The Leaving Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mom and pop, son,’ Dick said when he was let in.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ives,’ John said stiffly. He was dry-eyed, his face expressionless. Dick reckoned the terrible news hadn’t yet sunk in. He followed the boy into the study.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he enquired.

  ‘Looking for papers, insurance papers, stuff like that. They had funeral insurance, Mom told me once. Someone’s got to organize the funeral and there’s only me. This is the drawer where they kept everything; I’ve never looked in it before. Pop said it should all go in a file, but Mom just kept putting things in the drawer. These are my school reports.’ He tossed a brown envelope to one side.

  ‘I’ll see to the funeral.’ Dick put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed it.

  ‘Will I need their birth certificates and marriage certificate? I found some things, but they’re in Armenian. ’ He kept picking up papers, reading them briefly, then flinging them into an ever-growing heap. It reminded Dick of how he went outside and chopped wood when something bad happened; it was a way of letting off steam, occupying his mind and his hands while slowly getting used to the bad thing, whatever it may be.

  ‘I’m not sure. If you do, it won’t be for a day or so yet. Look, son, why not come round to our place and have something to eat? Stay the night. In fact, you can stay with us until the funeral’s over - longer, if you want.’ At only fifteen, the boy was likely to be taken into care until he was old enough to fend for himself. ‘Scott and Connie will be pleased to have you.’ Connie was the Iveses thirteen-year-old daughter and Angie was convinced she was madly in love with John.

  ‘What’s this?’ John picked up a piece of paper and stared at it.

  ‘Looks like a birth certificate. Probably yours. Shall we go now, son? Angie’s got the dinner on. I’ll come and look through all this stuff tomorrow, find the funeral insurance. We’ve got to arrange to have the . . . your mom and pop brought home.’ He’d nearly said ‘the bodies.’

  John scrambled to his feet. ‘I need to go to the bathroom and look for my bag. I brought it home earlier, but can’t remember where I left it.’

  ‘I’ll look for the bag while you go to the bathroom.’

  As soon as Mr Ives had left the room, John examined the birth certificate. It confirmed his date of birth and his name - but his mother was shown as Anne Murray and his father was ‘Unknown’.

  John wasn’t sure what thought occupied his mind most during the sleepless night that followed; the fact that his parents were dead or that they weren’t his parents after all. He’d been adopted. He felt angry that they hadn’t told him. The anger helped him cope with the knowledge that his so-called mom and pop were dead. Whatever they’d done or not done, he had loved them with all his heart.

  At quarter to four, Scott snoring loudly in the next room, he got up, put on the light, and studied the birth certificate he’d brought with him. It was the real thing, with an official stamp, and had been issued in City Hall. He stared at the name Anne Murray. He remembered his parents had sometimes had arguments over someone called ‘Anne’.

  ‘You can’t forget her, can you?’ Mom had screamed the last time.

  ‘You can’t just forget people at will,’ Pop replied.

  Next morning, Mr Ives asked for the key to the Zarians’ house. ‘It’d be best if I made the necessary arrangements from there,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll have any papers to hand that might be needed. Your pop’s office should be informed, his bank. Do you want to come with me, son?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ John said politely.

  Mrs Ives came and gently told him that breakfast was ready. Yesterday, she’d just yelled, ‘Grub’s up!’

  John’s appetite had disappeared completely. All he wanted was coffee, which he didn’t normally like. ‘Have you heard of a woman called Anne Murray?’ he asked Mrs Ives when he was on his third cup. Connie stared at him with her eyes full of tears. So far, John hadn’t shed a single tear.

  ‘Anne Murray? Why, yes. I saw her once on Broadway; she’s a wonderful singer and dancer. I think your pop knew her. It was him who got us the tickets. She married someone, a film star.’ She frowned deeply as she tried to recall the name. ‘I know, it was Herbie Blinker, so she might have gone to live in California, but if she’s still on the stage she could have stayed in New York. Why did you want to know, John?’

  ‘There was a letter from her back home,’ John improvised, ‘but it didn’t have her address on. I just wondered who she was.’ He was beginning to feel trapped at the Iveses’ house. He was desperate to find Anne Murray, even if it meant going all the way to California. First, though, he’d try to find her in New York, call in all the theatres on Broadway. Someone somewhere must know where she is. It dawned on him that his task might be made much simpler by looking in the telephone directory.

  But even that proved difficult. When he asked for the directory, Mrs Ives offered to look the number up for him and he didn’t want her to know it was for Anne Murray. He said he’d changed his mind and fancied a ride on his bike - he could look up the number in the post office - but she asked Scott to go with him, so John changed his mind again. It was no good saying he’d like to go home for a while, because Mr Ives was there.

  In the end, he just rode away when no one was looking. It was rude, but he didn’t care. He had something vitally important to do and nothing on earth was going to stop him.

  He left his bike with Mrs Engels, who taught history at school. She lived not far from Brooklyn Bridge and let him look at her directory without interference, though remarked she hoped he’d done his Easter homework. John said that he had, which was a lie. She didn’t know about his folks and he didn’t break the news about the accident.

  There were loads of Murrays in the telephone directory, six with the initial ‘A’, and no indication as to whether they were male or female. He remembered Mrs Ives had said Anne Murray had married someone called Blinker, so looked up that as well. There was only one, an E. Blinker who lived on Fifth Avenue at 62nd Street.

  It wasn’t the right initial, but Fifth Avenue seemed an appropriate address for someone who appeared on Broadway and had a film star for a husband. He supposed the proper thing to do would be ring the number and ask for Anne Murray, but he preferred to come face to face with the woman who might be his mother - if she were there.

  He caught the bus across the bridge, then another to 62nd Street. It was a swell day, sunny and warm, and he had to remove his jacket on the bus. The address turned out to be an imposing building with swing doors opposite Central Park. His pop had loved Manhattan and had sometimes taken him to the park on Sundays if Mom hadn’t had something else arranged, usually to do with church or school. His pop had seemed a distant figure, but John had loved him. Had he been allowed more say in things, he reckoned Pop would have taken him to all sorts of places like museums and theatres and movies, the sort of trips that didn’t interest Mom.

  He pushed through the swing doors and went inside.

  Christina was in the kitchen preparing lunch, Lizzie was out for the day, and Anne was waiting for Bobby to return from the offices of the New York Standard and say he’d got the job as assistant editor. To pass the time, she was playing pool in Ollie’s den. She was good at pool: Herbie used to get quite cross when she beat him. Sometimes, she would lose just to placate him, but he would guess she’d done it deliberately and be even crosser.

  ‘There’s no pleasing you,’ she would laugh.

  She and Herbie still got on well when they met. In Hollywood, he was forever getting entangled with different women, and a photo of him and the latest woman, usually referred to as a ‘starlet’, would appear in the scandal rags. Sometimes Anne was mentioned as his ‘long-suffering wife’. She didn’t give a damn what Herbie did.

  The phone in the den rang. ‘Bobby!’ she cried aloud. The cue slipped and nearly ripped the table. It was the desk downstairs. ‘There’s someone down here to see you, M
iss Murray: a Mr Zarian.’

  It wasn’t Bobby, but Lev, which was just as good, as she could introduce them to each other. ‘Send him up,’ she said, and put down the phone, wondering why Lev hadn’t been automatically allowed up. Everyone downstairs knew him. Perhaps there was someone new on the desk, though it had sounded like Jimmy who’d worked in the building for ever.

  The lift stopped and the doors opened on to an oddly shaped lobby lined with mirrors, like something out of a fairground. John was met with a hundred reflections of himself, all at a slightly different angle. He was so dazzled by the assortment of images that he failed to notice the slender, dark-haired girl waiting for him until she spoke.

  ‘Who are you? I was expecting Lev,’ she said.

  ‘I’m John Zarian. Are you Anne Murray?’ It hardly seemed possible; she looked so young - young enough to be his sister - and was incredibly pretty with black, curly hair just like his own and enormous violet eyes. He’d never seen eyes such a lovely colour before. She wore a plain white frock and white sandals. ‘I’d like to see Anne Murray.’

  ‘That’s me. What do you want? Who are you?’ She spoke in a whispered hiss and looked so terrified that he wondered if she knew exactly who he was: it made him go hot and cold at the same time.

  He took the birth certificate from his pocket and held it in both hands so she could read it. ‘I’m John Zarian,’ he repeated, ‘and it says here that you’re my mother.’

  ‘I can’t possibly be your mother, or anybody’s mother,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ve never had a child. Where’s Lev? I thought you were Lev.’

  ‘Levon, my father, is dead. I found this.’ He waved the certificate in front of her eyes. ‘See, it says, “Mother - Anne Murray”.’ He hadn’t had time to wonder what sort of reception he would get. Perhaps there was another Anne Murray. But no, he’d got the right one. This woman, this girl, was his mother, no matter how much she might try to deny it.

  ‘Lev’s dead?’ Her eyes widened in shock. ‘But he can’t be. He’s in Washington. Oh, he can’t be dead, not Lev.’ She began to cry - loud, heartrending sobs. ‘I can’t live without my darling Lev.’

  A black woman appeared, all concerned, and put her arms around the younger one. ‘What’s wrong, honey? Tell Christina what’s the matter.’

  ‘Lev is dead, Christina.’ It came in a long, drawn-out wail. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Come and sit down, honey, and I’ll make a cup of coffee.’ She beckoned to John. ‘You too, young man. Are you a friend of Mr Zarian’s?’

  ‘I’m his son.’

  The admission shocked Christina. ‘Oh, you poor soul. I reckon you could do with some coffee, too, and a few hugs and kisses wouldn’t come amiss.’ She ushered them both into a palatial room full of pictures and funny-shaped chairs covered with white leather. ‘Anne, honey, this young fellow’s just lost his father. I know you’re upset, but try to spare a thought for him. He’s got more reason to cry than you.’

  She left to make the coffee. Her words seemed to have had some effect on Anne, who wiped her nose and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry; you must be devastated. I bet Lev was a wonderful father. How is Tamara taking it?’

  ‘She’s dead, too. They died in a car crash on their way back from Washington.’

  ‘Dear God!’ Her tear-stained face was contorted with horror. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Yesterday.’ For the first time, John felt tears come to his eyes. ‘All I’ve got left is you.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ She shook her head. ‘I really feel for you, but I assure you I’m not your mother.’ She paused and seemed to cast around for something to say. ‘You can stay here for a while; there’s plenty of room. You’re Lev’s son and I want to help.’

  ‘It says on my birth certificate “Father Unknown”.”

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’ If she shook her head much more it would fall off.

  ‘It’s strange my family knowing two Anne Murrays.’ He felt anger rise like bile in his throat.

  She shrugged. ‘Strange things happen all the time.’

  ‘As you seem to have known my pop so well, perhaps you can tell me where to find the other Anne Murray?’ Now he was even angrier and put all the sarcasm he could muster into his voice. He knew he was being very rude - his parents would be shocked if they could hear him.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ she said again, tightening her lips stubbornly.

  Christina came in with the coffee. Neither spoke while she put the tray on the table. She looked at them worriedly, but departed without a word. John could tell she wanted to do or say something, but didn’t like to interfere.

  Anne pushed a drink in his direction. He didn’t pick it up. ‘What am I going to do?’ he asked. Instead of anger, now there was a wobble in his voice. All of a sudden, he felt like a little boy who wanted his mom. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ he asked croakily.

  ‘This way.’ She virtually ran out of the room, as if she wanted to get away from him, for her life to return to normal. He followed, hardly able to walk because he felt so sad and so very alone. She was his mother, yet was determined to deny it. From now on, he knew he would always be alone: he had no one.

  ‘This is a bathroom.’ She flung open a door in another lobby, this one without mirrors, then disappeared. John entered the room, bolted the door, sat on the pan, and bawled his head off. His sobs were raw and full of pain, like the last cries of a dying animal. He fell face forward on to the floor, curled up in a ball, and willed himself to die.

  Anne closed her bedroom door and put her hands over her ears to shut out the sound. If she allowed herself to acknowledge that he was her son, she would have to acknowledge that other thing that wavered constantly on the brink of her mind and that she always pushed away, convinced that if she let it in she would go completely mad.

  But she could still hear the sound of the boy crying and it tore at her heart. He was her son, her own flesh and blood - but he was someone else’s flesh and blood, too.

  Now there was another sound, banging. Anne removed her hands from her ears. It was Christina knocking on the bathroom door and calling, ‘Come on out, honey. I knew your daddy well and we can talk about him.’

  It wasn’t up to Christina to sort out Anne’s problems. ‘Dear God, please help me,’ she whispered as she left the room. ‘I’ll see to him,’ she told Christina, who looked at her oddly and said, ‘The poor young man’s beside himself. I’d’ve gone in, bathroom or no bathroom, but he’s bolted the door. I wish Lizzie was home; she’d know what to do.’

  ‘I know what to do.’ She waited until Christina had gone into the kitchen before sitting on the floor outside the bathroom and tapping on the door. ‘It’s me, Anne.’

  The crying stopped. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘For you to come out.’

  ‘Why?’ His voice was as deep as a man’s, yet he was only fifteen, still a child inside.

  ‘Because you can’t stay there for ever; you’ve got to come out sometime.’

  ‘I want my mom and pop,’ he said in an anguished tone. ‘I want my mom and pop.’ He was shouting now, his voice hoarse with rage.

  ‘But they’re dead, darling.’ She shouldn’t have called him that, but there was a tenderness in her that she hadn’t wanted to convey.

  ‘You’re not dead,’ he said pointedly. ‘Why won’t you admit that you’re my mother?’

  Anne began to cry, very softly. She bent her legs, wrapped her arms around them, and hid her head behind her knees. ‘I can’t, I just can’t.’

  The door opened and he came out and dropped onto the floor beside her. ‘Why not?’

  She lifted her head and looked at him straight in the eyes. She felt dizzy, muzzy, and could hardly think. ‘The Doctor had grey eyes,’ she whispered.

  He pounced on the words. ‘Who’s the Doctor?’

  ‘My father.’ Everything swam - the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the boy’s face, her own hands. She ga
sped, ‘My father was your father.’ He’d come into her bedroom, laid on top of her, pushed himself inside her. The pain was indescribable. She’d begun to scream . . .

  ‘Stop!’ Someone was holding her shoulders, shaking her, but it wasn’t the Doctor. The Doctor had been drunk and hadn’t cared about her screams, just continued to pump away inside her until she’d fainted from the pain, the shock, and the horror of it all. No, it was John who was shaking her, tears pouring down his cheeks, while, behind him, Christina waved her arms, looking close to tears herself.

  Between them, they carried her to a different bedroom and laid her on a different bed. ‘Lord Almighty, I wish Lizzie was here,’ Christina cried plaintively.

  ‘It’s all right, she’ll be all right now,’ John said gruffly. ‘Perhaps you could make more coffee.’

  ‘Right away, son.’ Christina looked only too pleased to have something to do.

  ‘How do you feel?’ John asked. He was sitting on the bed looking down at her. The child had gone and he was now a man.

  ‘Awful,’ she said limply. ‘I’m sorry. As if you haven’t had enough to cope with over the last few days without me having hysterics.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too. I wish I hadn’t come now. I should have waited until I didn’t feel so upset about everything. Mom always said I was too impulsive.’

  ‘You didn’t have anyone else to turn to, did you?’ Her lips quivered in a reluctant smile. ‘Only me, and I’m useless.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he said stoutly. He hesitated before speaking again. ‘Is it . . . is it OK to ask if you meant what you said - about your father being my father?’

  She shuddered. ‘Yes, I meant it.’

  ‘Golly!’ It seemed an inadequate word to use.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Not that there was anything she could do about it if he did.

  He looked at his shoes and sighed. ‘It isn’t much use minding now, is it?’