A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Are you feeling better now, son?’

  He wasn’t, of course. ‘Yes,’ he lied.

  ‘Come downstairs. I’ll get a cold cloth for your head. Lie on the sofa, and I’ll play for you.’

  Her playing was untypically all over the place. Although nothing had been said, he nursed a strong suspicion that she was aware of his newly acquired knowledge. But he was unable to open a discussion on the subject, since he needed not to add to her discomfort. However, a plan took shape in the depths of his mind; he was determined to discover as much as possible about his mother’s past. Somewhere, there were people – her people, therefore his people. Even if he left his mother out of the equation, he needed the information for himself, because background was important.

  ‘Andrew?’

  ‘Yes, Mother?’

  ‘Do you feel better now?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Deceit was about to become a way of life.

  ‘Chopin must be spinning in his grave. I don’t know what happened to my fingers. They were everywhere except where I needed them to be.’

  Andrew understood fully, though he offered no reply.

  ‘Do you feel ready for cocoa?’ she asked.

  ‘A glass of water would be better,’ he replied. All he could see was a house with dirty windows, a neglected garden, a front door that howled for a coat of paint. His father had turned away from a fragrant, lovely wife, had found his own level with a slovenly person who couldn’t be bothered to live a clean life.

  She returned with the water. ‘If anything is worrying you, talk to me.’

  He shrugged lightly. ‘Too many sweets and a strong dislike for geometry,’ he said. ‘Pythagoras and I have to reach agreement before September.’ He even spoke the way she did, had taken his voice from her. While Andrew’s speech was not exactly devoid of accent, it was nearer to hers than to his father’s. But the lies were born in the part of him that came from Dad, because Dad was dishonest. There was no problem with Pythagoras, but he had to offer an explanation of some kind so, like his male parent, he took the easy route.

  ‘Just rest, then,’ Emily said.

  She went into the kitchen and attacked tomorrow’s lamb with sprigs of rosemary. Joseph hated rosemary, so he could jolly well drown his portion in mint sauce yet again. She stabbed the meat and inserted extra pieces of the herb. Let her have him. Let him go and live in that tacky cul-de-sac with that tacky madam. And I hope her husband finds them in flagrante and gives them both the hiding they deserve.

  The marriage had not been a mistake; it had produced Andrew, who was a blessing. But something had happened to Andrew this evening, and the child was frighteningly close to boiling point. O God, please protect my boy from the truth. He mustn’t know, must never find out. Perhaps when he’s older, but not yet. She shelled peas, scrubbed potatoes, put together a trifle for tomorrow’s pudding. She used no jelly. Her Andrew didn’t care for jelly.

  It looked as if rain might be on the way. Never mind. Let Joseph get soaked on his way home. Yet she couldn’t manage to hate him . . .

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘The people next door to Stuart have some kittens. May I have one?’ The idea of something warm and furry suddenly appealed.

  Emily stood in the doorway. ‘Your father hates cats.’

  ‘I know.’ He paused for a few seconds and studied her face. ‘Though he wouldn’t hurt an animal, would he?’

  ‘No. But get a queen if there is one, and I’ll have it neutered. They’re more sensible than toms.’ He’ll be in the pub now. Tonight, he will smell of her, all cheap soap and Evening in Paris. I shall move into the small bedroom. For Andrew’s sake, I’ll blame Joseph’s snoring. For some reason I can’t fathom, today marks the end of something. He has hurt my boy – I’m almost sure of it. No one hurts my boy.

  ‘You’ve had cats before, Mother?’

  ‘Yes, we had several on the farm.’ She pulled herself together and inhaled sharply. ‘When I was very young, we lived for a little while in a farmhouse.’

  Farmhouse. Mother’s maiden name was Beauchamp, French for beautiful field, pronounced Beecham. ‘That must have been fun,’ he said. Then he skimmed over the whole thing by talking about kittens while hoping that Mother would think he hadn’t noticed her faux pas with its accompanying gasp. More French. False step, this time. Well, Dad was the one who had stepped out of line. Mother probably needed her family, but was, perhaps, too proud to approach them. Beauchamp spelt the French way was an unusual name . . .

  While he drank his water, Andrew’s mother played another nocturne. This time, she took charge of her fingers and delivered a decent enough performance. Since learning about her husband’s floozy, Emily had concentrated on control of herself. Sometimes she felt a little guilty, as she had never enjoyed the physical side of marriage. After a birth so difficult that it had threatened the lives of both herself and her baby, the reason for sexual contact had been removed. Yes, she would have loved more children; no, she had no intention of leaving her son without a mother. So any fumblings involved a layer of latex, and she hated all that preparation. Did she hate Joseph? No. He was a weak and needful man, but his son had come first so far. Dear God, let it continue thus.

  In Andrew’s life since infancy, libraries had always been useful places. Inside the Central on Bolton’s famous crescent he had spent many busy hours, especially in the reference section. Reading about carpentry had been as useful as his practical experience; reading about anatomy and physiology was fascinating, and many answers to homework questions were available in this quiet, peaceful place. There were times when he felt he shouldn’t mind living here, because the whole world sat on shelves just waiting to be raided.

  But the information he currently sought was not available within his normal spheres of exploration. In a reading room usually populated by older people, newspapers and periodicals were kept on sloping tables with wooden lips on their edges to prevent printed matter from falling to the floor. And here he found a farming magazine.

  A man and a woman were pictured leaning on a wide five-bar gate. Between them, a young, prize-winning bullock rested his head. The whole photograph was pleasant and comical. But Andrew’s eyes were drawn to the article underneath.

  Mr and Mrs Beauchamp of Heathfield Farm with Hercules, their perfectly proportioned and amusing bullock. Hercules took first prize in the ‘most promising’ group, while two further firsts, for Samson and Goliath, were awarded to the Heathfield herd’s famous prize bulls.

  Hercules, described by his owners as a beast with humour, is pictured leaning on the gate as if listening to gossip. Mr Beauchamp told our photographer that Hercules loves people, though he hasn’t yet managed to eat a whole one. The Beauchamps are the fourth generation of the family to farm their vast acreage. Over the years, they have doubled the size of their herds and have introduced three new types of cattle.

  In a further paragraph, Andrew learned that these possible relations of his were famous for breeding prize cows, sheep and pigs. ‘We lived for a little while in a farmhouse,’ Mother had said. Days after that evening, the kitten had been installed in the household, and Andrew had begun his trawl through the telephone directory, though his search had been fruitless. Not everyone had phones in those days, and lines had not yet been extended out into some areas of the countryside.

  The people at the main desk in the library had grown used to Andrew. He was the sort of user they appreciated; even when he brought his friend, they conversed by passing notes on a writing pad, thereby allowing other reference-seekers to continue their work in peace.

  George looked up. ‘Hello, young man. What is it today, then?’

  Andrew grinned. ‘Farming.’

  The man laughed. ‘It’ll fill the time nicely when you’re not playing the piano or being a doctor or a carpenter. Well, let me tell you, young Andrew, farming is more than full-time. You need thirty hours a day in that job. What have you got there?’
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  He held up the magazine. ‘Just this. Can you tell me where to buy it?’

  George lowered his head and his tone. ‘I can do better than that, me laddo. You can have that one. The next’s due any day, and that issue’s safely archived, but don’t say anything. Give it here – I’ve an old bag somewhere.’ He glanced sideways. ‘And I don’t mean Edith.’

  Chuckling, Andrew offered his thanks, took the bag and left the building. Outside, he sat on the steps. Heathfield Farm. It wouldn’t be to the south, because the area between Bolton and Manchester was mostly housing and business development. The answer lay in the building behind him, in the maps section, but he had to get home, as Mother would have the meal ready. What would she say if she knew what her son was up to? Well, she certainly approved of brains and initiative, and he was using both.

  Mother no longer slept in the same room as Dad. The official reason was Joe’s snoring, but Andrew wasn’t fooled for one moment. He needed to find the Beauchamps, befriend them and, eventually, tell them who he was. If they were the right Beauchamps, that was. Should her marriage end, Mother might need support beyond anything her son could offer.

  Now. Time to invent the next lie. He could pretend to be working on a holiday assignment on wildlife in the north-west. With his trusty steed, a bicycle bought for his birthday, together with snacks and drinks, he would be able to take off daily once he had found the farm’s location. Mother would have no idea about his real intentions, and she wouldn’t worry about him.

  A second lie was preparing itself. He would tell the Beauchamps that he was researching husbandry with particular reference to cattle. With luck and good management, he might inveigle himself into the household. He would offer to work as a farmhand, with lunch as payment. How adept he was becoming at dishonesty. Perhaps he ought to become a journalist. They seemed to need the ability to bend the truth to achieve a headline.

  He reshaped the magazine so that it fitted into his saddlebag, and cycled home. After greeting Emily, he washed his hands at the kitchen sink and sat at the table.

  ‘We must wait for your father.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Where is he?’

  She walked to the window and beckoned. ‘Look at him,’ she whispered. ‘He’s having the time of his life.’

  Dad, who hated cats, was playing with the kitten. The animal was chasing a table-tennis ball all over the lawn, while Dad chased her. ‘He’s not supposed to like cats.’ Childishly angry, Andrew resented the idea of Joe’s taking over the care of Toodles. She was his cat, not his dad’s.

  ‘Your father’s a good man, Andrew. Not perfect, but good enough. For some odd reason, Toodles’ fur doesn’t make him sneeze.’ She paused. ‘You’ve been missed at the workshop, by the way. The men have been asking after you.’

  So the first of the next two lies was born. He’d been preparing the start of his wildlife project, he said; now, he needed to go into woods to find examples of the subject. ‘We have to train ourselves in observation,’ he concluded.

  ‘Keep your distance from badgers if you see any,’ she warned. ‘They look sweet, but they aren’t, and their anger is born in sensible fear of humans. And remember that foxes are shy, because we are their main enemy too. If they have babies, stay still and try not to let them see you.’

  And there spoke a true daughter of the countryside, Andrew decided. A few months in a farmhouse? A whole childhood might be nearer the mark.

  Joe brought in the cat and placed it on a fireside chair. ‘This thing should run with the greyhounds. Or Bolton Wanderers could use her as goalkeeper. Hello, lad.’ He went to wash his hands.

  When he returned, his wife and son were discussing the etymology of the word forest. ‘Some say it came from Viking invaders,’ Andrew was saying, ‘and it meant an area set aside so that the nobility might hunt. All very feudal. We would have been chased off as commoners.’

  But Emily clung fast to the belief that it was based in Latin.

  The trouble with having an educated son and a clever wife was that Joe, or Joseph as Emily insisted on calling him, often felt left out. She was now going on about the forest canopy, the lower canopy, shrub, moss and herb layers. Aye, she was betraying her origins all right.

  Emily stopped. ‘I read all that somewhere,’ she said lamely. ‘In a magazine years ago.’

  ‘Your mother reads a lot and forgets none of it.’

  Andrew munched his way through salad and ham. The magnitutde of the task he was about to undertake took the edge off his appetite and made swallowing slightly difficult. Within minutes, it became almost impossible.

  ‘I have taken a job,’ Emily announced suddenly.

  Joe’s cutlery clattered on his plate. ‘Oh aye. What job’s that, then?’

  ‘Assistant to the almoner at Bolton Royal. It’s mostly paperwork, but the almoner’s office makes sure that care systems are in place for vulnerable patients leaving hospital. Just three or four days a week, I’ll be working at the start. Andrew’s old enough now to be left occasionally.’

  Joe almost growled. ‘Are you after more housekeeping? Do I not give you enough? There’s plenty more if you’re in need.’

  She maintained her dignity. ‘It isn’t about money, Joseph. It’s about involvement and being useful.’

  ‘I see.’ He picked up his implements. ‘Education should not be wasted. I’m quoting you there, Em. So we’re not enough for you, me and the boy?’

  Emily, always the lady, placed her knife and fork side by side on the plate. ‘If you have a sensible objection, it will be taken under consideration. As far as I am aware, no one can force me not to work. There’s no law against my taking employment, but I am open to rational suggestion.’

  Andrew, seated between the two, felt like a minister without portfolio. Raised not to interrupt, he simply stayed where he was, incapable of ingesting more food. This was as near as his parents had ever come to battle within his hearing. Too young to referee the bout, he had to sit through it in silent discomfort.

  ‘I like to be the breadwinner in my own house,’ Joe said, his face slightly flushed. ‘You don’t need a job. Anything you want, just ask and I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘I want to work.’

  ‘So he becomes a latch-key kid?’

  ‘No. I shall work part-time only. I’ll be here when he gets in from school.’

  ‘You’ve made your mind up, then?’

  Emily inclined her head.

  Joe left the table, walked into the hall and slammed the front door after leaving the house.

  ‘Phew,’ Andrew breathed.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Storm in a teacup, dear. He’s always at his noisiest when in the wrong. Let him tell his . . . his friends about it.’

  They cleared the table and washed dishes. Together, Andrew and his mother worked like a well-oiled machine, even here in the confines of a small kitchen. It occurred to him that life without Dad would be a great deal better than life without Mother. If his father never came back, it wouldn’t matter, because he had another—

  The front door flew inward. ‘You there, missus?’ yelled a male voice. ‘Keep your rubbish off the street, will you? We get sick of shifting trash like this.’

  Emily left her son in the kitchen. On the floor in the hall, her husband was moaning and trying to get to his feet. She bent to help him.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ snapped the heap on the floor. ‘I’ve been robbed. I’ve been beaten, too.’

  Andrew offered to go for the police.

  ‘No,’ Joe snapped. ‘He got nothing but my watch.’

  Andrew backed away. There was no doubt in his mind that the probably fast-escaping visitor was the husband of the woman in the dirty house. The letter box opened, and the missing watch landed on the doormat. ‘There’s your watch that fell off, you cheap bastard. Even mine’s better than yon, and I’m nobbut a bin man. Like I said, I’m used to shifting muck and rubbish.’ The flap clattered back into position.

  ‘A
ndrew, go and pack an overnight case. We shall stay at the Pack Horse tonight.’

  ‘Why?’ groaned Joe.

  ‘Because the creature out there’s angry, and he may return and burn the house down. Senseless people have a tendency to react badly.’

  Joe struggled to his feet. One eye was closed, his nose was bloody, and his clothes were in tatters. ‘Don’t talk daft,’ he snapped. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

  Andrew was not in a position from which he might see his mother’s face, but he could picture it in his mind’s eye. She would be calm, straight-lipped and steady-eyed. There’d be no nervous blinking, no outward fear, no tears. ‘Andrew and I are going,’ she said. ‘And I strongly advise you to do the same for the sake of your own safety.’

  They walked to the hotel, which was some distance away. Emily left her husband bruised and bleeding at home while she booked a twin-bed room for herself and her son. Since leaving the house, she had spoken not one word, and her son had respected the silence. But once in their room, she asked him to sit on his bed facing her.

  She sat. ‘You must try not to be angry with or worried about your father. He leads what I term a Saturday night life, and he meets some people who are not very pleasant. They get drunk, throw their weight about, argue over a game of dominoes or darts, and sometimes they fight. Tonight your father became a victim of misunderstanding. He may come here, or he may stay at home. I can’t order him about and tell him what to do; he’s a grown man.’

  ‘We left Toodles,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Don’t worry about her.’

  ‘You said the man might come back and set fire to the house.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ She reached across and patted her son’s hand. ‘I just want him to think about the people he mixes with, Andrew. If he were a little more careful, he would get less trouble.’

  ‘Has there been other trouble, Mother?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid there has.’

  It was all connected to the woman with the battle-scarred front door. Mother probably knew that, but Andrew dared not say a word on the subject. Emily Sanderson courted nobody’s pity.