A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I suppose they do.’

  It was indeed a wonderful kitchen, solid oak cupboards and drawers, a long work surface, knife blocks, new cooker and sink. ‘Time, motion and geometry,’ Andrew said thoughtfully. ‘A triangle. Cooker, sink and fridge are pivotal. Their positioning is of prime importance. Everything’s always thought out in factories, and a kitchen is a small factory, because it produces things. My dad thinks these matters through very thoroughly. Stuart?’

  ‘What?’

  Andrew swallowed. It was now or never, so it had better be now. ‘About a job for the holidays. We’ve exercised our minds, so how about getting some muscles? I’ve been thinking about farm labouring. Imagine if we go into sixth form in September all sun-tanned and strong. The girls’ division will have to lock its doors to keep them in.’

  Stuart grinned. ‘You don’t half talk some mashed potato, Andrew. They might look at you, but I’ve still got a metal five-bar gate across my teeth. The girls’ division’s already listed you as a five-star bloke. I bet I haven’t even got one star with these braces. I mean, look at your height for a start. When are you going to stop growing?’

  ‘No idea.’ He could trust Stuart. He had to trust him, because two heads were better than one, and the idea of going up there on his own was not particularly attractive. ‘Look, it’s about my mother,’ he said. ‘Top secret, of course, but there’s a massive farm that stretches for miles. Heathfield, it’s called. It’s so big that they need lots of people living in cottages all the way to the Pennines. Half a dozen or more huge farms, really, but all under one heading.’

  ‘Right. And your mother?’

  Andrew shrugged. ‘She’s the farmer’s daughter. The main farmer. Beecham spelt the French way – Beauchamp. They kicked her out because of Dad. She was supposed to marry land, you see. When I first found out, Mother and Dad were going through a bad time, so I vowed to uncover all I could in case she needed her family.’

  ‘Does she need them?’

  ‘No. But I’d like to meet them, see what they’re made of.’

  Stuart grabbed another chunk of cake. Before biting into it, he agreed to go with his friend to try for work on the farm.

  ‘We’ll be brothers,’ Andrew said. ‘Stuart and Andrew Abbot.’

  Stuart found this so hilarious that he breathed in a few cake crumbs. He was standing over the sink with his friend battering him on the back when Thora came in. She took over, of course. Whatever was afoot, Thora had to be in charge. ‘Your mother told me to come in and tell you she’ll be late, something to do with catching up with paperwork. Or was it a meeting? Oh, I can’t remember. Are you all right now?’ she asked Stuart, who was probably black and blue after two beatings.

  The poor lad got his breath back and sat down.

  Thora turned to Andrew. ‘I’ve two of them now,’ she announced.

  ‘Two what, Mrs Caldwell?’

  ‘Teddy boys. I’ve a blue one and a green one. Kieran and Sean. Kieran’s blue with bright yellow socks, and Sean’s green with shocking pink socks. They look so stupid standing on corners swinging chains or combing their quiffs. I said to Harry, I said, “Have you seen the state of your two eldest?”, but he just carried on watching that test card thing on the television. Did you know he sleeps through programmes but watches the test card? I’ll just have a bit of your mam’s cake, Andrew. She won’t mind.’

  There followed a brief pause while Thora gorged herself. Andrew winked at Stuart, who was not yet used to the carryings-on of the Sandersons’ next door neighbours.

  ‘So.’ She brushed away a few crumbs from her flat chest. ‘You’ve done with exams, I take it?’

  ‘More in two years,’ Andrew said. ‘This is growing-up time, Mrs Caldwell. According to our masters, we’ve been spoon-fed so far. The gap between O level and A level is wider than the one between A level and university. So we have seven weeks to become men.’

  ‘Well, as long as you don’t become Teddy boys. I can’t be doing with them there stupid suits. If you need anything, you know where I am.’

  Outside, Thora sat on her garden wall and lit a Woodbine. Andrew would suffer, she thought. Emily’s relationship was fast becoming an open secret, especially since her husband went to Liverpool. It was often the quiet, withdrawn ones who went off the rails. Andrew had to carry on studying, while Joe needed to stay in the dark till the affair blew over. Was it an affair, or was it something bigger? God forbid on the divorce front. That would cripple young Andrew.

  For the first time in her life, Emily Sanderson was experiencing the joy of physical love. In his thirties, Dr Geoff Shaw was a decade her junior, but that didn’t seem to matter to either party. While unease often weighed her down, she felt she had not betrayed her husband, but she worried about her one and only son. And might she lose her job because of the relationship?

  Geoff was not particularly attractive. He wore thick-lensed glasses and was not tall, dark and handsome. In heels, she matched his height, and he was by no means a fine figure of a man, as he was slight of frame and his hair had already begun to recede, but his voice could melt her heart, while his gentle approach and brilliance of mind had taken terra firma from beneath her feet long ago. She was finally, dangerously, in love.

  She lay now in his arms, her mind filled with concern about Andrew, her body satiated by this skilful lover. It had to end; she must put a stop to it. But, as she drifted towards sleep, she curled into him, unwilling to leave the smallest space between their two bodies. And she floated into a dream that would fill her nights for years to come, though its order would vary, as is the way with dreams.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Dobbs?’

  Emily looked up from her typing. ‘Oh. She’s following up on a patient who’s being moved to the TB hospital. He needs help in understanding what’s happening to him – psychological problems.’

  ‘Right.’

  She felt his eyes travelling over her face and upper body. ‘May I take a message?’ she asked. ‘Mrs Dobbs should be back before two o’clock.’

  ‘No, but you may take lunch with me in the canteen. One o’clock?’ And he left without another word.

  Emily didn’t do a single tap of work after this event. She stared at the unfinished letter, blinked several times and picked up her flask and her sandwiches. Who did he think he was, coming in here and telling her where she must lunch? It was a nice day, and she intended to sit on a bench at the park side of the hospital, eat her food, drink her coffee, then return to finish the typing. The canteen food was good, but the place was noisy, filled with chattering cadets and student nurses.

  But when she reached ‘her’ bench, he was already seated and waiting for her. ‘I knew you wouldn’t go to the canteen,’ he told her. ‘You don’t appreciate being ordered about, and you like to overlook the park, don’t you? Am I right on both counts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when the weather’s fine, you come here at exactly half past twelve. Creature of habit.’

  ‘You’ve been watching me,’ she accused him.

  ‘Yes. It’s become a hobby, and it’s completely free of charge, I believe.’

  It was his voice. It wrapped itself round her like a sheet of pure silk. What did he want? ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘You. I want you.’

  The sandwiches remained in their wrapping, while her coffee flask stood between them. No one had ever spoken to her in such a forthright way. She stared ahead at the trees bordering Queen’s Park. Her brain was on strike; she could think of no words, no response that might convey how she felt. How did she feel? She hadn’t the slightest idea.

  ‘You’re Emily,’ he advised her.

  ‘I know my name, but thank you for the reminder.’

  ‘Your husband’s in kitchens and bespoke furniture, and your son’s at the school up the road.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Clever boy?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘I understand that Mr Sanderson i
s moving to Liverpool. Spreading his wings, so to speak.’

  ‘We shall all be in Liverpool within a few years.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m Geoff, as in Chaucer, not the American Jeff. And when you go to Liverpool, I may follow, because I am a Scouser – from West Derby. Grammar-school boy, working-class family, salt of the earth. Dad’s a dock worker, and Mam works at the biscuit factory. There are hospitals in Liverpool. I’m quite prepared to play the long game.’

  Emily turned to him. ‘I don’t play games, Dr . . .’ She had forgotten his name, but he was a paediatrician.

  ‘Shaw.’

  ‘Dr Shaw. I’m not available.’ He had beautiful hands.

  ‘I’m a patient man.’

  ‘I’m a determined woman.’

  ‘Promising, then.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘This game is going to be challenging.’ He raised a hand. ‘I know, I heard you, you don’t play. Well, let me put you straight, Emily. You’re a dormant volcano. You are in serious need of tender, loving care. I was going to be a psychologist, but I turned left into paediatrics. You require fulfilment. I need your body. We should get together some time soon. I can promise you a satisfactory result. Enjoy your lunch.’

  And he was gone.

  Emily closed her gaping mouth with a snap. He wanted her? He wanted her? Let him want – she was a mother and just a mother. Andrew’s life needed to be smooth and . . . Oh, goodness. A doctor wanted her. Lovely hands, a voice that might melt the coldest heart and, in spite of his forthright manner, a gentle, kind and humorous nature.

  For the very first time, Emily reacted the way a teenager might, though she slowed down a process of which she was naively unaware. A little make-up. A tighter skirt. Button at the throat left undone, shoes with heels, a nice belt. She had her hair styled in town, got her nails manicured, enjoyed facials, bought creams and lotions that boasted the ability to make her young. And he stayed away. He was there, yet almost invisible.

  The stand-off endured for almost three months. She knew when he was watching her. Even when he was behind her, she could feel his eyes travelling over her legs, her back, her hair. He watched her often. A thrill ran up her spine sometimes, rather like a shiver. Whenever she turned, he was already walking away. Even then, in the very early days, there was an inevitability attached to the situation.

  In cooler weather, she ate in a little-used staffroom. And he arrived. Before walking across to where she sat, he tilted a chair under the door handle. ‘What?’ he asked when he turned to face her. ‘I forgot the Do Not Disturb sign, so the chair’s in lieu of that.’

  He didn’t exactly attack her. He didn’t exactly do much, though he left an impression. Having separated her from sandwich and cup, he held her firmly and kissed her. And at that moment, she was defeated. It was ridiculous. She didn’t know him, didn’t love him, didn’t . . . didn’t want him?

  He stepped back. ‘Salmon,’ he said. ‘You were eating a salmon sandwich.’ He smiled. He had perfect teeth. ‘Your metamorphosis has been interesting to watch. Did you think I’d lost interest? You see, the chemistry comes first, and not just for men. Lust arrives before love. You dressed up for me in order to draw me in. The web is woven, my dear. Now, we need to do the rest of it. That will cure us or bind us together for always.’

  ‘I’m married.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I will never hurt my son.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s wrong,’ she said desperately. ‘There’s nothing right about it.’

  ‘That’s what makes it delicious.’ He returned to the door, moved the chair and left. For a split second the door reopened. ‘Delicious,’ he repeated quietly before closing the door again.

  Emily looked at the clock on the wall. Two minutes had passed, but she felt radically altered, as if she had almost become a different person. It was silly. She was old enough to be a grandmother, for heaven’s sake. Well, perhaps she would be allowed a rest from him for a few weeks? If he ran to pattern, she should get some peace for a while.

  But no. His tactics changed radically. By some undisclosed method, he seemed to be tailoring several of his shifts to match hers. He rented a flat quite near to the infirmary, and he walked with her as she made her way home, but for several weeks, he didn’t invite her in. When he finally did, his request arrived in terms to which she was gradually becoming inured.

  ‘Come in,’ he said abruptly. ‘You’re quite safe; it won’t be rape. When it happens, it will be your decision.’

  ‘Then it will be never, Geoff.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked her up and down. ‘How do you take your tea?’

  ‘Moderately strong, no sugar, just a splash of milk.’

  ‘Moderation. How predictable. Come.’ He held out an arm, and her feet walked past him into the doorway. She didn’t remember making the decision to do his bidding; it just happened. So her legs were obeying him, while her brain remained on alert. As for her heart . . . she felt she might need surgery, so erratic was the beat.

  She noticed a single bed, neatly made with hospital corners. The rest of the large room was a war zone. There was a desk in a nook near a bay window, and it was piled with papers, some of which had spilled to the floor. ‘Don’t tidy any of this,’ he ordered. ‘I get confused if anyone tries to organize me. You see a mess. Well, I know where everything is. Almost everything, anyway . . .’

  Emily sat uncomfortably on the edge of an armchair while he went into the kitchen. She couldn’t sit any more easily, as the seat was covered in books. The sofa was in the same condition. A pair of socks lay on the floor next to a tray overflowing with notebooks and pens. To the right of the fireplace, a tall bookcase was covered in confusion. He wasn’t perfect; he was delightfully human, and so different from anyone she had met thus far.

  The door from the bed-sitting room into the kitchen was to the left of the chimney breast. His head appeared. ‘Come in here, please. In here, I am tidy.’

  The kitchen, though very 1939, was scrupulously clean. An ancient gas cooker in blue and cream stood on bowed legs just to the left of the inner door. In spite of its antiquity, it shone. There was an inlaid table, a dresser that looked as if it had once belonged to some grandmother’s grandmother, and rows of shelves supporting neatly stacked dishes and dry goods. A white porcelain sink sparkled, as did the taps.

  ‘Very clean,’ she said.

  He poured the tea and offered her a biscuit. ‘I haven’t baked this week,’ he explained.

  ‘You bake? No, thank you, I won’t have a biscuit.’

  ‘Of course I bake. I’m a bachelor with no intention of marrying, so I cook, clean, wash, iron and shop all by myself like a good little boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to sound critical.’

  He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Marriage is for people who intend to breed. I don’t want children.’

  She shook her head in disbelief. ‘But you love them. Everyone says you’re magic with them.’

  ‘I didn’t realize I was the subject of gossip. You talk about me?’ He tightened his grip slightly. ‘Listen to me now. I have two much-loved brothers. Each has a child. One lost a leg to bone cancer, and the other is battling infantile leukaemia. I’m taking no chances.’

  Emily swallowed. ‘Geoff, I am so sorry.’ She thought about Andrew and imagined . . . Managed not to imagine. ‘So you chose me because I’m too old to bear a child?’

  His gaze did not waver. ‘I had a procedure in a Swiss clinic. A vasectomy. It’s been used for a couple of decades in America to stop the criminally insane reproducing, so I thought I’d join the ranks, since I’m relatively sure of my insanity, and my desire for you is probably criminal. I’m deliberately sterile, and this has nothing to do with your age. I want you, woman, and I’m prepared to wait until you want me. And I don’t need you to come to me through pity because of my niece or my nephew, or because I daren’t have children in case there’s some weird gene ripping its way throug
h my family. I want you to come to me in lust.’

  With her free hand, Emily took a sip of tea. ‘I believe I don’t do lust.’

  ‘Not yet, perhaps. But you’re making progress. Presentation of self is improving, there’s a sway in your hips – you’re very aware of me, yes?’

  He was right. She felt hypnotized. ‘Don’t mock me.’ She claimed back her hand.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘We have things to do.’

  ‘Why me? Why did you choose me?’

  He shrugged. ‘Because I remember you from tomorrow. It’s a poem I wrote. It’s somewhere . . .’ He waved a hand towards the chaos in the next room. ‘Lonely people write, you see. No one to talk to, so they talk to paper. Don’t pity me for that, either. My own company is preferable to that of most people. By the way, he’s a good pianist. Your son. I went to a concert where he played Chopin. Afterwards, I took care to stay behind and congratulate him. He’ll go far.’

  ‘He’ll be a doctor.’

  Geoff blinked. ‘With a gift like that?’

  Emily nodded. ‘He won’t give up the piano, but he’s made up his mind about what he wants. Far be it from me to attempt to dissuade him.’

  ‘Have a biscuit. They’re full of drugs to make you sleep. Then I’ll get my wicked way. Go on. You won’t feel a thing.’

  At this point, Emily began to laugh. She was sitting in the company of a beautiful soul, and he was ridiculous. ‘What’s the point, then?’ she achieved eventually. ‘If I won’t feel a thing, why . . . ?’

  ‘As long as you’re unconscious, you won’t get upset, so it won’t be anything untoward.’

  ‘You have a very distinct sense of humour,’ she said. He was funny, sweet, vulnerable, untidy, lovable. She dried her eyes. ‘I must go. Andrew will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Just a moment.’ He walked round the table and stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Even through clothing, his touch was deft as he massaged tension out of her upper spine. ‘I do a full body treatment,’ he said. ‘With oils. The clothes will have to go, of course.’