‘He said he loved me and liked being with me.’
‘And that’s excuse enough for you to put dog excrement through the front door?’
Lexi hung her head. She was bloody injured, and something wanted doing about this lot here. The woman was a raving lunatic for a start, and this chap was too … too posh. ‘I want to go,’ she advised the floor.
He told her what he knew Louisa wanted. The film, including her attack on Lexi, should go to the police. Louisa would take her chances, as this was her first offence – if, indeed, it might be labelled an offence – and she might get a warning, a fine, or a suspended sentence. But Lexi would go to jail, since she already had a record. ‘Her sole aim is to get you locked away so that Moira will be safe.’
‘I’ve got a new job.’ Lexi swallowed painfully.
‘Tough.’
The phone rang. He heard Lucy talking while he glared at the seated offender. A couple of minutes passed before Lucy arrived at the doorway. She was pale, shaking and, at first, unable to speak. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
Lucy opened her mouth, but no words emerged.
‘Louisa?’
At last, the syllables began to limp from her tongue. ‘Simon’s phone’s switched off,’ she managed. ‘They’re out. They were out when we got here, weren’t they? There was no one in my house.’
‘Yes. I expect they’re with some of Simon’s friends from the hospital.’
She slid down the wall and sat where she landed. ‘Richard says we’re not to tell Simon. He wants to do it. We have to wait up till they come back.’
‘OK.’ He scratched his head. ‘And?’
‘She died.’
‘Who died, sweetheart?’
‘Moira did. Tonight.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Last night now, I suppose. That beautiful soul has gone.’
It was David’s turn to go into shock. ‘Did she choke?’ he asked after a few moments had passed.
‘Two heart attacks. Richard was with her. He’s back at the shed, and a doctor’s looking after him. But he wanted to tell Simon first, because he’s the oldest. He asked what we were doing in here, and I said we were getting rid of rubbish.’
Both stared at Lexi, who was weeping. ‘Bugger off before I let my lioness loose again,’ David said quietly. ‘She may be on the floor, but she’s still growling. Even I don’t trust her mood at the moment, and I’m engaged to marry her. Go on – get lost. If you’re very, very lucky, this may be the end of the matter. We’ve things to do, and we haven’t time to waste on you.’
Lexi rushed out.
They sat together on the carpet, sharing a silence that became a partnership, because they held on to each other like a pair of young animals looking for warmth. There was no need for speech, since she knew his thoughts, and he knew hers. A taxi pulled up. Lucy knew it was a cab, because diesel was noisy. ‘Go,’ she whispered. ‘Just tell him to phone his dad. Leave Lizzie with him – he’ll need her.’
Alone, she stared at Moira’s chair with the little shawl draped over the back. On a work table, embroidery silks shared space with pastels, watercolours and a multicoloured quarrel of knitting wools, waiting for the good days when hands were steady and pain was bearable. ‘I’m glad Richard was with you. I’m glad you liked my little play house, and pleased that you enjoyed your week.’
This house would be dead without Moira. She had put up a damned good fight against the ravages of her illness, had been strong, cheerful, stubborn and persistent. The woman had filled the place, not just because of all the equipment she required, but with the breadth of her character, the quirkiness of her personality. ‘I feel as if I knew you all my life, Moira.’
David came back. ‘Your boys are with them. They’ve gone up into the gods.’
‘Did Simon make the call?’
‘I didn’t stay. It was right to leave him with his wife and his peers.’
It was moments like this one that told Lucy why her love for this man was so real and at a depth that would never be reached by mere words. They had laughed and joked about the act of lovemaking, but when it came to abiding love, the man was pure Beethoven. And that, from Lucy, who was a great fan of Ludwig, meant something.
‘We’ll go back shortly,’ he said. ‘If they need us, they’ll find us.’
‘In my bed?’
‘Of course. First I must paint out the B A S T U R D on the front of this house, and I need to shift the surveillance stuff. I think Richard should not have to see any of that.’ He smiled wanly at her. ‘Yes, your bed. Where else would we be of comfort to each other?’
He was right again. Where else should they be?
Christmas
It was cold on the steps. Built from concrete to hold back the Mersey after valuable real estate had fallen into the river, they completed a monochrome picture on this special day when the Christian world celebrated the birth of a holy child.
The dog didn’t mind the cold. Samson leapt about like a puppy, threatening the waves, coming back several times to deposit weed, a dead crab and a condom at the feet of the man who had brought him here. A dull, heavy sky hung low over a boiling river whose chief colours were pewter and darker greys. Even the crests on beating water looked like the aftermath of washday, sepia foam landing rhythmically on the stretch where Vikings had disembarked to claim territory. Blondell had built all the villages – Great Crosby, Little Crosby, Blundellsands and Thornton. ‘I see no ships,’ Richard said before ordering the dog to heel.
It wasn’t his dog. He had borrowed it as an excuse for leaving a house filled by people, coloured lights, gaily wrapped packages and dozens of cards that celebrated a day he didn’t want. Christmas had arrived early this year. Unlike Easter, it wasn’t a movable feast, so he was the one out of step. Again. London. Carpets and kindness. How long had he been back from that place? One day at a time? So many days squashed, forgotten, obliterated.
He turned to look at houses newer than his own. This was Blundellsands; this was the area Blondell had grabbed for himself, and it was valuable. Million-pound residences all in a row, fairy lights everywhere, trees in gardens illuminated by garish décor. What a bloody mess.
No. He was the mess. He could remember way, way back, but recent days, weeks and months had been compressed into a folder marked Bad, and he had disposed of it. ‘They say it’s temporary,’ he told his canine friend. ‘But I think I’ve lost it, old son.’
Samson, who had enjoyed a good upbringing, made a polite little noise in his throat. The house to which he begged to return had been interesting today. Scents of last night’s cooking had hung in the air, and he wanted to taste all that had been promised.
‘OK,’ Richard sighed. ‘It’s all right for you. You don’t have to pretend to be human.’
They began the walk back to Mersey View. Richard didn’t want to face the hopeful smiles, the dinner, his children. Harley Street had been acceptable, because he hadn’t needed to try, since it was just tufted Wilton and politeness and strangers. And expensive. Here was real, and he wasn’t ready for reality.
‘I have insight into my own condition,’ he told Samson. ‘That’s what they said, anyway. In other bloody words, I should pull myself together.’ He liked this dog. Moira had … Moira had liked this dog. ‘Let her in, Rich,’ he ordered himself. ‘Go there. Be there. Think about your wife. And for everybody’s sake, grieve, and let go.’
‘He’s out there running round like bloody Heathcliff in a mac.’ Carol Makin folded her arms across a bosom that was overly ample. ‘I’ve gone out of me way for him on Christmas Day, and he’s not here. I’ll kill him when I find him, I will. I’ll bloody crown him with me roasting tin.’
Lucy decided yet again that Carol was an unusual woman. She talked like an overgrown street urchin, yet she had read just about every classic on library shelves. Heathcliff in a mac? That was a very accurate description of Dr Richard Turner, who had stopped being a doctor, had stopped being a father – had stopped being.
<
br /> ‘Shall I go after him?’ David asked. ‘After all, he could be leading my dog astray.’
Paul laughed, though the sound contained little merriment. ‘That dog knows nothing about astray. The trouble with Labradors is they’re too good.’
Carol turned on him. ‘Oh yes? Ho flaming ho and a happy Christmas all round? You should see my rug. Well, you shouldn’t, because it’s in the bin. Pigs in blankets?’ She turned to Lucy. ‘Our Dee done best pork sausages in bacon. Lovely, they were, but the flaming dog made away with half of them. The birds down Bootle is having a lovely Christmas. Don’t talk to me about bloody Labradors. I don’t care if I never see one again in—’
Samson chose this unfortunate moment to enter the house and run to Carol. He loved Carol. She was a foodie, and she often gave him illegal scraps when David wasn’t looking. ‘Hello, pet,’ she said, thereby making herself a total liar. ‘Who’s my lovely boy, then?’
Richard came in. Carol blinked, because she could scarcely bear to look at him. He appeared not to have enjoyed a good wash in twelve months, while his beard was nearly thick enough to accommodate a family of house sparrows. ‘Where’ve you been?’ She was one of the few people he heeded, so she made sure she addressed him loudly and clearly.
‘Beach,’ he said.
‘Sit,’ she ordered. Dog and man sat, the former waiting for food, the latter waiting for nothing.
‘Stay,’ she added before leaving the room.
The dog looked at his borrowed master, and the man looked at the dog.
David smiled to himself. Sometimes, canines went where humanity feared to tread. He grasped his wife’s hand and looked at her twin sons. They sat as still as a pair of statues, because like everyone else they didn’t know quite what to expect from the next few minutes.
Simon and Lizzie slipped into the room. They stood behind Richard’s chair and shared the pregnant pause.
Carol entered bearing a box. She was clearly unamused, as she was cursing under her breath about something or other, but that was not unusual for her. She dumped the box in Richard’s lap. ‘Happy flaming Christmas,’ she spat. ‘I only had it two nights, and that was enough. It’s a bastard.’
Richard opened the box, and everyone’s breath was held. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Did you eat a rug? Where are the sausages?’
Lucy allowed a long sigh of near-relief to escape. David had spoken of traumatized teenagers who communicated through Samson, whose bruised minds healed through Samson. She watched while Richard lifted a miniature Samson from the box. ‘A bastard, eh?’ he said.
David waved the paperwork. ‘He’s a close relative of my dog, and he’s good stock. The Queen’s gun dogs share ancestry with these two. But even good stock chews its way to new teeth, I’m afraid. He’s nine weeks, and he needs one more shot from the vet. Apart from that, he’s good to go.’
Richard lifted the small dog and allowed it to nuzzle his neck. He stroked a satin ear before handing the puppy to Samson. ‘There you are, lad. Train him.’
Carol dashed a few tears from her third chin. Watching the doc deteriorating hadn’t been easy. She’d caught Dee crying her eyes out, and Dee was tough. It had been heartbreaking, mostly because he’d never really mourned. After the funeral, other doctors had taken over the practice, while he’d taken to sitting around doing nothing. The two girls had come down, with permission from their university, to look after Dad, but they’d got nowhere with him. And he was such a good-looking bloke – it was a damned shame. ‘Doc?’ she said, her voice cracking slightly.
‘Yes?’
‘Look after that hound. She would have liked it. Moira would have loved a dog like Samson.’
The room was still and silent. ‘She would,’ he said. ‘You’re right.’
‘And if you look after the dog, it’ll look after you.’
‘Yes.’ He examined the puppy. ‘It’s a boy. I’ll call him Henry. Come along, Henry. You must meet the cat.’
It was as if the world had stopped. Steph and Alice arrived from next door, since everyone was to eat in number 32 Mersey View today. ‘Where is he?’ Alice whispered.
‘Outside with two dogs and a cat,’ replied Lucy.
They all filed into the dining room and stared through the window. The inevitable had happened, and poor little Henry was learning the hard way that cats didn’t negotiate, they dictated. ‘That won’t last,’ said Lucy. ‘Smokey loves dogs.’
And it happened. Richard sat on an old swing and cradled his puppy. Although he was facing away from the house, all inside could tell that he was sobbing, because his back shook.
‘That’s the start,’ David announced. ‘Like Churchill said, God bless him, this isn’t the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.’ He placed an arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘Is Alan definitely coming?’
‘Yes. So is Trish. Tomorrow. That’s step two. But the pup broke the ice.’
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. The dinner went on hold, and even her majesty could wait if necessary, because everyone here had lived through Richard Turner’s hell. The trouble was, most of the populace expected a doctor to be on top of things all the time, but David knew better. He had lived in a dark place himself, and he didn’t want to see Richard enduring a decade of nothingness. David had organized the Harley Street clinic and the dog; he had decided to talk to Alan and to invite him and Trish for Boxing Day. ‘Who’s a clever boy, then?’ Lucy whispered in his ear.
‘Early days, my darling. I’ll go and carve that massive bird before Samson sets his sights on it.’
Lucy went to stand at the back door. She smiled to herself. Richard was drying his tears on a nine-week-old puppy, and that, too, was a very good thing. If a man had no tissues, using a little dog as a handkerchief was thinking outside the box. An inch at a time, he would be dragged kicking and screaming from the container into which he had locked himself. ‘I won’t give up on him, Moira,’ she whispered as a single flake of snow landed at her feet. ‘None of us will.’
Boxing Day was sharper, clearer. The sun put in an appearance, its rays bouncing from a thin coating of hoar frost that had descended in the night. It was cold. Lucy slipped from the embrace of her husband, pulled on a dressing gown and went to the window. ‘We now have Heathcliff and Henry in a mac,’ she said. ‘Richard’s got his pup peeping out of the collar. Henry can’t be allowed on pavements till he’s had another injection.’ She sighed. ‘And another busy day. Come on, lazybones.’
‘No Chopin this morning?’ he groaned.
‘Not even chopsticks. Did he write that? Shut up and get up, David Vincent.’ She went to have a shower, her mind running through today’s menu and things that still needed to be done. Most of it was ready, but she prided herself on a good table, even when it offered just a buffet. Shirley and Hal had gone to their retirement home, so Ian, the new gardener, was to bring his family, while Carol and Dee were accompanying the formidable Beryl. Dee had refused to fetch her children, had muttered darkly about some things being unfit for human consumption, so Lucy had left it at that.
David joined her. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m just in the queue, no Chopining about, and definitely no Tchaikovsky. But don’t turn round, or I might get carried away.’
She turned round with deliberate slowness. ‘Bog off,’ she said. ‘I’ve salmon to poach.’
‘I married a poacher? Can’t you buy your salmon from a supermarket like everyone else? Do you have to go out with fishing tackle and—’ A wet sponge hit him in the face.
Lucy left him where he was and pulled on a robe. She fought the urge to laugh, because he was capable of going from sublime to ridiculous and back in a split second. This was what happened when women married spindly little lads who turned out to be the spit of John Lennon, but taller. If he ever stopped being a nuisance, she would be very sad.
It was even colder than yesterday, but it was certainly brighter. Richard walked on sand while delivering a monologue t
o his new friend. The creature was warm, soft and pretty. He could not remember contact with any other being since … since September. It was the heat of one little body that had finally threatened to melt him. It was the trust in brown eyes that made him talk.
He told Henry about the world, the water, the sky. He showed him the steps, flags that forbade swimming, the coastguard station. ‘They rescue human idiots. I shall have to rescue you from Carol, because she’ll take your little deposits a lot more seriously than I do. And that, Henry, is the longest speech I’ve produced since … since Moira died.’
No drop of booze had passed his lips today. Last night, in his cups again, he had neglected this little chap and had been forced to pick up several tiny piles of dog dirt. Lucy and David were wise. So was Henry. Intelligence had been inherited from superior Canadian wolves, while prescience, too, appeared to be present. Henry was a wolf. Every dog, no matter what its size or shape, was ninety-nine per cent wolf. This one was a godsend.
‘The drink stopped me feeling. Now, I have to feel. Because people are waiting for me, you see. Friends are caring for my patients, the girls have lost a whole term and, when I was in London, I refused to see my only son. I saw him eventually, but he must have been hurt. They lost their mum. Technically speaking, Henry, a wife is replaceable, but a mum isn’t. I’ve been selfish.’
She wasn’t replaceable. He had no desire for women, no need for anyone. Lucy was still beautiful, but she wasn’t what he wanted. Without Moira … ‘Moira’s gone,’ he said.
The puppy bit his chin, which was already fragile after the first shave in days or weeks – Richard couldn’t remember. ‘No biting,’ he said before lowering himself on to a step. The Mersey was happier today. It looked cleaner. This was how life was meant to be – a series of changes, a different backdrop every hour, every moment. And he had to tackle it. He had to deal with it himself, because he knew only too well what drink could do.
The pup was like a mobile hot water bottle. He tried to wriggle out of prison, but the master held him back. ‘Soon,’ he promised. ‘For now, it’s just gardens, Samson – we have to trust to luck there – and that terrible cat. We’ve puppy food at home. Let’s get back. We have to start living.’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 34