A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  An alarmingly close crack of thunder erupted right over their heads. At the same time, a rear door crashed inward, and something brown streaked through the drawing room, out into the hall and up the stairs. ‘We seem to have been invaded,’ Andrew said. ‘Not Vikings again, I hope. They made enough of a mess last time, all that rape and pillage.’

  Eva blinked and closed her gaping mouth. She recalled her ma’s behaviour during thunderstorms. ‘Always keep the back door and the front door open,’ Eva’s mother had said. ‘That way, if you get a fireball off the lightning, it’ll go straight through instead of setting fire to the house.’ Were fireballs brown? Did they make clacking noises as they crossed floors? And was the house about to go up in flames?

  ‘That fast-moving article was a dog of some sort,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Was it?’

  He nodded. ‘I think so. Might have been a greyhound. If it was, we should back it – it shifted like . . . dare I say greased lightning?’

  The look delivered by Eva at this point might have pinned a lesser man to the wall. ‘Even your sense of humour is warped,’ she told him. ‘Well.’ She folded her arms. ‘You’d better try and catch it, eh? I’ve enough on round here without bloody dogs.’

  Andrew liked dogs. He and Mary had appreciated most animals. Her horse, kept at livery near Little Crosby, was long gone, but she’d always wanted a dog or two. ‘When we retire, Drew, we might consider breeding retrievers,’ she used to say. Had she sent the dog? If she had, she must have slapped a first class stamp on it, since it had certainly arrived at speed. Air mail, perhaps? Or had she ordered special delivery via a courier? ‘I’ll get it,’ he advised Eva. ‘You stay where you are and enjoy the storm.’

  ‘Don’t leave me, Doc. The thunder might come back.’

  So here he stood between a terrified woman and a frightened dog. ‘Oh, behave yourself,’ he snapped before leaving the room. What was she expecting? The Day of Judgement?

  This time, he noticed his house. In recent years, it had been the place in which he had eaten and slept, but from now on it would be his base. Joseph and Andrew Sanderson, father and son, had made the curved banisters, monks’ benches, doors, hardwood window-frames. The four-poster was their work, as were most timber items in the house. ‘I’m a good carpenter,’ he whispered to himself. But it had all been for Mary . . .

  Kneeling on the floor, he peered under the bed he had shared with his wife until she had died here ten years ago. The canine cowered under Mary’s side of the bed.

  ‘Hello. I’m Andrew. What the hell are you?’

  No reply was forthcoming. Andrew walked to the door. ‘Eva?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bring some bits of meat. This poor thing’s starving.’

  ‘I can’t move.’

  ‘You bloody can, and you bloody will. Meat. Small pieces, raw or cooked, whatever you can find.’

  He returned to his lowly position. ‘You have to come out,’ he said. ‘You can’t stay under here for the rest of your life. That’s no way to carry on.’ He was a hypocrite. The poor animal was only hiding, and Andrew was contemplating similar behaviour.

  ‘Ruff.’

  ‘That was nearly a bark.’ Andrew stretched out an arm. ‘Come on.’

  The dog blinked. Life thus far had not been good, and he didn’t trust these long, two-legged things. Yet he knew he must choose between safety and danger, so perhaps this one might be a genuine pack leader? How many times had he placed faith in humanity only for the breed’s badness to be proved all over again?

  A plastic dish arrived with another human attached to it. Eva knelt next to her employer and stared into the visitor’s hungry, bright eyes. ‘Here, doggy,’ she said. ‘Get yer dentures round this lot, eh?’

  The animal edged forward, plunged his head into the bowl and inhaled its contents in seconds.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and—’ Eva didn’t get as far as Joseph, because thunder rattled the air yet again. ‘I’m going under the stairs,’ she said when the sound rumbled away. For a woman in her mid-fifties, she certainly moved at speed.

  ‘It’s no longer overhead.’ Andrew closed his mouth. She had gone. He looked at the dog. Like Oliver Twist, the intruder held the bowl as if asking for more. Unlike the Dickensian character, this one carried the empty vessel between his jaws. Slowly, he emerged, dropped the dish and licked Andrew’s face with a long, hopeful tongue. Andrew, who disagreed strongly with those who promoted the idea that cleanliness was almost godliness, ignored the event; if people didn’t have simple germs to fight, they would never fight even simple germs. ‘I have to get my friend the vet,’ he announced seriously. ‘You need professional help.’

  A ridiculous string of a tail twitched. The fur was soft as silk, while huge ears seemed unable to make up their minds. The bits fastened to his head appeared to want to stand up, like those of an Alsatian, but huge flaps hung down, not quite touching his face. ‘You’re neither one thing nor another, boy.’ Yes, the dog was male, but very young. When fully grown, he would be tall enough to clear a table with that tail.

  ‘What the hell do I know about dogs? Who sent you to me? Was she pretty, with dark hair and bright blue eyes? Did she say I’d be needing you?’

  Once again, the pathetic excuse for a tail moved.

  ‘Are you a Great Dane?’

  ‘Ruff.’

  ‘Quite. It is rough. The Irish Sea’s on bad terms with the river, Eva’s hiding from the storm, probably in a cupboard under the stairs, and I’m talking to a dog who doesn’t know what he is. This is probably as good as it’s going to get round here. You need younger playmates.’ Andrew paused. ‘Or perhaps you don’t.’ The poor thing looked as if he might appreciate calm and predictability. But would he respect Eva’s parquet floors, or might those dinner-plate feet do damage?

  ‘I’m going before the rain kicks off again.’ Eva’s dulcet tones crashed up the stairwell, seeming to hit every step in their path.

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ he called.

  ‘No. You’d better stay with that daft bugger. It seems to like you.’ A pause was followed by, ‘You suit one another.’ The double front doors slammed.

  ‘Well, that’s us told,’ Andrew advised his companion. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

  He picked up the bedside phone and dialled Keith’s number. Keith Morgan, a friend of long standing, was now able to stand even longer after a hip replacement performed by Andrew. ‘Keith?’

  ‘Hi, Andrew. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m up. Upstairs. Something ran into the house during the storm. Four legs, a tail, ridiculous ears.’

  ‘Right. Is it a meow, a woof or a neigh?’

  ‘The middle one. I think. It doesn’t speak English, so it must be a foreigner. It’s very hungry.’

  ‘Any biting?’

  ‘No, I managed to restrain myself.’

  ‘Andy, I wish you’d start talking in a straight line. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  He sat with the dog. ‘See, I don’t know what to do with you.’ That was a lie; he knew exactly what he was going to do. ‘We should look for your owner, but you’re afraid of something or other. And I think, in the daft, unexplored acres of my mind, that Mary sent you. Well, something sent you.’ He placed a hand on a bony ribcage. ‘Let’s see what Keith says when he gets here. Follow me to the ground floor. Immediately.’

  Downstairs, the animal curled himself in the inglenook as near as possible to the drawing-room wood burner. In this position he was tiny, all bones, ears and feet. Andrew studied the paws. Metatarsals seemed to stretch halfway up the leg – this was going to be an item of some size. But the worried frown, those sad eyes, the obvious hunger, meant that the whole was needy. Overgrown claws indicated that the pup had not been exercised adequately, and—

  Keith entered the scene. Immediately, the dog stiffened and began to shake. ‘So this is what the wind blew in,’ said the vet. He held out a closed hand and waited till the pup accepted him with a wet tongue. Af
ter touching a gold-brown-reddish coat, Keith delivered the first diagnosis. ‘It’s roughly half French mastiff. A red one. Bordeaux. They have incredibly soft fur. The markings too, see the blaze of white down his chest? That long, thin tail also betrays his ancestry. The tail will fill out. In fact, the whole article will fill out.’

  ‘French? That’ll be why he speaks no English,’ was Andrew’s reply. ‘What’s the other half? Gestapo, German shepherd, Russian spy? Because that red was under my bed.’

  ‘Probably half Labrador. Yes, they speak French in Canada, so you may be right. And he’s been neglected. Keep him thin, but not this thin. That’s if you keep him at all.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘You’re keeping him. Ownership’s already written all over your face.’ For the first time in years, Keith’s friend looked almost amused and slightly relaxed. Might this new arrival provide the start of a long-awaited miracle? Animals sometimes reached the parts that remained inaccessible to humankind.

  ‘I know. He needs me.’

  It occurred to Keith that the boot was on a different foot – or paw – because Andy needed the dog. ‘This fellow’s five months old, I’d say. He could be five and a half months, but no more. He’s probably had no inoculations, so I’ll start from scratch, if you’ll excuse the poor pun. In two weeks, I’ll do the second jab. Keep him on your land for a month – no walkies. It’s important that he stays away from other dogs, especially as he’s so undernourished.’

  ‘Anything else, your honour?’

  ‘Feed him little and often because he’s been starved. Work your way up slowly to two tins of dog food a day – this chap’s still making bone and muscle.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And get the . . . get the grave fenced off. He’ll ruin your garden.’

  ‘I see.’

  Keith checked the dog’s general health and labelled him satisfactory. ‘You’re lucky,’ he commented. ‘He doesn’t have the wrinkled nose or the drooling jowls of Hooch.’

  Andrew jumped out of his chair. ‘You mean . . . ? No. Not that great delinquent poor Tom Hanks was landed with?’

  ‘The same. Underneath all the hassle and chewed clothes and ruined furniture, Hooch had a heart of gold.’ The vet laughed. ‘If it makes it any easier for you, think of him as a Labrador. They ruin houses, too. All pups do it. He’ll be company for you, Andy.’

  Andrew sat down again. The film had been released in the late eighties, and he’d seen it with Mary on their very last outing together. Just months later, Mary had lost her feeble hold on life. Storm was a message, then. Not that Andrew could say any of this to Keith. People already had him down as mad because his devotion hadn’t ended with Mary’s death. They had no real concept of true love, because if it was true it never ended. Oh, Mary. Why you? Why you and not me? You would have handled life so much better . . .

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s dead, mate.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’

  ‘Still talking to her?’

  Andrew nodded. ‘Not every day. Not recently. Oh well, I’m retired now, so perhaps Storm will keep me busy and fit. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No, and she’ll kill me if I don’t get back and do justice to her boeuf en croûte. She’s been taking cookery classes again. Bloody murder, it is. I’d be happy enough with a ham sandwich, but oh no, if it isn’t in French and difficult to pronounce, it’s not proper cooking. I have developed a close affinity with guinea pigs.’

  Andrew laughed. ‘Would you like a French dog? It might taste good with a few spuds and a drop of gravy.’

  Keith picked up his bag. ‘Four Irish wolfhounds, two horses, two hormonal teenage daughters and one wife are enough, ta. See you in a couple of weeks.’ He left, crossing the index and middle fingers of his left hand. Perhaps the dog would make the first crack in Andrew’s emotional concrete bunker.

  Andrew glanced at his canine companion. ‘Just us, then. I’ll leave you a bit of stew to cool. Do you need to go out?’

  Storm mooched round the garden for a while, relieved himself, then walked straight towards—

  Andrew stood in the doorway and stared. There was no digging, no fooling about; the dog simply sat on Mary’s grave. With over half an acre to choose from, he had homed in on that one spot. This animal belonged to Mary, and his other owner wept. Eva wasn’t here, so it was his party, and he’d cry if he wanted to.

  That cursed inner alarm clock woke him at exactly ten minutes to seven. Time for a shower, a bite to eat, out of the house by seven thirty, look at today’s list. Check theatre availability, get everything in order . . . Ah. Of course, there was no list. No, no, that wasn’t true; it was just a different list, that was all. Mary had sent him a dependant, and there were things to be done.

  As he surfaced, Andrew Sanderson began to realize that he was not alone. Like Tom Hanks, he was sharing his bed with a Hooch. ‘We went through this last night, Storm. Didn’t we discuss sleeping arrangements? Ton lit est . . . sur le . . . landing.’ What was the French for landing? ‘You’ll have to learn English, dog. When in Rome and all that. Oh, by the way, do you have fleas? And I know it’s only a cardboard box, but there’s a nice blanket in it. You can’t sleep here. That’s Mary’s place.’

  The dog yawned. He had a set of strong, white teeth.

  ‘You feel safe at last, don’t you?’

  ‘Ruff.’

  ‘This isn’t rough. I built and carved the bed with my dad’s help, and Mary did the drapes. You’re living in the lap of luxury, boy. This is a five-bedroom, four-bathroom house. That single-storey extension downstairs is an events room that runs the full depth of the building. She liked events, did a great deal for charity.’ He hadn’t used the events suite in over a decade. Even the formal dining room remained unloved. With a dining-kitchen, a morning room and a drawing room, Andrew had enough space. And Eva was talking about needing more help for the heavier work, but Eva was very adept at finding something to moan about.

  ‘Shall we go downstairs, Storm?’

  ‘Ruff.’

  ‘Don’t you know any more words? It’s all getting a bit monotonous, you know. Anyway, we’re going out. Not “out” out, no running, no playing. But out as in the car. The same rules apply, by the way. It’s a Mercedes. We don’t eat upholstery, don’t scratch the doors, don’t chew seatbelts. Especially in a one-year-old Merc.’

  ‘Ruff.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’s Weetabix or nothing, so it’s Weetabix. One more ruff and I’ll make you wear one. You can walk round looking mad and Shakespearean.’

  A shower, a shave and a small disagreement later, both were seated in the car by nine o’clock. Storm, who had wanted to occupy the front passenger seat, was finally installed in the rear of the Merc. Andrew, nursing the suspicion that he needed a second shower, climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Stay,’ he ordered. ‘I smell very doggy after that tussle.’

  ‘Ruff.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Arr-arr.’

  ‘That’s better. If you’re going to live with me, your conversational skills need work. Though you could be a blessing after Eva’s carryings-on. Half an hour with her’s like a public meeting with the riot police outside at the ready. She fed you, though. She’s not all bad – just half bad. Her husband’s our gardener, so you’d be wise to stay on his better side, too.’

  He drove to Tony Almond’s, a we-have-almost-everything type of shop, where he bought a large dog bed, boxes of balls and toys, half a ton of dog food, collar, lead and bowls. ‘What else do I need?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much,’ the girl replied. ‘Just your head tested. Our Alsatian ate the plastic rainwater pipes in our back yard yesterday. I see you bought a large bed. Is it a big dog?’

  ‘It will be if I let it live.’

  ‘Oh, and don’t bother with a kennel. Get it a Wendy house. They like their own place. No chocolate – it’s poison. And make sure you’re the boss.’

  Hmm. Chance would be
a fine thing. The battle for position in the car had revealed a strong personality under all the shaking and ruffing.

  When all purchases were stashed in the boot, Andrew drove to the stonemason’s next door to the funeral parlour. The cross he had made to mark Mary’s grave had been well cared for, treated against weather, its brass plaque always shiny clean, but, due to recently altered circumstances, she needed more protection. ‘I have to make sure she stays where she is,’ he told the dog. ‘She may have sent you, but you’re not digging her up just so you can have the last word. Well, the last ruff.’

  ‘Ruff.’

  Smiling while shaking his head, Andrew left the car. He picked out the stone, said he wanted it flat on the ground over the grave, handed over a paper on which were written the appropriate words for engraving, and gave the man his address.

  ‘Not many people want the stone lying down these days,’ Sam Grey said.

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘And eight feet by four? Was this a big person?’ He studied the customer. ‘You’re that doctor who’s a mister. You were in the paper, a photo at Buckingham Palace. OBE, wasn’t it? And I helped our Archie bury your wife years ago in your garden – I remember now, God love her. She was tiny. Did an awful lot for cancer research.’

  Andrew nodded. ‘Then she died of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. But my brother and I handle so many funerals – so very sorry.’

  ‘The dog in the car adopted me, Mr Grey. He’s confined to barracks just now because of injections against distemper and so forth. If he digs in the wrong place . . . well . . .’

  Sam Grey nodded thoughtfully. ‘Right. Can we get power to the grave?’

  ‘Yes. There’s electricity in the summerhouse.’

  The stonemason did some mental juggling. ‘Fair enough. We’ll get the slab delivered later today, and I’ll work on it in situ over next weekend. She was a lovely woman.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So was mine, but I lost her to leukaemia.’

  It was Andrew’s turn to express sorrow.

  ‘I’m fine now. Remarried. I’ve not forgotten Mags, but Kath’s a good woman. We look after each other. Step into my office and we’ll do the paperwork.’