A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  Women. He’d had more than his fair share over the years, but being married had been part of the fun. He’d been getting away with something forbidden. Childhood had been the same, because a vigilant, doting mother had made disobedience inevitable. Lying had become part and parcel of everyday life, since he had been forbidden to do even normal things like swimming, playing football or straying beyond certain local boundaries. As a consequence, he had done all the aforementioned plus several other activities of which Mother would certainly not have approved.

  He took another sip of brandy. Helen was probably right; Mother had made him deceitful. Sex addiction therapy had failed, due to the fact that he was judged clear of the disease. The therapist had been cruelly blunt. ‘You’re just selfish,’ she had said. ‘You don’t want to stop, so you carry on.’ Another bloody woman, a bluestocking rejected by society and pushed into a position where she could judge the afflicted.

  He was sick of women, yet he wanted his wife back. ‘Why?’ he asked the brandy globe. The answer lay not in the bottom of a glass, but deep within himself. Life without her was going to be terrible. She was well known and loved in the business, particularly among the northern chain of six huge shops. Jewellery looked wonderful on her, though her beauty drew the eye away from smaller items, so she had always arrived at functions in huge pieces whose prices looked like telephone numbers.

  He drained the glass. A blonde at the bar was giving him the eye, but he wasn’t interested in her. She nudged her friend, then showed Daniel three fingers, thereby indicating that they were willing to make a threesome, but he remained unmoved. The bartender, however, was moved. He shifted them out to where they belonged, on the street. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he mouthed. ‘We do our best, but they still wander in.’

  ‘No problem.’ No problem? Of course there was a bloody problem. It sat a few miles up the coast in its father’s house. He remembered how she’d looked in the Rodney Street consulting room, animated, alive and magnificently angry. The idea of a fight was stimulating. Even now, he knew that if he managed to get to her while she was alone, she would allow him to make love to her. Allow? She’d be glad of it. That sweet, quiet girl was dynamite in bed, and . . . and she’d get picked up by someone else unless he staked his claim soon. The thought of her with another man was excruciating.

  Upstairs in his en suite, he lay in a frothy bath and tried to plan. Sofia had every Wednesday afternoon off. She visited her mother’s house, and returned to her job late on Wednesday night, or early on Thursday morning. When lecturing at the university, Helen shaped her working week round Sofia’s comings and goings. Wednesday was the day, then, as Wednesday was also Eva’s day off. But he had to get rid of his father-in-law. Not easy, but by no means impossible. There had to be a way of arranging something.

  By the time he was dry, powdered and lying on the bed, Daniel’s plan was complete. He would need to be clever and prepared for all eventualities, but he knew that Andrew had his daughter’s best interests at heart, so surely he would come to discuss those interests? ‘Once he’s driven away from the house, I get in,’ he advised the ceiling. ‘He won’t be back for well over an hour, so that will give me plenty of time to talk her round.’ He would dominate her. She had always enjoyed games.

  Satisfied by his own cleverness, Daniel Pope fell asleep, and for the first time since Helen’s abandonment of him, he stayed asleep for the whole night.

  Andrew had raided his piggy bank, his Bolton Savings Bank account, Dad’s old suit pockets and the bases of upholstered furniture. The cost of a taxi from town to the back of beyond was considerable, as was the price of an elegant briefcase, but he needed to look the part. Fortunately, he had a good suit that was usually saved for concerts, weddings and funerals, so he dug that out and borrowed one of Dad’s ties. He still looked young, but older than sixteen. ‘No shaving,’ he ordered his reflection. ‘A bit of shadow adds a couple of years.’

  Mother was at work, while Dad had returned to base in Liverpool. Andrew was going for his mother’s pound of flesh; for the first time ever, he had discovered the place just south of his stomach where feelings could be put in cold storage, which facility allowed him to fear little or nothing. This was his day, and he would grab it with determination, a leather briefcase and a non-existent farm at the other side of the Pennines.

  As expected, their greed made them gullible. Invited into one of several reception rooms radiating from an octagonal hall, the sixth-former turned bereaved businessman sat with his grandparents at a long conference-style table. They had stony faces; meeting their eyes wasn’t easy. Briefly, he caught sight of his mother’s features in a much older female face, but the moment didn’t last. Emily Sanderson was pretty; her mother was not.

  ‘My parents died,’ he explained sadly. ‘In an accident abroad. They were in Greece looking at different types of fowl with a view to cross-breeding, and there was a bad crash on a poor road. We buried them a few weeks ago. So I’m stuck with hundreds of acres I don’t want, some prize-worthy pigs – Tamworths, I believe – then beef cattle, dairy cattle, orchards, vegetable fields, livery stables, farmhouse and farm cottages. We’ve two shepherds who live up in the hills, thousands of sheep, and, well – I want to be a doctor. Farming has never appealed to me and, as the only child, I inherit the lot.’

  Irene and Alan Beauchamp were very concerned about this unfortunate young man. His farm was currently in the hands of caretakers, but the eventual sale would be effected by a firm of solicitors. Andrew spoke again. ‘There’s no point in telephoning, as I’m not there any more, and the caretakers know little about my plans. In fact, I’m off to London in the morning to do some voluntary work in a teaching hospital for a few days. But you might want to go and look at Crawford Farm. Here’s the address.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alan Beauchamp’s face was a picture of wonderment. ‘Why us?’ he asked.

  ‘My parents noticed you in several farming publications. You care for your beasts.’

  ‘Oh, we do, we do,’ exclaimed Irene.

  ‘Almost as if they’re family,’ Andrew continued. ‘And family is of paramount importance, yes?’ He left a pause. ‘I’ll come back next week with my lawyer. It’s time the Houses of Lancaster and York came together at last. The Pennines are no real barrier. Your empire will bestride those mountains, and rightly so. As do goats. We sell goats’ milk for people allergic to cows’ milk. Oh, and we make cheeses and butter.’

  ‘How much are you asking?’ This from Alan, whose eyes had narrowed considerably in hungry anticipation.

  ‘Awaiting valuation,’ was Andrew’s swift response. ‘With the funeral and so forth, I’ve been extremely busy. But I’m here because my parents admired you.’ He stood up. ‘I shall be back next week, but please visit the farm in the meantime. You shall have first refusal. Unless your offer is ridiculously low, I shan’t advertise the business elsewhere. Feel free to order your own valuation.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Must dash. Darned car broke down, and I’ve a taxi cab waiting. Good day.’

  His cold place failed him for a while, and he was shaking when he left, but he walked carefully and remained as steady as possible. They were going on a wild goose chase, while he was going to Stuart’s for a brown ale, after which interval of enjoyment he would return home and dress normally.

  Revenge? Was this revenge? Mother didn’t even know about it.

  He tried, and failed, to imagine her reaction. She was not a vengeful person, yet she had rebelled against the wishes of her parents, had refused to comply with their demands. Assuming that they’d put her on the marriage market at the age of eighteen, it was clear to Andrew that she’d held out for at least a decade, as she hadn’t married until she reached her very late twenties.

  Mother was forty-five and still beautiful. She had given up on her marriage, and now planned a future with a doctor more than ten years her junior. Of a normally placid disposition, she would probably hit the roof if she discovered what her beloved son was up to. Rev
enge by proxy was probably a bad idea, yet the exuberance of youth had forced him to act.

  His grandparents had never known him; from this day, they would never forget him. Because he intended to wipe the floor with the pair of them.

  Unfortunately for Daniel Pope, Andrew Sanderson was very much on the ball when it came to fooling people. Having sent his own grandparents up hill and down dale years ago, he was several strides ahead when the phone call came. He was supposed to go across the river to Neston, where he and his ridiculously stupid son-in-law might discuss, as ‘reasonable fellows’, the divorce settlement. Helen had stopped listening. Helen was making unreasonable demands. Helen was far too emotional to negotiate.

  Helen would be alone in the house, wouldn’t she? So Andrew changed that fact, by putting the babies in the back of the Merc, each little girl fastened in safely, and leaving the passenger seat for his daughter. Her friend Barbara would be pleased to see her and the children, so all areas were covered.

  Andrew was almost certain that Daniel would be on his way. When he arrived, he would get a sizeable shock. If the man had spoken the truth, which was unlikely, Andrew would arrive on time at the Neston house. He backed the car out and drove off in the wrong direction.

  ‘The tunnel’s that way, Daddy,’ Helen said.

  ‘Yes, but I thought we’d have a drive through Little Crosby. Such a lovely spring day shouldn’t be wasted.’ He hadn’t told her about his suspicions. She had enough to worry about without learning this particular truth. If it was a truth. Either way, it didn’t matter. She and her children would be safe, and that was good enough for Andrew.

  ‘Where will you go while I’m at Barbara’s?’ she asked.

  ‘To the cliffs. I haven’t been there in a while. Should have brought Storm, but the car’s full.’

  ‘Go, go, go,’ shouted Sarah from the back seat.

  ‘Women,’ Andrew sighed. ‘Surrounded by them.’

  ‘Go, go, go.’

  ‘You heard her,’ Helen said sternly. ‘Get driving, Jeeves.’

  ‘Jeeves’ got driving.

  Same suit, same briefcase, same taxi, different tie, different attitude. He was going in for the kill, yet he felt as strong as a newborn kitten. Andrew Sanderson, aged sixteen years and eight months, was on his way to a situation he had created, with no way of predicting the outcome. Would the Beauchamps have a lawyer in tow? Would Andrew be prosecuted for something or other? Telling lies, impersonating the son of a non-existent farmer, wasting time, costing them money for a survey on land and a house that simply weren’t there?

  He was a great deal more nervous than he had expected to be, though he knew he had to finish what he’d started. The I’m-in-charge confidence of the previous week seemed to have evaporated. They were older and more experienced in the ways of the world. They owned massive tracts of land, and they hadn’t come this far without a degree of intelligence. They were breeders of prize cattle and pigs; they lived in a house that almost defied description.

  He must think about Mother, who had been unwilling to become a champion cow prepared to mate with a champion, land-owning bull. These people were utterly devoid of normal human emotion, a pair who knew about cost, but not about value. ‘Oh, God,’ he breathed softly.

  ‘You all right?’ the driver asked.

  ‘I’ll let you know if I get out alive.’

  The driver grinned into his mirror. ‘They’re not exactly popular, from what I’ve heard. They’d sack their workers as soon as look at them, and they pay minimum wages. Who are you to them?’

  ‘Nobody. Like everyone else, I’m nobody.’

  ‘Aye, well, good luck with whatever it is. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.’

  Daniel was very pleased with himself. The Mercedes wasn’t in the driveway, but Helen’s car was. The plan seemed to have worked. Eva and Sofia would be elsewhere, so all was well in the world of Mr Daniel Pope, who wore a four carat diamond tiepin that was a perfect twin to his wife’s four carat engagement ring. Diamonds were forever, and these two fine specimens would be reunited within days – perhaps within hours.

  God, he missed her. He’d never realized how badly he needed her, and he was determined never to stray again. With his heart pounding in his ears, he walked to the door and pulled the bell. Andrew was a purist where original features were concerned. The bell was a manual thing that actually jangled, as did servants’ bells in the kitchen. Servants? All Andrew had was the dragon and her rather beautiful granddaughter, and the—

  And the door opened. Daniel’s mouth opened, too, and he snapped it shut, biting his tongue in the process. ‘Where’s Helen?’ he managed, trying to ignore soreness and the taste of blood.

  ‘Gone,’ snapped Kate. She took hold of his tie, closing her fingers over the four carats he treasured so dearly.

  ‘Hang on,’ he yelled as she dragged him inside.

  Oh, no. Eva, Sofia and Anya stood in a row behind Kate. Each wore an angry expression, and all arms were folded. Kate returned to the door in order to prevent the prey’s escape. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘To see my wife and children,’ he snapped.

  ‘I see. So that’s why you arranged to meet my father, is it? He’s gone to Neston, but he made sure that we’d be here and Helen wouldn’t.’

  He opened his mouth, but no words emerged. So Andrew had seen through his ploy, and here Daniel stood, four viragos facing him. ‘I was desperate,’ he said at last. ‘I haven’t seen my children for ages, so what do you expect?’

  Richard entered from the kitchen. Under Andrew’s orders, he and the four women had hidden in the summerhouse until Helen had left, while their car was parked up the road near the coastguard station. ‘One more trick from you, Pope, and you’ll be served with an injunction. Defy that, and there’ll be court and press. I’ll be happy to sink you and your chain of rubbishy shops.’

  Daniel blinked. Rubbishy? Pope’s catered for all pockets, and what was wrong with that? ‘Look, there seems to have been a misunderstanding,’ he babbled nervously. ‘I thought I was supposed to come here, but . . .’ The sentence died of exhaustion.

  ‘You will never be invited here,’ Eva snapped. ‘You can’t fool Doc, because he’s had your measure since you first turned up. This young woman here – Sofia – should have kicked you where it hurts, but she’s too bloody polite and was too scared of losing her job.’

  Anya Jasinski stepped forward. ‘Swinia,’ she said coldly.

  ‘My mother says you are a pig,’ Sofia translated helpfully.

  Anya nodded. ‘Pigs is better. They give good bacon and leather from skin. You bad man, no use for nothing.’

  ‘Proceedings have begun,’ Richard said. ‘Helen has seen a solicitor, so any harassment from you will serve only to make matters worse. She’s happy. Some women don’t realize how unhappy they were until they put down the millstone. It’s over. We’ll look after Helen and her children from now on.’

  ‘I demand access,’ the intruder said.

  ‘You’ll have supervised access to the daughters you didn’t want, but no access to Helen. She’s settling well, and she mustn’t be disturbed by you. The whole family’s behind her.’

  ‘She’s still my wife,’ Daniel shouted.

  Kate looked at the ceiling as if seeking inspiration.

  Richard shook his head. ‘If one partner says the music’s finished, that’s the end of the dance. Feel free to tango alone, or pick a different partner. Let’s face it, you’ve plenty to choose from.’

  Daniel swallowed painfully. He was losing his trophy wife, the best display unit in the Pope empire. Not only did she look the part, Helen could hold a conversation at any level. She never patronized, never made anyone feel inferior, seldom allowed pompous bigots to talk over her head. Helen was clever, talented and amazingly beautiful. ‘Will you tell her I’m having therapy?’ he begged. He wasn’t, but he’d shown willing, hadn’t he?

  Kate answered. ‘Your solicitor will tell
her solicitor. Any communication must be in writing between the two lawyers. She’s so happy now, Daniel.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  Kate agreed. ‘Your Amsterdam whore did Helen a favour, because she was blinded by love for you. We saw through you, but she lived in hope. Yes, she’s clever and yes, she was stupid where you were concerned. But she knows now what you are. At last, the fog in her mind has lifted. So leave her alone, or my Richard will make sure you’re dealt with. OK?’

  Daniel pushed Kate out of the way and escaped. The company listened as his car roared off angrily. ‘He must keep Dunlop or Michelin going,’ Richard said. ‘Right. Eva, Anya, Sofia, I’ll take you home. I’ll come back for you, poppet.’ He kissed his wife on her forehead. ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘Now, that’s a marriage,’ Eva said. ‘You let your man make his own mind up as long as he does as he’s told.’

  Even Anya understood. ‘Eva, this is true. Always say he has good idea, but idea was yours.’

  Richard almost growled. ‘Ah, but there are double bluffs, you know. I let her think I’m being led by the nose, but barristers are good at fooling people. I know how to turn her on, off or set to medium heat. Simmering is fine, but I keep a bucket of cold water handy in case she overheats. It’s a delicate balance. Ouch!’ He rubbed his head, took a notebook and pen from a pocket. ‘March 2001,’ he said slowly. ‘Hit again on head with blunt object.’ He scribbled. ‘Anything to say in your defence?’

  ‘It’s a cushion,’ Kate cried.

  He continued to write. ‘It’s a cushion with a brick inside. Come along, ladies.’

  They left. Kate sat with the ‘lethal’ weapon clutched to her chest. Why hadn’t poor Helen been lucky? Why couldn’t everyone have a Richard? It just wasn’t fair. ‘My sister is the sweetest girl. She needs a Richard. Where do I find one?’ Helen needed to be married. In spite of her beauty and talent, she was an ordinary girl who wanted the ordinary life. ‘Hmm,’ mused Kate. ‘Perhaps not a Richard, then.’ Rich was not ordinary. He was adventurous, imaginative, and very naughty.