A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘You should be used to the inferior sex by now.’

  ‘There was an old chap four houses down abusing himself in the garden.’

  ‘That’s Jim. Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Right. I need some equipment. May I keep it in the function suite?’

  He paused before replying. ‘Of course.’

  Helen hugged her dad. ‘She wouldn’t mind, you know. And she’s not coming back, so there’s no need to save all that space.’

  She left the room and performed her own abuse, heaping up the agony via Daniel’s borrowing power. On the internet, she ordered all the machines she might need, plus a couple she wasn’t sure of. ‘Let him pay,’ she told herself.

  Downstairs, Andrew thought about his younger daughter. She wasn’t tough, wasn’t complicated. All she wanted was a happy home with her children and a faithful husband. She loved her job, but she loved home more. Helen needed to be married. Alone, she was a lost sheep, or rather a lamb bleating silently in suffocating snow.

  Storm was lunaticking about in the garden. ‘He needs an eye test,’ Andrew said. ‘No spatial awareness whatsoever. How can he have a hope in hell of catching highflying seagulls? A nice pair of specs will put him right.’

  He picked up the local newspaper and studied his advertisement. Andrew Sanderson offers piano tuition. Very imaginative. One sentence followed by his telephone number was real poetry, what? He wouldn’t charge a fortune. If he found a few competent youngsters, he would be busy and pleased.

  Eva appeared. Oh, no. Andrew put down the paper. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s ate me pot towels,’ she complained.

  ‘Tea towels?’

  ‘Yes, them as well. If you look inside its dee-tached residence, you’ll find bits of stuff all over the floor. It’s took oven gloves, a loo roll and a hand towel from the downstairs bog, a tray, two forks and a spoon.’

  ‘He’s perhaps waiting for room service.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be a bloody long wait, Doc.’

  He sighed. ‘You handing in your notice, then?’

  Eva frowned. ‘No, I’m not. I promised to look after you, and I’m doing me best. But Mary said nothing about a full house and a bloody dog.’ In truth, Eva had promised more than that, a great deal more, but she wasn’t to tell him till he was ready. Till he was ready? At this rate, the next millennium could come, and he’d still be festering.

  ‘Sofia cooks,’ he reminded her. ‘Sofia and Helen keep their rooms clean and tidy, and they do the children’s rooms, so in which way are you inconvenienced? It’s just the dog, isn’t it? Well, Storm is not negotiable. He stays.’

  ‘And so do I.’

  ‘Right.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Eva, what are we talking about? I sometimes think you’re hovering on the brink of something, and you hide behind tea towels and oven gloves. What is this world-shattering piece of information you’re withholding?’

  She shook her head. ‘Doc, you should see a doctor. Your imagination’s running away with you. You know me – well, you should. If I have something to say, I say it. Oh, yes. Our Natalie’s coming to help me later. Windows and floors.’

  He nodded. ‘How’s she doing with her studies?’

  Eva shrugged. ‘She didn’t faint when the corpses were wheeled in. A few of the men collapsed, and one of the girls. No, our Natalie just grabbed what she calls her cutlery and got on with it.’

  ‘Does she want to specialize?’

  ‘I think she’ll be happy as a GP, a family doctor. She says people come first, and the local surgery’s important, because the general doctor decides what’s up. She’s a people person.’

  ‘Excellent. I look forward to meeting her.’

  Andrew met Natalie but briefly, as he was otherwise engaged, yet she reminded him of someone, and he couldn’t think who. It wasn’t Eva, since Eva had adopted Natalie’s deceased mother, so Andrew decided he must have caught sight of Natalie before, perhaps in town or when driving Eva home.

  The rest of his family arrived that afternoon. Ian, Andrew’s youngest, brought his wife and two sons. They had come to offer support to Helen, though the sombre pair of adults seemed ill-equipped to comfort anyone. Even the twin boys, Robert and Oliver, appeared old before their third birthday. Yet they were happy. Andrew amended his thoughts. Contented was nearer.

  The two boys sat side by side on a sofa, each with a book, neither with a smile. They answered when addressed, were unimpressed by Storm’s antics at the window, undeterred by Eva’s brusqueness, soberly thankful when given milk and biscuits. Andrew had to admit to himself, and not for the first time, that his son was probably the most boring man on earth, that he had married a bore, that he had fathered a pair of budding bores. Though one could never be sure. Many people had two faces, one for outside their house, one for home.

  Mary had tried to enliven her son, had taken him to the beach with the girls, to parks, to the cinema, all to no avail. Eva had taken over, as usual. ‘He’s just a miserable little sod,’ had been Eva’s oft-expressed opinion. ‘More fun in Kate’s little finger than in his whole bloody skeleton.’

  Ian had been an avid reader. By the age of eleven, he had collected more medical knowledge than was good for him. ‘We made our lives so easy at their expense,’ Andrew told his dead wife. ‘The girls had each other, Ian had his books, while you and I had a whale of a time. We were wrong, Mary, so wrong.’

  He put Storm in his Wendy house, checked on the silent twins, and walked upstairs. Ian was droning on. ‘There is counselling, of course, though its value is debatable.’

  Eliza, Ian’s wife, chipped in. ‘I don’t understand adulterers,’ she said.

  ‘Your children look well,’ Ian opined.

  Andrew eavesdropped from the landing. He wished Kate were here. Kate had a wonderful way of pulling the rug from beneath her plodding, dull brother. ‘Exercise your face,’ she often ordered. ‘Smile – it costs nothing and isn’t a criminal offence.’

  ‘Will you go back to him?’ Ian was asking now.

  ‘Will you piss off?’

  Andrew pushed a fist against his mouth. Kate was here up to a point. There was a bit of Kate in Helen, thank goodness.

  ‘No need for that,’ Ian said.

  Helen’s voice remained low and controlled. ‘You two are about as much fun as a burning orphanage, so I’m glad you married. It’s saved the sanity of two other people. You want me to feel better? Then take yourselves off to your colourless home, take your monochrome, two-dimensional children and leave me alone.’

  Eliza gasped. Even from the landing, Andrew heard it. ‘You’re being cruel, Helen, but we understand. Such a shock must have—’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘But we—’

  ‘Go away. Go away now. I don’t want you here.’ Andrew crept downstairs. The identical twins remained in place. Their slow page-turning seemed almost synchronized. Helen was only too right. Ian had manufactured a colour-free life, and it was rather too late for change. What did they do for enjoyment? Did they know the word?

  He watched them drive away. Even their car was automatic.

  Six

  By 1956, Joe Sanderson was living in Liverpool during the week, coming home just at weekends to be with his family and to check that all remained well with the business in Bolton. Management there rested on the shoulders of a time-served carpenter with many years of experience, while Michael Caldwell had made a promising start as apprentice, so the business ran as smoothly as ever while Joe put down huge roots in Liverpool.

  He had never regretted the move. The rented house in Seaforth suited his needs, just a two-up two-down with a bathroom tacked on downstairs. All his money had gone into the Dock Road business, which was thriving within a year. A catalogue brought in orders from all over the north-west, and the Sanderson empire was spreading like a forest fire in dry weather. He was already looking for bigger premises, and he expected a fleet of large vehicles to soon be carrying Sanderson kitchens
to widespread parts of the country. Liverpool, still undergoing post-war regeneration, was offering cut-price rentals on business properties, while the battered docks, now renovated, continued to bring in work to the region.

  He enjoyed the city once he got through the language barrier. Attuned to the slower speech of inland Lancashire with its flattened vowels and clear enunciation, he had some difficulty in keeping up with his new neighbours and employees. Scouse was rapid-fire, even guttural when it came to certain words, and the humour was swift and cutting. Jokes, especially those of the practical variety, became part and parcel of everyday life, and Joe finally began to anticipate certain events, though he seldom kept full pace with his humorous employees.

  ‘They take some keeping up with,’ he often told his wife on the phone. ‘Fur is fair, and fair is fur,’ he said. ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.’ But he soon found out that he was going – going up in the world, because his workforce was hard-working while managing to remain ridiculous. No one was safe; as boss, he was the victim of many jibes, but the staff worked as hard as they played, which was good enough for him. ‘They put a tarantula in my snap tin, Emily. Well, it wasn’t a real one, but I wasn’t best pleased. There I was looking for a cheese butty, and death was staring up at me. If I ever find out who did it, I’ll fight back with a bloody rattlesnake.’

  Yet there was sadness, too, in his new life. Poor Betsy had remained in St Helens. Her daughter, now three years of age, was disabled. Daisy, starved of oxygen during birth, had finally started to walk, though she didn’t speak. She required constant attention, and Betsy had become a brilliant mother. She focused on Daisy and only on Daisy.

  When Joe travelled the few miles between Liverpool and St Helens, he was given a cup of tea, a slice of shop-bought cake and minimal attention. Daisy owned Betsy, and Joe didn’t know whether to be sad or glad. That Betsy was busy was a good thing, but their child was making poor progress and was not expected to reach adulthood. It was heartbreaking. Yet in a strange way, Betsy was almost happy. She looked a wreck, but when she was with Daisy it was all clapping hands and nursery rhymes and false hope, God help her.

  Sometimes the little girl was asleep when Joe arrived, and they had the chance to talk. ‘Will you stay in St Helens?’ he asked one evening.

  ‘She’s used to here, Joe, used to this flat.’

  ‘What about you, though?’

  Betsy shrugged. ‘It’s a case of where she is, I am. But my neighbours are great, you see. I couldn’t ask for better, really. They take her out in the chair, give me a couple of hours to rest or tidy the house, do a bit of washing. They even babysit so I can go and see Elsie or get to bingo a couple of times a month.’ She sniffed. ‘I suppose you’ve noticed I went clean.’

  ‘Yes. You did it for Daisy.’

  ‘Aye, I did. But I did it for me and all, cos after . . . you know, after he died, I realized what a sloven I’d turned into. Poor bugger had nowt to live for, no kids, no chance of kids, a wife who never cleaned up. We killed him, you know. We put that rope round his neck, Joe.’

  ‘Yes, I am very much aware of that.’

  ‘I may not have been much, but I was all he had. Is Daisy our punishment, though? Is she?’

  ‘She’s like she is because they should have cut her out of you. You should sue the buggers, Bets. That sweet kiddy isn’t a punishment, definitely not. She’s an accident, just another bloody hospital accident.’

  Betsy rocked in her chair. Joe had made the rocker for her, as well as a dining table and chairs. ‘Thanks for looking after us money-wise,’ she said. ‘And for his nice headstone. We went to see it, me and our Else. The loveliest part was that you put father of Daisy, born after his death. That was a lovely touch. You made a man of him, you know. I know it was a bit late, like, but I appreciate the thought.’

  ‘Least I could do, lass. Well, I’d better get back and phone the missus, see how she’s managing without the man of the house.’

  Betsy nodded. ‘Still no playing at bedtime?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Aye, nothing changes. She’s not interested. I get the feeling that she’d stop in Bolton but for our Andrew. He’s set his mind on Liverpool University. They have a good medical school and quite a few hospitals, so they’ll both be coming when he’s eighteen. She’s like you; she’ll follow her child just about anywhere.’

  ‘Then she has her priorities right.’

  He put some extra money on the mantelpiece. ‘Get yourself a bit of something, Bets. Or a toy for the little miss. You’ve got my work and home numbers. Ta-ra for now.’ He kissed her chastely on her forehead and left her to her sad little life.

  During the drive home, he thought hard about poor Betsy. She looked so old. Daisy’s birth had not resulted in adoption as expected, but had caused Betsy to become frantically vigilant. Fortunately, Augustinian nuns from a nearby hospital helped the situation for a few weeks. Although Daisy had not been born in their establishment, these good women took it upon themselves to help the new mother cope with her frail baby.

  Once a routine established itself, Betsy and Daisy got on with it. But it was a monotonous life for a grown woman, and she became grey, shapeless and stooped. Joe did his best, but he was a guilty man. The suicide of Martin Liptrott sat heavily on his shoulders, as did the situation of Martin’s widow. It was all Joe’s fault, and Joe had stayed away from women ever since.

  Then there was Emily. She remained with Andrew on Mornington Road, but she was very different. After a year or so dedicated almost exclusively to paperwork, she had done a couple of courses and was now assistant almoner at Bolton Royal. She had come out of her shell. She was prettier, livelier, happier. The job was just a vehicle; he was almost certain that Emily had met someone. A doctor? A patient whose recovery involved visits from her? Was she capable of throwing herself wholeheartedly into a relationship? Was she?

  No. Emily wasn’t interested in men, wasn’t interested in much. Her hobbies excluded anyone who wasn’t Andrew, anything that didn’t have black and white keys and pedals. Yet he felt uneasy. She walked with the spring of a twenty-five-year-old in her step, and she was wearing high-heeled shoes, perfume, Yardley’s face powder, coral lipstick, jewellery. The legend on the lipstick tube read Koral Kiss, and that, too, made him anxious. If she’d found someone, a bloke who lasted more than a few minutes, she would know what a failure her husband was. Could he imagine Emily giving herself away in gay abandon?

  The Emily he remembered had always dressed simply in order to avoid attention. She was a shy woman, afraid of her own prettiness, determinedly unadorned unless attending one of Andrew’s concerts. But now, she was suddenly confident; she laughed more, talked more, was slightly less careful about the house.

  He parked in a lay-by and wondered what to do. A week off? Could Liverpool manage without him? Of course it could. But did he really want to know what she was up to? ‘Knowledge is power?’ he mumbled. What power might he gain from finding out what Emily was doing? She knew about Betsy, though she was not privy to the whole sordid truth. As far as Emily was concerned, her husband had come home from work that day with pneumonia; she had no idea that he’d driven his lover and unborn child to St Helens. But the earlier beating from Martin Liptrott had proved his faithlessness.

  A week off. He had to do it. Wondering and worrying served only to pave the road to madness, and that road grew shorter with every passing day. If he carried on, he’d end up in a straitjacket on a funny farm. Why did he care? God, why did he have to care about Emily? And if he, the gander, had tasted sauce, why should the goose be scrutinized? Because it was different for women? Because men were wild beasts while women were angels? If women were angels, where did men find their sleeping partners?

  He started the car. Perhaps he should bring Emily and Andrew to Liverpool now, let the lad do his A levels at a good school over here? That would put a stop to Emily’s games. If there were any games. The O levels were almost over; Andrew was expecting top grade
s in all subjects. There were just two school years left, then university. Yes, they might come to Liverpool now, let their son get used to the city.

  ‘Then I’d be house-hunting,’ he said. ‘I’m stupid. They can’t live where I live – it’s a shoebox.’

  But he needed to know what his wife was up to. If she was innocent, she and Andrew could stay where they were, thus allowing Joe to concentrate fully on the business. If she was messing about . . . Joe wished he could understand himself. One thing was becoming clear – an adulterous person always suspected his partner of having the same fault. Oh, and he loved her. So that made two things.

  At thirteen, Andrew Sanderson had been old enough to know that he wasn’t old enough to deal with the Beauchamps of Heathfield Farm. So he’d postponed the plan, kept quiet, stayed at home, studied, done his homework. He was at a good school, the best for many a mile. Yes, it was sometimes boring, and yes, he still learned more about life while away from his alma mater, but as a means to an end, Bolton School was more than adequate. Andrew Sanderson was going to be a doctor as long as he got the grades. But in two years he would be a Liverpudlian, so it was a case of now or never.

  He and his friend, Stuart Abbot, emerged from their final exam. They were on their way to Andrew’s house, where his mother had left a cake for them. ‘She still treats me like a child,’ Andrew said. ‘She’s made us a celebrate-end-of-exams Victoria sponge.’

  ‘You’re lucky. You don’t get sent through to serve a customer with a quarter of boiled ham when she needs a rest. I want a job this summer, something away from the shop. If I hear the ding of that till once more, I’ll end up dafter than I am already. There must be something I can do to earn a few bob.’

  They entered Emily’s beautiful kitchen, where Andrew pondered for several seconds, filling in the gap in conversation by cake-cutting and pouring orange juice into glasses.

  ‘This is great,’ Stuart said. ‘My mother would give an arm and a leg for a kitchen like this.’

  Andrew chuckled. ‘Then she’d need a special. Dad’s doing research into kitchens for disabled people. But I’d tell your mum to hang on to her limbs if I were you. Arms and legs have their uses from time to time.’