They separated reluctantly. She gave him her handkerchief before sitting on the edge of her bed. She could still taste him. ‘Now, that shouldn’t have happened,’ she said. ‘A definite mistake. Sorry.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ came the answer. ‘I’ve just broken a very long duck.’ He faced the window and dried his face.
‘Since Anne?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘You?’
‘About ten years. And there would have been no response from me. I hated him using me.’
At last, he faced her. ‘You were an extraordinary child, and you have become the woman you promised to be. When I was small, before the great spurts of growth began, you minded me, Louisa. This isn’t the first time you’ve dried my tears.’
She sighed. ‘David, I imagined you’d always be there. As you said earlier, we thought nothing would change.’ Her parents would have been delighted. ‘But perhaps we’re both a bit hormonal? When my children give their answer, and I know it’ll be yes, you’ll have solved a massive problem, and that’s exciting, so you’re probably pumping adrenalin. As for me, well, I’ve just found freedom of a sort after years of unhappiness. It’s great to be in the company of a man I don’t hate.’
He wasn’t answering, so she motored on. ‘There are two provisos. I’d want a suite of rooms upstairs – I already have this so-called master with its own bathroom, but I’d like a small kitchen. Just a foothold, that’s all I need. How many children will be here at any given time?’
At last, he opened his mouth. ‘Depending on the level of care required, up to eight. We could take ten at a pinch if I find enough staff. And I hope we’ll get planning permission – and yours, of course – for a temporary structure in the grounds, which would allow me to take more children in.’
‘There’s already a little park home down there near the woods. So there’ll be room for me in the big house?’
‘There will always be room for you, Louisa. And the second clause?’
‘Ah, yes. Important. No alterations to the basic structure. You can divide as many rooms as you wish, but nothing solid. When I die, my children may choose to sell or to use the house differently. All that aside, there’s a lovely play area in the orangery. It’s all safety glass, all kite-marked. Some of them will be able to play, I hope.’
He lowered his head and stared at the floor. ‘Tim played right to the end. Jigsaws, mostly – he hadn’t much strength. Kids are so much better at accepting the inevitable. I’ve seen others die during play. It’s unusual, though it happens. But the main point of focus here is the parents and their other children. Cancer rules a household, Louisa. From time to time, a family needs to be away from the sick child. Most don’t go away on holiday willingly, but they go after I’ve bent their ears for months.’
She smiled. He was probably a very good persuader.
‘Louisa?’
‘What?’
‘I know this seems odd, but would you consider … going out with me?’
God. She felt as if she’d been propelled backwards through time, because he sounded so dated. Dated. He wanted to date her. She was a child of the sixties, as was he. Although her parents and other adults within her sphere hadn’t joined the peace and love brigade, she was acutely aware of how manners had changed, of people’s reduced respect for themselves and for each other. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that. You must visit me, of course. It takes about an hour to get there, that’s all. Come and look at my house.’
‘And you’ll be here sometimes?’
‘Of course. It’s my home, so I shall have to become an active member of your charity, won’t I?’
‘Yes. Yes, you will.’ His grin was wide again.
She, too, was pleased. There were two reasons that merited celebration. She had met a man she liked and thought she could trust, while a certain doctor in Crosby might just have to accept that she was there for his frozen shoulder and no more. Richard Turner was an earthy, needful animal, while David, man and boy, had always been a sensitive creature. And the kiss had been so gentle, yet fervent. He was part of her past, as was this house. She intended to keep contact with both.
Alone, David Vincent jangled Lucy’s spare keys. She trusted him enough to allow him access to her house. Something about Louisa and Diane Buckley had made them completely unforgettable. ‘I haven’t set you aside, Anne,’ he whispered to his long-dead wife. ‘Or you, Tim. But look at this. Think what can be done here.’
He lay down on Lucy’s bed. It didn’t smell of her perfume. There was just a faint odour of washing powder. How long had it been since he’d noticed another woman’s perfume? Or another woman? In his soul, he had remained constant to Anne. Perhaps if Tim had lived, he might have sought a stepmother for him. But this was Louisa Buckley, and nothing less would do. Why? He hadn’t the slightest bloody idea.
By accident, he had kissed her. She had responded. It had all been very awkward, but it had also been real. He had wept for Anne and for Tim, yet there had been another reason for that silly outburst of weeping. Yes, his duck had been broken, but it had fallen to pieces of its own accord, because that misplaced kiss had been guided by someone or something. Anne? Had she decided it was time for him to find himself? He certainly hadn’t found himself in India, that was plain.
‘Is it to be you, Louisa?’ he asked the other pillow. ‘Were you sent today to visit a man you would never have seen again had he not been ill? Do you and I share karma that involves the death of your husband, my wife and my son?’ From the sound of things, Alan Henshaw didn’t have long to live. The guru in India had promised a second marriage, though David had remained averse to the concept. There had been one woman for him, and she was dead.
He closed his eyes and began to drift towards sleep, but found himself dreaming still of Anne.
The attendant drew back the sheet. There wasn’t a mark on her face when David made the formal identification. Had she survived, it wouldn’t have been easy for her, as one of her legs had been amputated at the scene. Multiple organ failure was the cause listed on the death certificate. The second thing, the real culprit, was severe trauma caused by traffic accident.
For how long had he wanted to kill the driver of that lorry? He couldn’t remember. And how often had he been ear-witness to the concept that cancer was sometimes caused by shock? He had left Tim with his mother. ‘So selfish,’ he moaned. How on earth could a father leave his son at such a time? Did he go just to be far away from the driver of that truck?
He phoned home from Calcutta. His mother’s words were few and bold. ‘Get yourself home this minute, David. No more of your nonsense about meditation, please. Tim’s white blood cell count is wrong. He is to go into hospital for further examination and tests.’
He came home. Tim, who had lost one parent to death and another to selfishness, lived for just a further six months. The driver of the lorry committed suicide. And it hadn’t even been his fault: it had been Anne’s brakes.
David had not considered his one and only child. By going abroad, he had made Tim an orphan. Letters and presents had done nothing to save him. Had the disappearance of the two people he loved most contributed to his early death? Celibacy had probably been David’s penance.
He groaned and turned over, drawing up his knees until he was lying in the foetal position.
Fighting for Tim, taking him all over America in search of a cure. Chemotherapy, radiotherapy, hair loss, sickness, and always a smile for Dad. The very last section of jigsaw placed correctly by Tim, a bit of blue sky. That piece was with him in the urn. Both sets of ashes were buried under a fir tree whose branches were covered every year in Christmas lights. Inside the cold, messy house – nothing. No cards, no turkey, just research.
David opened his eyes. It had been a rather odd dream, a not-quite-asleep experience. He felt strangely calm, as if a decision had been reached, as if all problems were now swept away. One accident. One kiss. Louisa Buckley.
Another doctor in another
place was thinking about Lucy Henshaw, though his thoughts were more specific than David Vincent’s. He needed the relief provided by close contact with a desirable woman, and Lucy seemed to grow more attractive every time he saw her. Moira understood. She remembered the avid lover, his frequent demands, and the pleasure she had shared with him. And she approved of Lucy, but Richard was getting nowhere. Lucy wasn’t cold, wasn’t aloof – she was simply unresponsive to him.
The massages were wonderful, but she, as a nurse, stuck rigidly to the brief – he had a frozen shoulder, and she treated just that. Sometimes he leaned his head against that remarkable bosom, but she always stepped back, or moved to one side. Was that because she wanted him and was playing it cool? Or was she displaying her intention not to become involved with her friend’s husband? Perhaps she simply didn’t fancy him. Whatever, he should be giving up, because he seemed to be getting nowhere. He was teetering on the brink of obsession, and it had to stop.
In the end, it was Moira who stepped metaphorically into the breach. She could no longer bear to watch his suffering, the swings from hope to despair, the pain that Lucy’s perceived rejections were giving him, so she spoke to her next door neighbour one evening over a glass of wine. Having nothing to lose, she was extremely blunt, slightly drunk, and very clumsy. ‘He’s out. Gone to visit a dying woman,’ she said. ‘And he wants you,’ she added. ‘I expect you realize by now that he wants you.’
‘Oh.’ For several seconds, Lucy could not lay her tongue across another syllable. What was she supposed to say? ‘Gee, thanks, I’m flattered’? Or ‘I had absolutely no idea’?
Moira motored on. ‘You see, we had a very active sex life, but that’s been put a stop to by this bloody MS. And I had a wonderfully romantic idea about finding him another wife – one I liked – to carry on after I’m gone. He shouldn’t be alone. I feel terrified when I think of him going through life without a partner. He likes you. I think he’s falling for you, and I’m glad.’
Lucy prided herself on having become used to the outgoing ways of the average Scouser. Although faster-spoken, they were very like Yorkshire folk when it came to calling a pail a bucket, yet she felt utterly stymied by Moira’s bluntness. ‘I’m still married,’ she managed finally.
‘Divorcing, though. Right from the start, I thought you were the one for him. I don’t want him picking up all sorts of girls – he needs kindness, continuity, a lover. He’s an extraordinary man, and a good one.’ Moira reached across and patted Lucy’s hand, withdrawing it immediately when she felt Lucy’s automatic recoil. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were fond of Richard. I’ve seen you laughing and joking with him. I was sure you liked him.’
‘I did.’ Lucy, who had sat on anger for as long as she could remember, reined in many feelings that were suddenly threatening to overpower her. Was she expected to become an unpaid prostitute? ‘But I also value myself, Moira. Your husband has sent out many signals in my direction. Had he been in possession of the slightest degree of sensitivity …’ She paused for a moment. ‘Even common sense would have helped. He should be aware by now that I have no intention of becoming close to him. Oh, and he had better see a qualified physio, as my ministrations are clearly not working, since he continues to come back for more treatment.’
‘You’re angry.’
‘I’m furious. I know you have an incurable disease, and I’ve been only too pleased to help, but I draw the line at sexual favours. Would you want to supervise the proceedings?’ Lucy held up a hand. ‘Sorry about that last bit, but if your husband can’t control his animal urges, I suggest you send him to Lime Street where the working girls hang out. He can check them for disease before jumping on board whichever train he chooses to travel on.’
‘Sorry, Lucy.’
‘So am I. I shall miss you.’ She left the house, allowing the front door to slam in her wake. For almost a quarter of a century, Lucy Henshaw, née Buckley, had kept her temper. No, it had been longer than that: she had always been a people-pleaser. Except when it had come to marrying Alan. That single, quiet revolution against her family had produced a disaster, and she had lost confidence in her own decision-making skills. But now her hackles were up.
Laughter drifted from one of her front sitting rooms. Moira’s children, Alice and Stephanie Turner, who managed to look like identical twins, were keeping company with Lucy’s real identical twins. This was going to become uncomfortable, because the boys appeared to have settled here, and October was many weeks away. Anything might happen. She couldn’t supervise this, didn’t want to stay in the house just to protect these young adults.
The girls were studying medicine in Edinburgh, where their father had trained. Their older brother, Simon, was already working at the Royal in Liverpool. He lived in a flat near the hospital so that he would be on call to serve the master he followed, a cardio-thoracic surgeon with a double-barrelled name and the attitude of a prima donna. The son of the family was a nice lad. Lucy wondered briefly what Simon, Alice and Stephanie might say if informed that their mother was trying to hand over their father to the woman next door. She would put a stop to the nonsense right away, and she would do it in a way that might well be deemed eccentric.
She wasn’t one for taking notice of whims, but she acted on one now. Opening the door without knocking, she asked her sons to come out into the hall. They disentangled themselves from their partners before joining Lucy. With a finger to her lips, she led them into the kitchen, taking care to ensure that the door was closed before speaking. ‘Be careful with those two,’ she whispered. ‘They come from a very strange family.’
‘So do we,’ said Paul. ‘Look, Mums, they’re nice girls, good fun – there’s nothing heavy going on. What on earth’s the matter? You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp.’
‘When’s Elizabeth coming?’
‘Sunday, possibly. Look, I asked first – what’s going on?’
They were old enough to be told, so she told them. ‘Moira asked me to have sex with their father. Her illness may have affected her brain, but he has become … something of an imposition. He won’t leave me alone. She says he’s stressed because she can’t … well … they don’t have a full relationship on account of her sickness. I walked out of their house a few minutes ago. I’m rather angry.’
The two boys dropped into chairs at the big white table. ‘What?’ Mike’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his fringe. ‘Mums?’
She shrugged. ‘I knew he was needful, and I knew he had me printed on his bill of fare. But I thought I could sidestep him until he found somewhere else to leave a deposit.’
The twins looked at each other. Never before had their mother spoken so bluntly. ‘But that’s crazy,’ Paul said. ‘Ridiculous.’
Lucy agreed. ‘If his daughters are in my house, he has an excuse to come for them. I won’t be treating his shoulder, so that will cut down most of his visits. However, your friendship with Steph and Alice could make life difficult for me. I hope you understand.’
‘What do we tell them?’ Mike asked.
‘No idea. I’ve found of late that the truth serves me very well. Perhaps it’s almost a relief, because I lived a lie for such a long time.’ She left them to discuss their problem. No, it wasn’t their problem – it was hers, and she had allowed a personal difficulty to impinge on her children for the first time ever.
In her ground floor bedroom, she listened to the blackbirds as they argued about something or other. Was she being spiteful? She had no idea, but someone would have to put a stop to Moira. She couldn’t go around the villages in her wheelchair interviewing prospective candidates for the post of concubine. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself shut in a loony bin, poor woman.
The garden looked rather dry. Outside, Lucy turned on the sprinklers and listened to the screaming from next door. Moira was being given a hard time by her daughters, but better them than some stranger she might accost with her dreadful propositions. Richard, who had clearly retur
ned from his house call, joined in. ‘Who told you?’ he yelled. ‘This is preposterous.’
Moira added a few words to the poisonous recipe. ‘You wanted her. All I did was—’
‘All you did was make a bloody mess,’ he roared. ‘Yes, she’s attractive, but you shouldn’t have done this, you stupid, stupid woman.’
Doors slammed. The sound of girls arguing and weeping flooded through an open first floor window. With the blackbirds bickering on one side and the Turner girls on the other, Lucy gave up, turned off the sprinklers and went indoors. What had she done? What had she achieved? Richard would have trouble facing her, her friendship with Moira was possibly destroyed, and four young people were upset.
Her sons were waiting for her. ‘You did the right thing, Mums,’ Mike told her. ‘Mrs Turner can’t go about the place looking for a woman – at least you’ve put a stop to it.’
‘I feel terrible,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can stay here.’
‘You can and you shall,’ said Paul. ‘They’re the ones at fault, not you. For long enough, you were messed about by Dad. At last you’re sticking up for yourself, and it’s not before time.’
‘I shouldn’t have involved you and their girls.’
‘How else might you have ensured that the stupidity would stop? It could have been just about anyone out there – it could all have ended in court cases and all kinds of trouble. This way, we know it’s over.’
Alone in her darkening kitchen, Lucy thought about Moira. Moira wasn’t like other people, and that was nothing to do with multiple sclerosis. She was, well, unusual. The poor woman probably thought she was doing the best she could manage for a man she clearly adored. In her imagination, Richard would go to Lucy for sex, and return home to her for meals, surgeries, and general family life. After Moira’s death, the two houses would become one, and everyone would live happily ever after.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 8