whiskey to follow.

The details ceased to be important. An open road beckoned. He could change his appearance, get a job, find a room, stay in or go out as and when he chose. There was money in his private bank
account, but the police might keep an eye on that once he’d escaped.

Hell, must he lie back and accept his punishment? Must he be incarcerated here until the story about the boy had run its course in the newspapers?

As for escape, he’d have had as good a chance in Alcatraz, since he had no idea where he was, and there were no clues, no accents, no sounds from outside. He guessed he was in the back of
beyond, but at least this wasn’t Australia. England was relatively small; sooner or later, there would be a road.

But first, he had to batter a dedicated Catholic with a crucifix. This was a grim institution, and he intended leaving it behind, no matter what the cost.

Wednesday was to be Polly’s evening off. There would be no haircuts, no perms, no colour rinses tonight. Carla needed another soaking, but she could wait. Tomorrow, Polly
would be going with Cal to the hospital. But tonight, she belonged to Frank.

After Cal’s card school had settled in the living room, she checked her makeup, made sure her hair looked good and her stockings weren’t laddered. It was exciting. Since the
accident, she had never been out on a date. She was a teenager again.

She sat in the passenger seat of Frank’s humble Austin. He didn’t believe in smart cars. In his oft-expressed opinion, men who needed posh cars were lacking somewhere in the
testosterone department. ‘Big under the bonnet, small in the trousers,’ he said.

‘Frank?’

‘Yes?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Oh, I thought I’d told you.’

She growled. ‘Liar.’

‘I wondered when you’d do that,’ he said, ‘because in bed, you purr like a contented kitten. And I thought, well, cats purr, but they also growl.’

‘You know you haven’t told me where we’re going. You’re the cat, anyway, grinning like that Cheshire thing out of Alice in Wonderland. Where are we going?’ she
asked again.

‘To my house.’

She opened the car door. ‘If you think I’m going anywhere near Old Pasteurized, you can make your own bloody cheese.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘But I didn’t get your meaning.’ He did, but he wasn’t telling her that.

‘Pasteurized milk, cheese, Old Cow Charleson – work it out, lad. I can’t stand your flaming mother. She looked down on Ellen, and couldn’t bear to be near me. When she
collected our rent, I used to put it in a silver dish for her.’

‘You didn’t. You haven’t got a silver dish. Close the door.’

She closed the door. Sometimes, she did as she was told. ‘I’m not good enough for your mam.’

‘You’re not marrying her.’

‘No, I’m marrying her little boy.’

‘I’m not little.’

‘I know that and you know that, but does she?’

Polly had this all wrong. Mother didn’t treat him like a child: she expected him to be a replacement for his father. As soon as poor Charlie Charleson had shuffled off the coil, his boots
had been passed to Frank, and he’d been forced to make them fit. ‘I loved my dad,’ he said now. ‘He even made sure that I didn’t get named Charles. All firstborn sons
are supposed to be baptized Charles Charleson, but Dad put his foot down. She doesn’t see me as a child, Polly. Oh, no. She views me as her next servant. I was my father’s replacement.
I got dragged away from accountancy and became a purchaser of houses and a collector of rent.’

‘She saw Ellen as a threat, Frank. I’ll be the same. And where we come from doesn’t help.’

‘We lived nearby.’

‘And got out.’

He sighed heavily. ‘She was born in a two up, two down with gas lighting and the bath hanging on a nail next to the outside lav. Her mother took in washing and her dad had a window round.
The airs and graces came later when she married Dad. Dad was ambitious and hardworking, so she grabbed him.’

‘And now?’ Polly asked.

‘And now, I’m going for your ring – Ellen’s ring – and I shall find somewhere for us and Cal as soon as possible. The business will still be yours, and we’ll
get round the details, but she has to know that you exist.’

Polly wasn’t convinced. ‘You could go on your own and get the ring. She doesn’t need to know yet, does she? Cal doesn’t know, and he’s my family.’ She paused
for thought. ‘Are you using me to punish her?’

‘No. I’m surprised if you think me capable of sinking so low. I’m not doing anything behind her back, that’s all. She takes a while to get used to change. The point I
need to make is that I love you, we’ve decided to be engaged to marry, and none of it’s negotiable. She needs to get out of bed and run her business again, because my new life’s
in a storage place on the Dock Road.’

‘And Cal? Are you absolutely sure about where you’ll store him, Frank?’