A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  He nodded and folded his arms. ‘Get on with it before I do lose the will to live and take an overdose of something or other.’

  ‘Oh. Right. So then, our Natalie comes to the door. You know what a nice, quiet girl our Natalie is. So she excuses herself, all polite, like, and talks to these people from Jehovah. “We are all blood donors in this house,” she tells them. “And I am training to be a doctor. Transfusions will always be vital in the saving of lives. If your daughter ever needs blood, I do hope you’ll think again.” And she drags me in and shuts the door right in their faces. I mean, they were ugly to start with, but my brass doorknocker wouldn’t do any favours to a nose that got too near. Yes, she’s got class, has my Natalie.’

  Andrew tutted. ‘People in this country are free to adopt any faith they choose. We are also allowed to disagree with them, but I always think it best to thank them and tell them I’m not interested.’

  Eva narrowed her eyes. ‘Remember our Lucy? We adopted her years ago? Your Mary found people who recommended us.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. Very sad.’

  ‘Thirty-six, she would have been now. You know she bled to death when our Natalie was born on the floor in our back kitchen. We kept Natalie. She’s got strong opinions when it comes to blood, and I understand why. Nat’s a donor. So she gets a bit mad with people who try to persuade other people not to give their blood.’

  ‘Ah. Now I certainly stand corrected.’

  ‘Thank you. She’s never nasty, Doc, cos it’s not in her nature. She just gets her point across. That’s why I think she’ll make a really good doctor, cos she always sticks to her guns till somebody puts her right. She’s a good learner, our Nat, always ready to listen.’ Eva turned to walk away, changed her mind and doubled back. ‘Is your Helen going to that meditation thing about staying married to Diamonds are Forever?’

  ‘Mediation, Eva. Not meditation.’

  ‘Whatever, she wants her head looking at. Well, is she going? Cos I’m telling you now, he could charm a blind bird out of a tree, that one. He’ll promise her the earth, and he’ll give her nothing but headaches and more children than she wants.’

  ‘I tend to agree with you there, Eva.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it, eh? Sit there cogitating over your gas bill and the Times crossword?’

  ‘I’m doing nothing about anything. I stopped trying to interfere with other people’s business years ago, because it got me in more trouble than enough. The messenger can be shot, you know. It gets positively Shakespearean if you start picking up handkerchiefs.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Sorry, Eva. Just a reference to the Moor of Venice.’

  She glared at him. ‘They’ve got no moors in Venice. It’s all water. Moors is foothills near mountains; I remember that from school.’

  Andrew turned away and paid the gas company. Where Eva was concerned, Othello was of no interest whatsoever.

  ‘Doc?’

  Oh, God. ‘What?’

  ‘Shall I do some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. Black, strong, and served with a large slice of silence.’

  ‘OK, boss.’

  The price of electricity had gone up once more. And Helen was out again. Was there another man . . . ?

  After three sessions of mediation, Helen felt almost sure that she could never go back to Daniel. Perhaps the time she’d enjoyed away from him was a factor; another distinct possibility was that she saw him out of context. In their area of the Wirral, he’d been completely at home, and not just in the house. Everyone knew him. He got the best seats in restaurants, was a member of Rotary, while invitations to house parties had always arrived thick and fast, especially at Christmas and New Year. He was in a pickle. Refusal of such invitations had to involve lying, since his wife was popular, and rumours of her departure would be circling by now like buzzards over carrion.

  She stared at the curtains while Daniel and the counsellor droned on. The curtains were horrible, yellow with pinkish-brown flowers dripping down their lengths. That these malignant drapes should hang at a beautiful Georgian window offended Helen’s sense of order and good taste.

  Order. She looked at the desk. Mr Purcell’s work area spoke volumes about obsessive compulsive disorder. A green blotter sat dead centre. To its right, four sharpened pencils lay together in a row, identical quadruplets placed in perfect sequence, all points facing the door, all exactly the same length. To the left of the blotter squatted the phone and a very overweight green Buddha. The carpet was pinkish-brown. Mr Purcell’s chair was brown. Clients’ seats were brown. The walls were covered in framed diplomas. The frames were brown. And Helen was browned off.

  Oh. They were both staring at her expectantly.

  ‘You see?’ Daniel cried. ‘She doesn’t care enough to listen.’

  She looked at him hard and long. ‘You like it here, don’t you, Daniel?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ In Liverpool, Daniel was on foreign soil. For him, this was a good thing, as he didn’t want to wash dirty linen on his own side of the Mersey. For Helen, too, this was a good thing, because she saw him here more clearly for what he was, a moaning mother’s boy. He was, indeed, his mother’s creation, his mother’s monster. According to Beatrice Pope, her ‘boy’ was perfect. She had raised him to believe he was a messiah of the jewellery business, a prodigy who, at the age of five, could pick out the finest diamond, the rarest emerald, the best Ceylon sapphire.

  At this third session, Helen decided to speak her mind thoroughly. ‘I shan’t be coming again,’ she advised the counsellor. ‘There’s no point. Yes, I have a young baby, and no, I am not suffering from depression.’ She fixed her gaze on Daniel. ‘Nor do I have any of the sexually transmitted disorders you might have distributed so freely. I simply prefer not to be married to you. Go back to Mummy and her four-course breakfasts. But watch your cholesterol. I told you often enough that her doting could have damaged you irreparably. Only here, in this setting, have I realized how deep her damage really did go.’

  Daniel blinked. ‘You never liked my mother.’

  ‘True. Though she improved greatly with age, which you haven’t. She taught you to believe that you were God, and you never learned any better. Really, you would have made an excellent Victorian, because you think women are here simply to do your bidding. Whores know their place, but I don’t accept what you perceive as my position. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.’

  The counsellor stood up. ‘Please, all I ask—’

  ‘All you ask is sixty quid an hour,’ Helen said, no malice in her tone. ‘So sit down and be quiet while I use up the time that’s left.’ She returned her attention to Daniel. ‘Tell Mummy that nasty Helen refuses to hang round until a son puts in an appearance. If you need a son, look elsewhere – you’re good at that. I want half the value of the house, together with something from the business – I put my hours in listening to dirty old men with eyes halfway down my cleavage.’

  This was Kate-speak. Helen’s sister had primed the bomb, lit the fuse and stood back while his life went up in flames. ‘I love you,’ he said desperately.

  ‘You love you, Daniel. Buy a small pocket mirror and look at your beloved whenever you feel the urge.’

  ‘You’re getting nothing from the business.’ His eyes narrowed.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, that sounds like your kind of love. However, certain items from a certain safe in a cellar . . .’ She shrugged, neglecting to finish the sentence. Quietly, she sang about the taxman having taken all someone’s money on a fine day. ‘And a hundred pounds a week for each child. No negotiations, or I’ll finish that bloody song and finish you as well.‘

  ‘Shut up, you daft cow.’ He jumped up and left the room.

  Helen stayed where she was. ‘So, away he runs, Mummy’s boy. She’ll comfort him later with egg and chips followed by vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce. Yes, she’ll regress him to the age of nine by providing the menu h
e loved then. As for me, I require escorting to my car. He has a very low threshold of self-control. His mother’s fault, you see.’

  As they walked through the building and out to Helen’s car, the counsellor apologized profusely for failing to improve matters.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Helen said. ‘Not your fault. It’s my problem, because I refused to see what everyone else noticed years ago. What concerns me most is the thought of him getting into a permanent strop and ignoring our daughters. He sulks, unfortunately. Sarah shows signs of missing her daddy, though Cassie’s still a baby. He’s quite capable of just walking away.’

  ‘And you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not for myself, but for the girls. I have a supportive, decent family. My dad’s the kindest man. He let us turn his dining room into a living room, and he plays with the children, so they have a man in their life. But they also have a dad and they have a right to their dad.’ She shook his hand. ‘Thank you for being there. You gave me the opportunity to see straight through a man I used to adore. Oh, and change those curtains, for goodness’ sake, because they belong in a skip, not in a beautiful Georgian window. And stop being so bloody tidy.’

  She drove off.

  Halfway up Rimrose Road, she noticed that Daniel was following her, so she parked illegally, used the central locking system and phoned her father. Daniel remained where he was, about thirty yards away. The stand-off endured until Andrew appeared in his Rolls-Royce. There were times that begged for a bit of swank, and this was one of them. He turned the ancient but pristine Silver Ghost and purred into position in front of his daughter.

  Daniel Pope’s tyres screamed as he wasted rubber in a dangerous U-turn that caused many horns to sound.

  ‘Oh well, he’d better stay alive,’ Helen mumbled. Though she might do better as his widow? No. She shivered. Wishing someone dead was wrong, even when he was a total pillock. A very rich total pillock, he was. All the same, death was a stride too far.

  ‘You all right, love?’ Andrew asked when they reached Rosewood. ‘We can get an injunction.’

  ‘Yes, and thanks for coming, Daddy, but no injunction. If he makes any trouble, we’ll resort to the law. He was in a fairly bad temper because I knocked this mediation lark on the head. It’s just a waste of time and money. I didn’t realize how typecast I’d allowed myself to become. Freedom is beyond value.’

  They entered the house. ‘We’re all right to talk,’ he said. ‘The News of the World has gone home. Today’s lesson was on the subject of Jehovah’s Witnesses and blood transfusions. I swear I’d get rid of her except for your mother.’ He wiped his brow. Sometimes, Eva wore him out.

  Helen patted his arm. ‘Mummy’s dead. You have to live your life for yourself now. Which is what I plan to do. I’ve . . . I’ve met someone.’

  ‘Oh?’ He pretended to be surprised.

  ‘My new solicitor. He’s single, thirty-ish, thinks I’m beautiful and wants to take me out for lunch in the near future.’

  ‘Oh, Helen. Did you never hear about on the rebound?’

  ‘Yes. Floyd Cramer recorded it. You and Mum used to play it.’

  ‘You know what I mean, madam.’

  ‘Yes. I also know it’s just lunch with a very nice man. And he doesn’t merely leer at me – he listens. Baby talk gets a bit tedious, Daddy. All these dedicated Mumsy types who say they enjoy the company of infants are either liars or thick. Another day of Humpty-flaming-Dumpty, and I’ll throw myself off the wall, and to hell with the king’s horses and the king’s men. Anyway, I’ll be back at work soon enough, and Sofia’s starting a foundation course to become a translator. She needs to move on, because she’s bright.’

  ‘Ah. So what about the children? You know I’m devoted to them, but—’

  ‘But. Anya will take the job.’

  ‘Right. Will she live here?’

  ‘To begin with. When everything’s sorted out, I’ll buy a house near Kate and Rich. Then you’ll get a bit of peace, just you, Eva, and that poor dead woman in the back garden.’ She made a sound that was remarkably akin to a growl. ‘Protracted mourning isn’t grief. It’s self-pity.’

  As he walked his dog hurriedly in the face of an incoming tide, Andrew heard his daughter’s words. Self-pity, not love. Was she right? He also wondered about the value of peace and quiet. At this precise moment, there was no chance of it, as Storm had taken serious umbrage at Mighty Mersey’s renewed vigour. The dog’s attempts to prevent the inevitable were hilarious and clumsy, but at least the tide was moving in the right direction, and he’d be washed ashore if he went too far. ‘It doesn’t listen, Storm,’ he shouted. ‘It’s fastened to the Irish Sea and won’t sue for divorce.’

  Peace and quiet? Was that what Andrew really wanted or needed? Apart from Eva, who was something of a mixed bag, his retirement might have been lonely. Instead, he had gained a household teeming with life, and although a move began to seem attractive whenever the baby had a screaming fit, he often liked the house being busy. Was he mentally ill?

  Then there was Mary. He couldn’t take her with him, couldn’t leave her here alone. A new householder wouldn’t want a grave in his garden, would certainly neglect it. The flat stone might well be used as a stand for plant pots or statues or a water feature. And this was not love, it was indulgence of self. Was Helen right? She’d become a clever and capable young woman, and he was an old enough fool. A soggy dog joined him. ‘Woof.’

  ‘Ah. Here comes the aforementioned water feature. The Dripping Dog by Henry Moore, huh?’

  ‘Woof woof.’

  ‘It’s OK, Storm. We walk up the steps.’ Another few metres, and the tide would be fully in. The vagaries of man and Mersey were items Andrew had come to terms with long ago. Forty-two years, he’d lived in Liverpool. He could scarcely recall the undulating moors he’d missed so badly four decades earlier. They’ve got no moors in Venice. What a card she was. Perhaps he should commit Eva to paper, let the world take a look at her.

  But one aspect of the moors he would never forget. Heathfield Farm and the Beauchamps. That particular chapter he would always remember. It had once been etched deep inside him, in a cold place reserved for the worthless, the inhumane and the downright evil. Eva visited that place occasionally, though she had not yet become a resident and probably never would. She was in the pending tray; but the Beauchamps had sat in the refrigerated area for several years during Andrew’s teens. And he had been wrong. Again. His cold storage now contained several inadequate doctors, Daniel Pope, and ministers who had systematically hacked away at the NHS. Beauchamps were forgivable and had long been forgiven.

  He remembered that boiling hot day when he had dragged poor Stuart halfway to nowhere and back. He would never forget any of it.

  He found the main farm. It was a remarkable building, reminiscent of a medium-sized stately home: sweeping driveways, white columns upholding an exterior open porch, striped lawns, a fountain, the word HEATHFIELD curled into tall, wrought iron gates. Window surrounds and lintels were hewn from stone, and all windows were patterned in stained glass. This was true opulence. It would do as a setting for a film populated by mustachioed airmen and hopeful products of girls’ Swiss finishing schools.

  Andrew’s heart hurt. Mother had been raised here on a diet of duty heavily laced with emotional blackmail. With her education geared towards the genteel arts, she had been propelled in the direction of wealthy, land-owning families. By ‘selling’ their children through generations, the Beauchamps had acquired a portfolio of properties that stretched from here to the feet of the Pennine Chain.

  With steam beginning to rise from his water-drenched clothes, Andrew returned to his friend. All previously planned strategies were dismissed; neither boy would work for the farmers, as Andrew had decided to meet them as an equal. That would mean a week or more of study, but he was equal to it. Oh yes, he intended to be ready for them.

  He hailed Stuart with a wave. ‘We’re going home,’ he called.

  ‘T
hank God for that – I’m like a poached egg in these wet things.’ It was clear that Stuart Abbot was not amused.

  The ride back was slow and almost silent. Fortunately, it was largely downhill, and Andrew got the chance to think. He needed that time; he also needed to be less damp when presenting himself at their door. A bit of reading, and he would talk like an expert on cattle. Work for them? Oh, no. They were his target, his goal, his holiday prep. ‘Build them up, then drop them like worthless stones,’ he mused aloud. He was tall. He had no acne, and he was beginning to produce stronger facial hair. The fly in the oriel bay came to mind. ‘I’m the spider,’ he said.

  ‘Talking to yourself again, Sanderson?’

  ‘I am. This way, I’m sure of an intelligent and handsome audience.’

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Drop dead.’

  ‘Not today, Stu. Things to do. Yes, several things to do.’

  After the fateful third session of mediation, Daniel Pope was seething with temper. He wanted the contents of that safe back. First, they were valuable; second, they were dangerous. The problem was that Helen thought things out carefully, and his ill-gotten gains, now her ill-gotten property, might not be at Rosewood. The stuff could be in a bank vault somewhere.

  On the other hand, Andrew was a millionaire, or would be when his old man died, because Sanderson’s Bespoke Furniture was worth a bomb, while Sanderson’s Intelligent Kitchens PLC was the size of an active volcano, so Father-in-law possibly had a safe in the house. However, even if the stuff was there, its container would be impenetrable, since Andrew Sanderson bought nothing but the best . . .

  Oh, sod it. He booked himself in at the Adelphi, as he hadn’t the energy to drive home. The house would have to be sold, because he could no longer live on the Wirral, where every man and his dog knew that Helen had walked out with both children, one of them still just a few months old.

  He sat in the hotel’s largest bar, nursed a double cognac and stared gloomily at the table. Life in the vibrant city of Liverpool continued outside, but he had hit a full stop. There were clubs, eateries by the score, women a-plenty, but he suddenly seemed not to care. He didn’t feel like dancing, talking or watching surgically deformed females removing clothes or sliding down poles. A light had gone out, and its name was Helen Pope.