The Leaving Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  A pale sun shone through the window, making the jug of bluebells on the sill look even bluer. A feeling of sheer happiness overwhelmed her and she had to stop herself from laughing out loud or Mollie would think she was even dafter. It really was going to be a wonderful day.

  April 1940

  ‘Good morning,’ said a voice.

  Anne opened her eyes with the feeling she’d just had a lovely dream. The voice belonged to a man who was looking at her as if he knew her well. For a moment, she lost her bearings, then realized with surprise that she was in Central Park sitting on the bench opposite the apartment and had actually fallen asleep. She’d been on her way somewhere, but couldn’t resist stopping to savour the fresh April sunshine. ‘Hello,’ she said. He was a fine-looking man with a boyish face, brown crinkly hair, and brown eyes.

  He smiled. ‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’

  She screwed up her eyes and tried to remember where she’d seen him before, but gave up. ‘No,’ she admitted.

  ‘Robert Edgar Gifford, known as Bobby to my friends.’ He doffed his hat, an off-white Homburg. ‘And you’re Anne Murray. Do you remember me now?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said delightedly. She’d found him on the very same bench ten years ago and given him hamburgers and coffee. ‘You look very different now.’ Then, he’d looked like the scarecrow out of The Wizard of Oz. Now, he wore a smart grey pinstriped suit with a plain grey waistcoat. She patted the bench. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘You’ve hardly changed,’ he said when he was seated beside her. ‘I’d’ve known you anywhere.’

  ‘I knew I’d seen you before,’ she confessed, ‘but I just couldn’t remember where. You were much thinner back then. Did you go to California?’ She remembered giving him the eight dollars that she had in her pocket. ‘Are you still cross with me for giving you money?’

  ‘I was very rude. It seemed demeaning to take money off someone so young. But I still took it. I’m sorry,’ he said abjectly. ‘And no, I didn’t go to California. I hitched a lift as far as Springfield, Illinois, where I had my suit pressed and mended, and my shoes polished. I bought a fresh shirt, called in the local barber’s for a shave and a haircut, and got a job on the local paper, the Springfield Star. Now I’m the editor,’ he said proudly, ‘and it’s all due to you, Miss Anne Murray.’ He nodded at her left hand with its thick gold ring. ‘Though I see you’re no longer a miss, but a missus.’

  ‘Mrs Herbie Blinker, though Anne Murray is my professional name and most people call me by that.’

  ‘What does your husband do?’

  ‘He’s in the movies; he’s what’s called a movie star.’ Ollie produced a movie once a year with Herbie in the leading part. They would never win an Oscar, but were very popular and made a big profit. ‘He lives in California most of the time, Los Angeles, and I live in New York. We don’t see much of each other.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ He made a face. ‘Sorry, that’s a very intrusive question. Forget I asked.’

  ‘It’s quite all right.’ She liked talking to him. ‘No, I don’t mind a bit that Herbie and I don’t see much of each other. I’ll ask you a question, shall I? What are you doing in New York?’

  ‘I’m here for a job interview, assistant editor on the New York Standard.’ His boyish face shone and she could tell he wanted the job very much. ‘It’s a much bigger paper than my present one with a wider circulation, and it’s a daily, whereas the Star only comes out once a week. The interview’s not until tomorrow. Today, I’m looking up a few old friends - starting with you.’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I’m very flattered,’ she said, ‘but you could hardly call me a friend. We only spoke to each other for about ten minutes.’

  ‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,’ he said in a heartfelt tone. ‘You completely changed my life around. If it hadn’t been for you, Lord knows where I would have ended up. I owe everything I have to you, Anne Murray.’

  Anne felt herself blush. ‘Did you actually expect to find me on this bench?’

  ‘No, but you told me where you lived. Your bedroom’s the second from the left in that apartment building directly opposite. I intended to enquire if you still lived there so we could meet and I could thank you and apologize for being so rude, but found you in exactly the same place as you found me.’

  ‘Well, now we’ve met, you’ve thanked me, and I’ve accepted your apology. What happens now?’

  ‘How about lunch? Or is it too early?’ He paused and put a finger to his chin. ‘I know, how about a drink in the Plaza and we’ll just hang around until it’s time for lunch? Or were you planning on doing something different? Are you in a show? I seem to recall you said you were a dancer - no, I don’t seem to, I recall very well.’

  ‘I’m resting between shows. I start rehearsing a new one next week.’ Her smooth brow furrowed. ‘I think I was going shopping,’ she said vaguely. She couldn’t remember what she was going shopping for, so it couldn’t have been anything important. ‘It’s my birthday, ’ she announced then, taking herself by surprise. How did she know? She looked down at her right hand, half expecting to see a ring with a green stone, but the hand was bare. She shrugged. She had so many strange dreams that sometimes she couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what was not, but she was certain it was her birthday. Lizzie had mentioned this morning it was April Fools’ Day, so it must be. She was probably twenty-nine. Lev had reckoned she was about fourteen when he’d found her. They’d used to pretend it was her birthday on a different day each year. Lev had gone to Washington for a conference, but she’d telephone as soon as he got back and tell him she’d remembered her birthday.

  ‘Many happy returns,’ Bobby Gifford said warmly.

  ‘Thank you. Shall we walk to the Plaza?’

  ‘What a good idea.’

  Without thinking, she tucked her arm inside his and they strolled across Central Park in the April sunshine. Anne just knew it was going to be a really wonderful day.

  After a long lunch, during which they’d talked non-stop, hardly noticing what they were eating, she took him back to the apartment to introduce him to Lizzie. She’d already told him that Lizzie was her mother-in-law and Ollie her father-in-law, ‘but he spends as much time in Los Angeles as Herbie - he produces Herbie’s movies.’

  ‘That’s a very strange arrangement,’ Bobby opined. ‘Wives on one side of the country, husbands on the other. You couldn’t be further apart.’

  ‘It’s also a very happy arrangement. It means that Ollie and Herbie can get up to whatever they like without interference from their wives.’

  ‘I won’t ask what they get up to,’ Bobby said darkly.

  Anne laughed. ‘I wouldn’t tell you if you did.’

  When they arrived, Lizzie was having a bath. Christina offered to make coffee while Anne showed Bobby around the apartment. He paused in front of the paintings, hugely impressed. ‘Is that really a Picasso?’ he asked, and Anne assured him that it was. He touched it reverently. ‘A genuine Picasso. It must have cost the earth.’

  ‘It didn’t when Lizzie bought it. She’s had it for years. And most of these.’ She waved at the canvases done by other artists whose names she couldn’t bring to mind. Like Lev, she preferred paintings in which the figures had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and recognizable bodies with arms and legs in the right places.

  ‘Are you admiring my art collection?’ Lizzie sailed in wearing tailored slacks and a polo-necked jumper.

  ‘It’s stunning, Mrs Blinker,’ Bobby said appreciatively. ‘Like having your very own art gallery.’

  ‘Not bad for a girl who was born in the back streets of Manchester nearly sixty years ago, is it?’ Lizzie said heartily. ‘Call me Lizzie. And who are you?’

  ‘Bobby Gifford, ma’am - Lizzie. Anne and I found each other in the park.’

  Lizzie laughed out loud. ‘All I ever seem to find in the park is old cigarette packets and the occasional glove. I shall definitely go there
more often if there are more young men like you waiting to be found.’

  Christina came in with the coffee and they sat around and talked for ages. Lizzie said there was a breathtaking new work by Picasso in the Museum of Modern Art. ‘It’s called Guernica. It’s the name of a little town the Germans bombed during the Spanish Civil War. Have you heard of it, Bobby?’

  ‘I’ve heard of Guernica, yes, but not the painting.’ Bobby slapped his knee impatiently. ‘That’s why I’d like to work for the Standard. The Star is very parochial. I want to deal with world events, not local council matters and church affairs. I doubt if anyone in Springfield knows there’s a war going on in Europe.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the war,’ Lizzie said gravely. ‘I have relatives in Manchester that I still write to. Apparently, it’s been the coldest winter they’ve ever known and they’re short of virtually everything. I’ve been sending food parcels.’

  ‘I always make a cake,’ Anne put in. She was beginning to feel a bit out of things.

  ‘And so you do, pet. They’re probably the richest fruitcakes ever made and they weigh a ton. Well, I’d better be off.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’m secretary of the Committee to Re-elect the President and I’m due at a meeting. Eric will have the car outside by now.’

  ‘She’s nice,’ Bobby said when Lizzie had gone. ‘You’re very lucky to have her for a mother-in-law. My mother-in-law was a witch. I’m convinced she practised the black arts in the kitchen of her house in Queens and put spells on people she didn’t like, including me.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were married.’ For some reason Anne’s heart gave a mournful little tug. She didn’t know why. After all, she was married, so why should it matter if Bobby was?

  ‘I’m not sure if I’m married or not,’ he said frankly. ‘I was married when I first met you, but my wife had gone back to live with her mother after I’d lost my job and was about to lose our apartment. I wasn’t invited. Not that I would have gone,’ he added hastily. ‘I’d sooner have shot myself than live with my wife’s mother. She might have divorced me by now - my wife, that is, not her mother. I suppose I’d better find out.’

  Anne giggled. ‘It sounds very complicated.’

  ‘It’s not as complicated as your marital situation.’

  ‘My marital situation is completely straightforward. Herbie - and Ollie - come to stay at Christmas. Lizzie and I go to Los Angeles when Ollie is about to release one of Herbie’s movies, but I can’t go if I’m in a show, so I’ve only been three times.’ She was glad. The less she saw of Herbie the better, even though she still liked him. But it was useful being married. It kept other men at bay. Apart from Lev, Anne had never had much time for the opposite sex. Bobby Gifford, she realized, was the first man she’d really felt attracted to. There was something wholeheartedly nice about him, as if the niceness went right down as far as his toes.

  ‘What would you like to do tonight?’ she asked. ‘Shall we see a show?’ Too late, she remembered he’d come to New York to look up old friends. Anyway, it was the man who was supposed to ask the woman out, not the other way around. The trouble was, she had little experience of such things. She couldn’t flirt to save her life and was useless at small talk. ‘I forgot, you’ve got other people to see, not just me.’

  ‘The other people don’t matter,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’d sooner be with you.’ He gave her a look that sent a delicious shiver running through her body.

  ‘And I’d sooner be with you.’ She shouldn’t have said that. Women were expected to play hard to get, but Anne didn’t know how, nor did she know what to say next.

  Bobby must have noticed her confusion. He came over and kissed her softly on the lips. ‘You’re married,’ he said, ‘but I get the impression you’re not madly in love with Herbie? Is that true?’ She nodded vigorously. ‘I might well still have a wife, but I’m not in love with her either. I might not get that job tomorrow. If I don’t, I shall just have to find another so I can be in New York near you.’ He raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Shall we leave it like that and see what happens next?’

  Anne nodded again. She leaned against him, he put his arms around her, and she could feel his cheek pressing against her hair. They stayed like that for a long time, neither speaking, but both knowing how the other felt.

  Levon was having the worst time of his life. Why was he so weak? Why did he give in to Tamara every time she wanted to do something and he didn’t? He supposed it was to avoid an unpleasant atmosphere and her endless nagging. The trouble was that, in doing the thing he didn’t want, he ended up being even more miserable than if he’d refused.

  Look at the present situation. He’d been looking forward to the lawyers’ conference in Washington, had planned to travel by train with a few lawyer friends who were all staying at the same hotel, anticipated getting slightly drunk each night in the hotel bar, swapping stories and telling jokes. It was only going to be three days and would make an enjoyable break.

  Then Tamara had decided she’d like to come. ‘I’ve never been to Washington. I’d love to see the White House.’

  ‘But what about John?’ Levon pointed out.

  ‘John can stay with one of his friends. He’s fifteen and will probably have a lovely time.’

  At the expense of mine, Levon thought darkly. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, Myra Grimaldi, Tamara’s best friend, decided she’d also like to visit Washington with her husband, Art.

  ‘Art will take us in the car,’ Tamara informed him. ‘It means you’ll save the train fare.’

  Levon didn’t give a damn about saving the train fare and he loathed Art Grimaldi more than any other human being on earth. Art was a big man with a big voice who dominated every conversation with his right-wing opinions. Other people weren’t allowed to get a word in. But Lev’s objections to the Grimaldis’ presence were witheringly demolished by a determined Tamara, who was working out a programme of what they would do in Washington. She’d already booked a different hotel where all four of them would stay.

  ‘Will I be allowed to attend the conference?’ Levon asked sarcastically while he watched her make a list.

  ‘Of course, Lev, but we can meet outside and have an early dinner. Do you think you could get away for lunch?’

  ‘No,’ Levon growled.

  ‘Don’t be so bad-tempered. Anyone would think you didn’t want me to come.’

  If only he could tell her! If only he could bring himself to say, ‘I don’t want you to come. I don’t want you to be my wife any more. I don’t want to live in Brooklyn. I want to live with Peggy Perlmann in Manhattan. By the way, Peggy and I have been having an affair for years, ever since we went to Anne’s wedding in Los Angeles.’

  But he couldn’t. He was too much of a coward. Not only that, he didn’t want to hurt her. Once, she’d been the love of his life and he couldn’t bring himself to let her down. He tried to insist they went in his car, not Art’s, so at least he’d have some control over events. But apparently Art’s Oldsmobile was bigger, more comfortable, had eight cylinders and, what was more, was only a few months old, far superior to Levon’s ancient Maxwell, of which he’d grown extremely fond.

  Art sang at the top of his voice all the way to Washington. Tamara and Myra discussed what they would buy in the shops. Levon sat miserably in the back. Every now and then, Tamara would mouth at him, ‘Say something,’ but Levon could think of nothing to say.

  The enjoyable break became three days of sheer torture. He would leave the conference and his lawyer friends to find Tamara, Myra and Art waiting for him in the lobby. ‘Ah, here he is,’ Art would boom. ‘The sinner returneth.’ They would go for a meal at an expensive restaurant where only minuscule portions were served, when Levon had been looking forward to steak and fries in a greasy spoon, or heaps of spaghetti somewhere cheap and Italian accompanied by warm, red wine.

  But now at last they were on their way home. It was a beautiful day, full of sunshine. Art was singing and driving too fast, the car
windows were wide open and the stiff breeze was making Levon’s ears ache. ‘Would you mind closing the windows?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘The fresh air will do you good, pal.’ Art turned around and gave him a look bordering on contempt. ‘You’re as pale as a fish.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, man, look where you’re going!’ Levon yelled, as the car swerved wildly across the road while Art was looking the other way.

  Myra screamed, ‘Art!’

  Tamara flung herself at her husband and he caught her in his arms as the Oldsmobile and the tanker coming directly towards them met head on. Seconds later, both vehicles burst into flames.

  John Zarian was a handsome young man, almost six feet tall and well built with broad shoulders and perfect limbs. He had a pleasing disposition, was considered quite clever, though more with words than with figures. He played soccer and basketball for his school, where he was very popular with both the boys and the girls.

  He’d been staying with his pal, Scott Ives, for the Easter break when the news came of his parents’ deaths in a car crash on their way back from Washington. As Scott’s mother, Angie, told her husband when he came home that night, ‘He took it very well - unnaturally well, in my view. He just said, “Thank you, ma’am, I’d like to go home now.” I said, “Honey, let me come with you,” but he refused, so what could I do but let him go?’

  ‘I’ll go round there. The kid shouldn’t be by himself at a time like this.’ Levon and Dick Ives had been good friends and he felt it was his duty to look after his boy.

  There was no reply when he knocked on the door of the Zarians’ house. He walked around the property peering in windows and saw John in Levon’s study. He was kneeling amidst a pile of papers that had been strewn on the floor. Dick rapped on the window. John looked up, startled, and indicated he would open the door.