He waited for more, but she went back to her apple pie. They hadn’t loved her enough, those Beauchamps, hadn’t cared about her. That realization served only to make them more fascinating. ‘Are your parents still alive?’ he asked. They were his grandparents. And how could anyone on earth fail to love Mother?
‘Oh, yes. My sister finds ways of getting news of births, deaths and marriages to me. But if I seem friendless, it’s because I have led a life broken into two distinct halves. And, you know, I need just my books, my music and you. This little job at the infirmary will fill any gaps, so worry not, because all will be well.’
Dad had not made an appearance on her list, but Andrew would not mention that fact. Very carefully, he had edged his way back into Joe’s good books by returning to the workshop for the odd half-day. But he had not yet found the time to research Heathfield Farm.
‘Did you like farming?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I loved it. I like horses. And cows. Cows are good people, but horses are clever and courageous. I miss riding. And the openness of everything, that sense of huge space. The farm’s so big that there are several cottages dotted about. My family has the main house, but farm workers occupy smaller houses with barns and so forth, and each house covers a certain amount of land either for husbandry or tillage. It works well, like clockwork.’
Andrew, fascinated by his mother’s sudden animation, began to realize how much she had forfeited for Dad. Yet she hadn’t wanted to marry another landowner, hadn’t liked the idea of being part of some exchange deal. He certainly concurred with that.
Emily read his mind yet again. ‘I married late, Andrew. I’d been forcibly introduced to every young man whose parents owned land adjoining ours – or, since I’m no longer a member of the family, should I say theirs? At some point in life, disobedience with parents becomes part and parcel of growing up, and my rebellion began when I was approaching thirty. Like a promising filly, I had been dragged hither and yon while the parents tried to trade me in. Had they commented on my fetlocks and my withers, I should not have been in the least way surprised. A promising brood mare is what I was for well over ten years. So here I am, and there you have it. Be a dear and shape some leaves from that bit of leftover pastry, sweetheart.’
And that was almost the end of it. Pastry leaves indicated that her soliloquy was done. Andrew made three ornamental adornments for the top of the pie. She was an excellent if rather plain cook. Emily Beauchamp was a farmer’s daughter, and Andrew suspected that the recipes had been handed down for generations. His favourite was her braised steak, so tender that it dropped off the fork. ‘We went mushroom picking once,’ he reminded her.
‘We did indeed. I remember setting off before dawn. And it rained, but we found some good, tasty crops.’
‘And you knew which were poisonous and which weren’t.’
‘Yes.’
‘That would be part and parcel of your out-of-school learning.’
‘I’m sure it was, my dear.’
‘That’s what I mean. The really useful stuff is learned well away from teachers.’
‘Your teachers will get you into a music college or a medical school. You’ll need English language, Latin, maths and science. You’ll also need top marks in all of them. Does the music department know you’re composing, by the way?’
He’d forgotten about that. ‘I should have told you. On the Thursday of the second week of term, I’m playing in the Victoria Hall. We’ve the choir from the girls’ division, a three- or four-piece suite—’
‘You mean the chamber players?’
‘Yes. Then I’m playing my Overture to an Overture.’
‘The being born one. Yes, I like that.’
‘It’s a pain. It’s about pain. I’m sure being born hurts, but we don’t remember. Actually, I’d better work on it. The birth scream isn’t full enough.’
Emily nodded thoughtfully. ‘I rather think we do remember being born. It’s all tucked away in the pleats of our brain, the first warning that life isn’t going to be easy. The animal in us forgets nothing, but the human deletes some unpleasant memories.’
‘You’re clever. You could have been anything, Mother.’
‘I’m your mother, and that’s enough for me.’
She was too good for Dad, yet she wasn’t, because she’d made a decision and she’d stood by it. And Dad was far from stupid. He was an artist, a king in his field of work. Owning a piece signed by Joseph Sanderson was a feather in anyone’s cap. Dad used to sign on the back, but he’d started to do it inside a door or under a shelf, so that his customers wouldn’t end up with hernias or slipped discs when they strove to pull out a heavy article to show off its provenance.
‘You should have told us weeks ago about the concert. Your father’s busy inventing fitted kitchens in solid wood.’
‘They already have fixed unit kitchens in America, Mother. Anyway, why should that affect the concert?’
‘Because, as you know, he stays on at work designing kitchens in the evenings. He’s looking for clients. It’s a relatively new concept in this country, though I suppose Londoners will have taken the lead, just as they always do.’
Andrew wondered what his dad really did in the evenings, but he said nothing on the subject. ‘You could come by yourself to the concert.’
‘Oh no. He’s incredibly proud of you. And you know I hate to be out alone, especially in the evenings. But he’s been looking at someone named Poggenpohl – don’t ask, I’ve no idea – who has a history with what he called working kitchens, time and motion, the correct way to position sinks and so forth. As long ago as the twenties the unit kitchen was in existence. More recently, fitted kitchens with worktops are being installed in America. So your father’s offering custom-made superior fittings. We shall see. The first will be in our Mornington Road house. He will bring people to look at it. And I’ve just given you the lecture your father delivered to me.’
Andrew knew that Mother wouldn’t like having a show kitchen. She was shy. When shopping, she dressed ‘down’ so that no one would notice her. But some men saw beyond the dowdy navy coat, the headscarf and the clompy shoes. She was beautiful. Had she not been aware of the impact she had, she would never have felt the need to dress ‘down’. ‘You’ll be working some of the time, so let Dad show people his kitchen while you’re out.’
‘Good idea.’ She started to set the table.
Oh well, it looked as if it had all been decided; it was a case of getting on with it and trying not to allow it to hurt too much. He sighed. It was all a part of life’s rich backdrop. And he couldn’t do anything about it, anyway.
Alone in the office attached to his business, Joe Sanderson was studying photographs of sensible kitchens. The basis seemed to be rooted in a triangular arrangement of sink, cooker and fridge. Even a small kitchen could be improved by the implementation of this rule, making a housewife’s life easier and happier. It was all about time and motion, keeping things to hand, and work surfaces. He intended to cash in on it.
His colleagues had gone home, so he was surprised when the outer doorbell rang. No one was expected at this time of day. Customers never visited after hours, and few people came down just to take a casual look at the workshop. A burglar? Burglars didn’t ring bells. Sometimes, a quality builder who wanted Sanderson shelves or cupboards installed came to place an order, but seldom out of hours. Oh well, he had better answer it, he decided.
He opened the door warily, only to find poor Betsy standing there. She’d tried to doll herself up a bit, though the result was not good. ‘Hello,’ he said. She looked as though she’d come out the worse for wear after going five or six rounds with a crew of Fleetwood fishwives. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
Betsy pushed her way past him, which was no mean feat, as he was a well-built and powerful man. ‘Oh, Joe,’ she managed before bursting into tears. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ The words were almost drowned by a river of tears. ‘I’m in a right bloody mess.’
‘Has he hit you? Because if he has, go to the police.’
Her head shook. ‘Not yet. He’s not hit me so far, but he will, I’m telling you. I have to get back soon; he’s gone to his mam’s for an hour because she needs a window mending.’
‘Well, he bloody well hit me, lost me two teeth. Come into the office. I’ve a little paraffin stove, so I’ll make you a cuppa.’
It took her several minutes to calm down towards sensible. Blackened eyelashes spilt their colour in twin grey tracks down her cheeks. Garish red lipstick did nothing to improve the appearance of white, albeit mascara-streaked cheeks, while bitten fingernails, also painted red, were ragged and shabby.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘There’s something up with you, I can tell.’
‘This.’ She placed a work-worn hand on her belly. ‘This is the matter.’ Her hands looked old and tired. It was clear that cleaning two pubs every morning was not a glamorous job.
Joe staggered back a couple of paces. ‘This what?’
‘This baby is what. He’ll know it’s not his, because he can’t do nothing, can he? He’s as limp as a dead daisy, so I’m in real bother.’
He sat down. ‘Are you sure it’s mine, Bet?’
The thoughtless, cruel question caused more wailing.
‘I’m sorry, lass. I shouldn’t have asked that. So what do you want me to do? I’ll pay to get rid, but it’s illegal.’
‘And dangerous,’ she screamed. ‘I could die. For weeks I’ve wondered, but I’ve never been regular, so . . . You’d be all right if I died, wouldn’t you?’ She picked up the sobbing from where she’d left off. After a deep, shuddering breath, she waded in again. ‘I never wanted children. I don’t like them, but I can’t kill it. And he’ll notice me getting fatter and fatter. And when he does catch on, he’ll murder both of us. I can’t see a way out.’
Joe swallowed. He was a strong man, because heaving about great lumps of wood made muscle, but Marty Liptrott was built like a brick outhouse. An angry bully who reacted easily and harshly to insults, he was permanently furious about his impotence. Any child born to poor Betsy could not possibly be his, and murder or serious bodily harm might well be the result when he discovered his wife’s condition.
‘What are we going to do?’ Betsy finally said. ‘I know the thing’s in my body, but it took two to make it.’
‘Sounds like you won’t be much of a mother, Bet.’
‘Well, it’s not my fault. We’re not all made the same way.’
Joe pondered. Bolton was a big town, but a man on the bins knew a lot of other bin men, and one of his friends would be clearing away Betsy’s rubbish wherever she lived, so moving her from where she was to Halliwell or Doffcocker was not going to provide an answer. He had to get her out of Bolton. ‘I’ll need a few days to think,’ he said.
She dried her eyes. ‘Will you look after me, Joe?’
‘Course I will. But I’ll not leave my wife and son. I can’t leave them.’ He scarcely knew why, but he worshipped Emily. She was like a goddess in his book, a lovely Greek or Roman statue that managed to move around and make wonderful meals. Even when she got uppity and on his nerves, he continued to adore her. As for Andrew – well, the lad wasn’t a negotiable item, either. Andrew would go far, and Joe was ridiculously proud and almost in awe of him, too. ‘You’ll have to leave Bolton,’ he said. ‘But it must all be worked out so that Bird Brain doesn’t catch on. And if he thinks I’ve shifted you, he’ll probably cut my throat.’
‘Our Elsie,’ she said suddenly.
‘Wasn’t she the one who tackled him about how he is?’
Betsy nodded. ‘Aye, she’s not been let anywhere near our house since she told him I could get the marriage annulled cos he’s useless.’
Joe waited. ‘Well, what about her?’
Betsy shrugged. ‘Moved to St Helens. They’ve got a pub with spare rooms. I’m welcome any time. She sends her letters next door to Mrs Bridges, and Mrs Bridges brings them to me when she knows Marty’s out. Trouble is, our Elsie doesn’t like kids, either.’
‘But you’d be safer there. And we might find you somewhere near Elsie when the kiddy’s born. Because I’ll see you right, lass. From the money point of view, I mean. I’ll make sure you and the kiddy have enough, believe me.’
She sighed, her breath shivering its way in and out. ‘I’m scared, Joe.’
‘You’re not on your own. That bloody eunuch you married is madder than a box of frogs. And he has some big mates. I’m telling you now, he’ll guess I’ve had something to do with you flitting.’
‘But I can’t stay. I daren’t stay.’
‘No, you can’t stay. Unless you have an abortion, and that’s risky.’
They sat in silence for several minutes. Each knew that this was no small decision and that there would be no turning back once she’d left. Without risking a life-threatening procedure, poor Betsy would become a mother, while Andrew would have a half-sibling. It was a big thing, a damned sight bigger than fitted kitchens, Joe thought as he studied the unattractive creature with whom he had mated. ‘Betsy?’
‘What?’
‘If you had a child, he might want to pretend it’s his, then folk would think he was normal. You know what I mean.’
She knew what he meant, all right. ‘Listen, you. If I tell him, there’ll be no baby, no me and no Marty, because I’ll be six feet under and he’ll be saying ta-ra to the hangman. You’ll likely be a bit dead and all.’
Joe pondered yet again. ‘Right,’ he began at last, ‘you go to St Helens, and I’ll have a word with him once you’re safely out of the way.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘And when he kills you? Who’ll look after me and the baby then? I mean, I can’t work with a kiddy, can I? I couldn’t even go part-time till it’s at school.’
‘My will. I’ll provide. And you don’t think I’m daft enough to face him by myself, do you? Just remember, every man has a price. Now, if he agrees in front of my solicitor to treat the child as his own, will you come back to him?’
Betsy shivered. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, think on it. Write to Elsie, make sure of the lie of the land. And let me know what you want to do.’
After she had left, Joe sat with his head in his hands, elbows on the table, fear in his heart. He’d needed somebody. Emily didn’t like sex. She daren’t risk another pregnancy, or it would kill her. Even though she was in her early forties, she might still conceive. So he’d lowered his standards and hit rock bottom with poor Betsy. She was seldom just Betsy in his thoughts; the adjective ‘poor’ was usually attached to her.
He remembered walking into the Starkie that night. She cleaned the saloon bar and the snug, and she’d left her purse behind earlier in the day, so she’d returned to collect it. He bought her a couple of drinks, and she was friendly enough, so he’d used her as a receptacle, and that wasn’t nice. He wasn’t nice. Emily knew. She never said anything, but she’d moved into the spare room and . . .
And life was a bloody mess. He would talk to Marty Liptrott only if Betsy wanted to come back. There had to be a way of persuading the great lummox that a child could be a good thing, but did Marty know that his wife was spreading the news about his impotence? She’d told her sister, but her sister was family. Oh yes. What a bloody mess this was.
The move was relatively painless. From the very beginning, Emily was happy because of a knock at the door. Surrounded by boxes and upended furniture, she climbed over all obstacles to reach her goal. And there, at the front of her new home, she met Thora Caldwell.
Thora was not a mere bundle of cellular mischief; she was a force of nature. As thin as a rake and with rusty-red hair, she breezed through life at the speed of sound. She refused to be held back by her drunken, feckless husband and four children and took an interest in everything and everyone, seldom out of place, not swayed by a different accent, better clothes, a superior three-piece suite. Thora simply belonged just about anywhere
.
Her greeting was interesting. ‘Hiya. I’m Thora Caldwell from next door. I’ve got four lads, three of them training to be hooligans, a useless husband, varicose veins, a job as an orderly down the hospital, and I could murder a cuppa. Who are you, then?’
‘Emily Sanderson.’
Thora clapped her hands. ‘See? I were right,’ she said to nobody at all. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Your husband. Bespokened cupboards and stuff. Matron thought she were the dog’s bollocks when she got a bespokened table and chairs. They say if you go round her house, first time, like, she makes you get down under the bloody table to look at Joseph Sanderson wrote in indelible ink on the bottom. See, let’s make a path.’ As she spoke, she moved boxes, righted a few chairs and marched into the kitchen.
‘The kettle’s on,’ Emily managed to squeeze into the diatribe.
‘It’s all inlaid, though,’ Thora continued. ‘And hoctagonal. That means it’s got eight sides and eight chairs. Very clever man, your husband.’
‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
‘No suppose about it, love. Mine can’t be bothered to scratch his arse most days. I found him fast asleep on the lav the other week, with his head resting on the sink. He was supposed to be building a wall up Tonge Moor, so I booted him out, and he never came home for three days. Have you got some biscuits? Anyway, he’s pulled himself together a bit, but he can’t leave the booze alone. We’ve rent to pay, food to buy, and them lads of mine go through shoes faster than a hot knife through butter. Can I have a bourbon? I like bourbons.’
Emily felt breathless by proxy, because the woman scarcely stopped to take in oxygen. ‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked while Thora dipped her bourbon into her cup and bit into it.
Thora swallowed. ‘About six months. I told him. I said I wanted a decent street this time, not a midnight flit address. The number of times we’ve cleared off in the dark cos he wouldn’t pay the rent. So I got a job and I pay the rent here, but he’s supposed to tip up for the rest. Any road, I think I’ve found a way round it.’
‘Really?’
A Liverpool Song Page 8