For the Love of Liverpool

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Bugger it,’ he repeated. Having nursed her father as he travelled a long path through stage four, Julia now awaited the death of a beloved mother, another victim of the big C. She had promised to return to Liverpool after it happened. She would need to refresh her qualifications, as the only medicine she had practised after qualifying had been nursing at home, but she was a good, solid student, and she would make it as a paediatrician. Yes, love at first sight existed.

  ‘Alex, what the hell can I do for you?’ Tim asked the room. Throughout his time as a therapist on Rodney Street, he had noticed that damaged people seemed to be automatically attracted to each other. An illustration of that particular fact was now happening in glorious Technicolor. Alex had suffered an arrest in emotional development at a very vulnerable age, while Kate needed someone on whom she might depend, someone worthy of her trust and love.

  It was in all those newspaper cuttings Tim had in his desk. Kate Owen, really Katherine Latimer, had shot her husband in the face while holding the weapon very close to him. The bullet had later been dug out of a wall after blood and brain had been shifted about a bit . . . Tim didn’t blame her in the least, after all she’d been through.

  ‘She did right,’ he told himself. ‘That child almost died, and all female animals will go to extreme measures to protect their young. There’s stuff still missing from that bank raid, too, and the three prisoners might send people to seek her out. Would Alex cope? Would she? God help them – and me, too.’

  He went to put the kettle on. Where booze was concerned, enough was enough.

  *

  Everyone on nodding terms with Gentleman Jim’s lower order of four knew that Brains was, when it came to driving, something akin to the Titanic approaching its iceberg. Brains called it ‘living on the edge’, though passengers of his were more inclined towards ‘Nearer my God to Thee’.

  He and Weasel died instantly on the M25 when lane-hopping at rush hour. For most of the time, the word ‘rush’ was not applicable to that particular route, but Brains was in a hurry, and disaster ensued when he twisted and turned his way between queues of traffic, lost control and smashed through a barrier into the path of a lorry travelling in the opposite direction. The motorway ground to a halt for several very long hours, during which time tempers and radiators became overheated and many phoned home to be told that supper had been eaten, burnt, or fed to the family dog.

  ‘Just us now,’ Trev said as they drank pints in the Bow Bells.

  Sombre for once, Max grunted. ‘Even Weasel had his good points. Remember how when us four kept watch he could smell a cop before it walked round the corner?’

  ‘Yeah, he was good with the pigs, I admit. Always called them Officer and pretended he was lost or confused. Mind, he was the only one of us who had no record, and that made him useful.’ Trev paused. ‘I’ll have to work on my auntie, see if she can find out where Jimmy’s wife’s mum and dad have gone. If they have the kid with them, we follow. The kid is the weakest link; if we snatch her, that’ll smoke Katherine out of her hiding place. I’m not talking ransom money; we just have to find out where Jimmy hid the rest of the stuff.’

  They carried on drinking as a tribute to their lost pals. It was a hard life, but they must not weaken, even if, later on, it would be pie and mash for just two this time.

  *

  Tim Dyson opened his front door. Alex’s facial expression was that of a naughty three-year-old who’d stolen all the biscuits. ‘Welcome, stranger. Step into my parlour, said the spider to the fly . . . because I’m going to do a “me too” on you.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A “me too”. It’s like when you have a headache, there’s always somebody who says those words, and that person’s headache is much worse than your trifling pain. You have indigestion? Me too. That’s how it goes.’

  ‘Don’t joke, Tim – I’m a desperate man. Spent most of last night in A and E with Pete, Monica and the tribe. Pete was in pink, while Monica was in a state worthy of treatment in the psychiatric department. She was one hundred per cent dislocated in the temper zone.’

  ‘Then you went to see Kate.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you kissed her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tim poured the coffee, and each man sat in an armchair. ‘Right, brother – here comes the “me too”. You ready?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re going on about, but get a shift on with it, because my lavender’s growing and the bees are noticing already.’

  ‘Deep joy. Do you still talk to insects?’

  ‘Yup. I should see a therapist.’

  ‘Ha-bleeding-ha. Anyway, here it comes. You fell in love at first sight – me too, which is terrible English. Julia. We shared a man the day we met. He was dead at the time, and we had to locate, identify and display various body parts. We were together for over four years, as well you know. I fell. You seem to have tumbled now. So that’s how I know, and I’m well placed to tell you, that love’s a crazy business – it’s an accident. Companies should allow us to insure against it. You’re happy and miserable simultaneously. You hand yourself over to somebody else, and that somebody can make or break you. When in love, you’re no longer in charge. It’s very frightening.’

  ‘Me too,’ Alex said, a grin on his face. ‘I’m scared.’

  Tim shook his head. ‘I almost did it, came very close to giving up my family, my friends, the city I love in the country I love. I was going to join her in Vermont, but she stopped me. She probably didn’t want me to regret such a huge move, and she’ll return to Liverpool after her mother’s death, because she likes Liverpool and loves me. It’s been hell, Alex. I’ve done my best to carry on as normal and even you might not have noticed, but seeing her just three or four times a year is not enough. Finding trust takes time, and trust is necessary before the fear goes.’

  ‘But I’m not in the same position, Tim. Kate’s going nowhere.’

  ‘You’re in danger.’

  ‘How?’

  The therapist shrugged. ‘Is your heart lost irretrievably? Is hers? Are the risks equal? Have you told her what happened the day you came home for your rugby kit, the day I accompanied you after visiting the dentist all those years ago? Have you painted that vivid picture for her?’

  ‘No. She knows I suffered a trauma, but not all the details.’

  Tim paused for several seconds. ‘And has Kate told you any of her history?’

  ‘Some. Her husband beat her up, attacked their daughter. He died. She’s afraid of his associates, so she came north and sent Amelia away with her parents.’

  Tim chewed his lip for a moment. ‘Your Stepford Wives – the plain ones – I understand. I even understand your distaste for and your fear of beautiful women. Now you fall for a stunning show-stopper. How will you stop fearing and start trusting?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Men will lust after her, just as women keep their eyes on you.’

  ‘She’s different. I’m different.’

  ‘We’re all different, Alex. In some basic respects we’re similar, but mankind is a mixture of all sorts of things, good, bad and indifferent, especially when it comes to the way we think, the way we act or react. Now, I can’t tell you what I know about Kate, and I won’t tell her about your blackest day and the lasting effect it’s had. But I will allow myself to warn both of you to be careful. Until you are damned sure that you each know the history of the other, take things as slowly as you can manage. Danger lies in ignorance.’

  Alex shifted in his seat. ‘Has she done something wrong?’

  ‘No comment. Save to say that in my book, the answer would be an emphatic no.’

  ‘And yours is the only book that matters, isn’t it?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  Alex studied the floor for some moments. ‘Kate is so straight, she’s almost ferocious. She says what she sees, and to hell with it. If you don’t like her expressed opinion, that does
n’t matter. But if she perceives a wrong, she’ll do her damnedest to right it.’ He raised his eyes. ‘Ah, you’re wearing the poker face, your Friday night expression. From this rigmarole of yours, I am now almost convinced that she killed her husband.’

  The ensuing silence was weighted by unspoken words. Alex fractured it. ‘And her husband deserved it?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘No comment. No bleeding comment? Will she kill me? Because the way things are going at the moment, she won’t need to – you’re doing it.’

  ‘Don’t panic, Alex.’

  ‘Don’t panic? I don’t need permission from you to feel nervous.’

  Tim leant forward. ‘By having you in my house, by allowing you to crawl towards a conclusion, I am already in trouble. She’s my patient – you know what level of confidentiality that entails. All I’m saying is that she needs to come clean with you, and vice versa.’

  Without offering another word, Alex Price jumped to his feet, banged his way out of the house and drove off. To describe his mood as dark would be an understatement; he was livid. Like many adopted Scousers, he copied the indigenous habit and made for the river. In her depths, whether calm or boiling, many found solace without knowing why.

  *

  I’m in my parked car with the erosion steps beneath me, and I’m staring down at the stretch of sand on which our six dogs ran together. I am crazily, stupidly in love. She held my hand, and I can still feel the tingle that ran up my arm. I saw her with her guard dropped, no wig to conceal her identity. Nothing fazes her; she copes with burnt lasagne, fish and chips, dog muck, me. I need her, God help me. She’s colour in a monochrome world.

  Tim Dyson’s car slides into the space beside me. Buggeration. I need ‘me time’ in order to recover from the ‘me too’ experience. He eases his way into my passenger seat; I should have used central locking.

  ‘Are you suicidal, Alex?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I suggest a refresher course in driving. You went through a stop sign and two red lights.’

  ‘Mea maxima culpa.’

  ‘I forgive you. Not that I’m pretending to be God, of course.’

  I look him up and down. ‘You’re not handsome enough to be God.’ He didn’t deny my conclusion earlier, so I can now assume that Kate did kill her husband, and I feel like . . . I feel like running.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve got to get away.’ I refuse to meet his eyes. The combination of suddenly finding I’m finally in love and that the woman in question has killed – even if for good reason – is more than I can take. ‘I’ll probably hand over to my second in command and lose myself for a few weeks or months.’

  ‘Will you tell her you’re going?’

  I shrug. ‘I have to think about that.’

  ‘You’ll break her heart, Alex. She may present as strong, but she’s still papering over the cracks.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? You’ve been papering over the Atlantic Ocean for years, and I’m sure it hurts. I’ll tell her I’m going away to think about business, perhaps sell Chillex to that American chain.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, though his voice isn’t steady.

  I sure as hell am not going to tell anyone about my destination. Not Kate or Tim or anyone at work.

  ‘Will you keep in touch?’ he asks me next.

  ‘No. I’m going away to find what’s left of me. And don’t tell anyone to look for me in any of my regular holiday haunts like Wales or Cornwall, because I won’t be there.’

  He’s gone, thank goodness. And he hasn’t turned into the road that leads to Kate’s house, so I’m safe for now. But I have no time to linger.

  I drive homeward to speak to Brenda and Brian. I’d trust them with my life.

  Four

  Still angry and confused, on his way back home Alex found himself wrestling many mixed emotions. He’d forgotten what that was like and how exhausting it could be. And there was packing to be done. So this was feeling, and feeling was painful.

  While folding clothes in his room, he stopped for a breather; he could not leave the country without at least seeing her again.

  Brenda Boswell knocked before poking her head round the door. ‘I would have packed for you,’ she grumbled. ‘I know what I’m doing when I pack.’

  ‘I need to be messing about with something while I think.’

  She nodded sagely. ‘You’ve been like a cat on hot bricks since you met that nice young woman. Has she given you the push, then? Is that why you’re scarpering off abroad without any real warning?’

  ‘Er . . . no. Well, partly, I suppose. I need some distance from work, from her—’

  ‘And from me and my Brian?’

  ‘Never. Aside from my dogs and my honey bees, you’re the only living creatures I trust completely.’ He sighed heavily. ‘She’s pushy, Brenda. She needs a permanent fixture in her life . . . a husband. I’m not ready, and although I’ve told her that neither is she, her hormones are fighting an unfair war. I need to escape from the firing line.’

  The housekeeper smiled. ‘Put your foot down, son.’

  ‘She’d stamp on it.’

  Brenda laughed. She had a big laugh, one that sounded as if it couldn’t possibly have emerged from so tiny a body. The trouble was that she often cried after laughing. ‘I like the cut of her jib,’ she said. ‘See, sit down with me a minute.’ She perched on the edge of his bed and took his hand as he joined her. ‘You mean a lot to me and my Brian – you know you do.’

  Alex managed not to roll his eyes. Brenda’s emotional moments were usually accompanied by a tale she had told so many times that its socks were full of holes and the shoes needed soling and heeling. Shoes. He mustn’t think about shoes. Kate had at least a hundred pairs. She should be called Imelda.

  ‘We never had kids of our own.’

  She was off. It was a sad tale, though it had become somewhat threadbare with the passing of time. Oh, God, she had the handkerchief out already. Poor Brenda.

  ‘I know you didn’t have children,’ he said softly. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  ‘He was perfect,’ she whispered. ‘Just like a little doll after they’d cleaned him up a bit. Tiny, he was, and his lips were a bit blue. He never breathed.’

  Alex patted her hand. ‘Sad, love.’

  ‘Years passed and we struggled on, even after all my operations what made me barren. Brian said he didn’t mind, but we both minded. Then you came along, like, and gave us that little shop to run while this house got built. Nice, comfortable flat with the shop, too. And now we’re here, the three of us—’

  ‘And the dogs.’

  ‘Yes. And you’re like a son to us.’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, please. I think you’ve done a very good job of bringing me up. I can use cutlery and wipe my nose all by myself.’

  She dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘I’ve made my decision, but I must go and speak to her first.’

  She squeezed his hand. Again, he noticed the strength she owned in those little digits. ‘Where you come from, in Woollyback land, they’d say you’ve been and gone and done it, eh? You love that young woman.’

  He ran the free hand through his mop of hair. ‘I don’t know what state I’m in, Other Mother,’ he muttered, knowing how she loved it when he used that term. ‘According to Tim, I have to get past the fear to find the trust. According to myself, I need to run and think for a few weeks. So much for getting past the fear. But I have to tell Kate . . . yet I don’t know if I can face her.’

  She stood up. ‘Look, son. Look at me. I want you to go now and get over to that house of hers. Remember telling me and Brian how you shut down when you were a first-year at Bolton School? Well, we can’t be having a repeat performance. Open up to her.’

  ‘She’ll kill me,’ he replied with a wry smile. ‘She has what one might call a volatile temper.’ The rest of Kate’s secrets would remain with him; it was not his story to tell. ‘I
suppose I’d better go and get the deed done,’ he said.

  ‘That’s my boy. Face the music as soon as you can, because that’s better than hanging about. I’ll be here when you get back, son.’

  He kissed her furrowed brow. ‘I’m going to have a word or three with my river first. If anybody phones, I’ve gone out and you don’t know where I am. I’ve switched off my work mobile, but you can reach me on the private one. If it’s work, they’ll phone the land line.’

  ‘Good luck, Alex. I’ll pray to St Jude – he’s for hopeless cases.’

  ‘You are joking?’

  ‘Would I do that? Go and have words with the Mersey and with Kate.’

  He squeezed her hand.

  ‘Course I’m joking.’

  He managed a grin. ‘I love you, Other Mother. See you later.’

  Brenda stayed where she was for a few minutes. ‘You’ve never fooled me for a minute,’ she told her adopted son when the front door closed behind him. ‘All that rubbish about not having feelings – well, I’ve watched you, and listened to you. You might act the cold fish in business, but I know you’re a good man. Look after him, St Jude. He’s the daft so-and-so on his way to the river. And make Kate hang on to her temper. Amen. Now, where did I put my beeswax polish?’ She bustled about and got on with her day.

  I hope nobody who knows me passes by.

  What’s just happened to me is common or garden in these parts, because people seem to know when you’re the right type for the job. I was in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong time, depending on your point of view. And I don’t look like an axe murderer, which fact probably helped in my promotion to childminder. I hadn’t intended to stop here for long, but somehow this place always gets to me. And of course I’m dreading telling Kate about my plans. So now I’ve got a good reason for hanging around a little longer.

  A beautiful blonde from Southport has left me with a Libby. Libby is three going on forty, and she’s dressed up like a princess from that Frozen film. When she clicks a button, the edges of her cloak light up with those new LED fairy lights that don’t get warm. She fascinates me. She has a Granny Linda who lives down the road, and she’s here for a birthday party.