A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  Helen wasn’t sure. The flowers got changed, though she hadn’t noticed him standing there for any length of time. ‘He and Anya have a place, bottom of the erosion steps. She takes a car rug, and he sometimes takes a flask. They drink out of the same cup.’

  ‘Hell’s bells.’ Kate giggled. ‘I hope Polish isn’t contagious. If he catches it, we’ll be flummoxed.’

  ‘I like her,’ Helen said.

  Kate agreed. ‘And he prefers small women – Eva’s the exception, of course. Because he’s getting ratty with her. Remember how he was a father as well as a husband to our mother?’

  ‘He’s a wonderful person, Kate.’

  ‘He is. He most certainly is. Come on, let’s give Sofia her well-earned break.’

  Andrew loved his time at college. He worked hard and played hard, though not as hard as some when it came to the playing bit. As time passed, the medical school’s population diminished due to the disappearance of people who failed examinations, missed deadlines for written work, didn’t turn up at hospital placements, or simply gave up because the course was beyond them.

  Andrew applied himself as best he could in all disciplines, though what remained with him was the moment he’d opened that box and lifted out George. George was a miracle of engineering. The human skeleton amazed Andrew, as did the structures that fastened bone to muscle, bone to bone, hand to arm, foot to leg. Da Vinci had expressed his interest in the human form, had examined bones, had doubtless been cursed for so doing. Bone mattered. Without strong infrastructure, bodies failed. They lost movement and protection for vital organs; for Andrew, bones were not quite everything, but their strength was vital.

  He had his share of enjoyment, particularly when it came to women. They all but fell at his feet, especially when the world drifted into the 1960s. Although oral contraception was not universally available, many female medics managed to get hold of supplies, and sexual freedom became a much appreciated facility during the new decade. So he sowed his wild oats, managing by fair means or foul not to become romantically involved, and was much talked about among liberated women of the age. He was a good lay, and he wanted to be no more than that. If a woman became affectionate, he moved on. Was he cruel? He suspected that he was.

  Then he saw her. She was among a throng of girls queuing excitedly at the Cavern Club. Tiny, beautifully formed, perfect facial bone structure, dark hair as shiny as the polished casing of his baby grand in Rodney Street, she wrapped herself round his heart in that first moment.

  When she raised a hand to her beautiful hair, the rhythm of his heart altered noticeably. It was her left hand, and the ring finger boasted a sapphire flanked by two small diamonds. She wasn’t chattering and yelping alongside the other females. Like him, she had probably come to see what all the fuss was about. But the maniacs by whom she was surrounded were not music lovers; they were stupid, hormonal females here just to worship at the feet of four ordinary lads whose music would not be heard because of these screaming idiots.

  He turned to walk away, but something made his feet still. She was looking at him. The mass hysteria continued while she held his gaze for what must have been a second, no more. Then the seething, screaming dollop of semi-human frogspawn oozed forward, and she was flattened against the wall.

  He fought his way through the senseless flock, picked her up and carried her across Mathew Street. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘Just my pride.’

  Blue eyes exactly the same shade as his own blinked back tears of shock. ‘I was frightened,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not surprised. How brutally insane is that behaviour? Do you like the Beatles?’

  ‘They’re OK.’

  ‘Well, they won’t be OK for long after they’ve been flattened by those stupid people. Shall we get a drink somewhere?’

  In the cafe, he noticed that she was still shaking. ‘I’m Andrew Sanderson,’ he told her. ‘Trainee doctor.’

  ‘Mary Collins, nurse at the Women’s.’

  She had flawless skin, incredibly long and dense eyelashes, good legs, a tiny waist and breasts that begged for no support. While carrying her, he’d noticed her braless state. ‘Can I tempt you to a night out? Dinner, theatre, cinema?’

  ‘I’m engaged.’

  ‘I see. You’re fettered.’

  The chin came up defiantly. ‘Not exactly. I choose to be faithful.’ She crossed her fingers when she told the lie. She was nearly faithful. Most of the time.

  ‘And dinner with me would be an act of infidelity?’

  She smiled. ‘I think it might well be just that, Andrew.’

  And she left. But her smile remained, rather like the Cheshire cat’s. It was emblazoned across his eyelids, engraved on their inner surface. ‘Well, Casanova,’ he mumbled as he stepped outside. ‘You met your Waterloo.’

  He wasn’t alone – she, too, had felt something, known something. When was he scheduled for gynaecology? A stint at the Women’s might just help. She was afraid of him. And he had to admit, albeit only to himself, that he, too, was overawed. He’d met his wife today. No matter what it took, with the possible exception of murder, he would lay claim to her, and woe betide any mere human who stood in his path.

  Twelve

  According to her housemates in Sefton Park, Mary Collins had a cob on. She was spending a lot of time in her own room, wasn’t eating much, refused many invitations, and was generally out of sorts. And she remained in this state of suspended animation till the leaflet came.

  When the leaflet came, everything changed in the blink of an eyelash. She suddenly had to have a new dress, VO5 shampoo, a lipstick from Boots the Chemist, a pair of shoes that added a few inches to her abbreviated personage, and a book about Grieg, plus a record of some of his music.

  In her absence, the other girls pored over the leaflet. It advertised Sanderson’s Intelligent Kitchens, Sanderson’s Bespoke Furniture and, on the reverse side, a concert at the university. The concert was entitled Out of their Comfort Zone, and the son of the Sanderson family, Andrew, would be performing a piece by Grieg. A poet from the maths department was doing a reading, while a lab assistant attached to the School of Tropical Medicine was executing stand-up comedy with a zither. It would be sit-down comedy because of the zither, and the girls remarked about that. Proceeds were earmarked for a children’s charity, and refreshments would be purchasable in the interval.

  They went through a lengthy list of names of all who would perform sketches and the like, but Mary had left her red biro mark under one name, and that name was Andrew Sanderson. What did they think? What about John? was what they thought. Engaged to her childhood sweetheart from the age of sixteen, Miss Goody Two Shoes seemed to be wandering several pages off the book of true love. And she’d changed the goody shoes to high heels, so something was afoot. The girl who made that remark laughed at her own pun, but nobody noticed. There was nothing funny about their missing friend’s apparent faithlessness.

  While Mary was on her way back from yet another shopping expedition, four fellow nurses sat in a row prepared to challenge her. What about John? As a seafarer, he was away for several months of the year, and it looked as if his little mouse was planning to play in his absence. ‘He could have a girl in every port,’ said one of the nurses. ‘They’re famous for it.’

  ‘Or a boy. He could have a boy. Some sailors are quite versatile.’

  ‘Shut up, Joan,’ ordered the other three in perfect harmony.

  The door opened. In trotted little Nurse Mary Collins with her purchases and a brilliant smile. The smile faded in the face of so much gloom. She glanced at the leaflet and realized what they wanted. ‘Don’t start,’ she said, ‘it just happened, and I can’t help it.’

  Pam, who was closest in every way to Mary, followed her up the stairs.

  She closed the door of Mary’s room quietly. ‘I’m guessing this is the one who saved you from certain death outside the Cavern. Mary, what about John? Have you thought about him?’

/>   Mary collapsed on her bed. ‘Shut up, Pam.’

  These two girls had known each other forever. Born in flats above Scotland Road shops, they had attended school together, ridden trams together, had pinched molasses from carts, learned tables, eaten in each other’s homes, helped in both shops, played truant, taken dangerous dips in the ‘scaldy’ behind the sugar factory, thereby risking life and limb together in warm, deep water. Whatever it was, they had done it as a pair. And now, they were engaged to two brothers, so life was supposed to continue in the same vein. ‘Mary, we had it all planned out.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We’ve never been apart.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘We even work together. How could you let this happen?’

  ‘I didn’t. It was nothing to do with me. It was nothing to do with him, either. Something happened in the space between us. It was like that film where they bump into one another on a railway station, and every time I see it, I always wish the end will be different. I have to meet him again. If I see him, I might realize how daft it was.’

  ‘And you bought a book about Grieg, so you’re going to talk to this bloke cos he’s playing Greig at the concert.’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  Pam shook her head. ‘I thought . . . I just thought and hoped we’d always be together, you and John, me and Mike, living in the same street, our kids playing together like we did.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pam. Whatever happens, don’t fall out with me.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft. I just wanted us to be real sisters-in-law.’

  ‘We will. We might. Oh, I don’t know.’ Mary felt as if she’d been struck by lightning or a double-decker bus or a crowd of soft girls baying for the Beatles.

  She hadn’t been herself since the day outside the Cavern. He’d carried her to safety, and she’d heard the pace of his heart above all the hysterical shouting. His fingers, long and slender, had buried themselves in the side of her right breast, and she had wanted him. Yes, he had the hands of a pianist or a surgeon. And he was so handsome, he’d give Gregory Peck a run for his money any day of the week. She didn’t know him, shouldn’t care about him, didn’t want to live without him. She was probably mad. At nearly nineteen, she should have more sense.

  ‘Shall I make some tea?’ Pam asked. ‘Two sugars and a biscuit, keep your strength up?’

  Mary nodded. ‘Don’t talk about me. Tell the other three to concentrate on obstetrics for the exam instead of gossiping. I’ll let people know what’s happening when I know what’s happening.’

  When Pam had left, Mary allowed Andrew into her head. He didn’t arrive quietly, though she had no reason to think of him as a loud person. He wanted dinner for two, but that wasn’t all. His eyes sparkled. Strong arms, square jaw, open face. He could have any girl he wanted, but he wanted her. And it wasn’t just sex. What was it, then? Sex with friendship, sex with shared interests, sex with fish, chips and peas? Oh, life was so bloody complicated. Her lot had been laid out before her; she would marry John, Pam would marry Mike, and they would live in the same street, have children, grow old.

  This was daft. A bloke in Mathew Street had helped her. What if he’d been ugly or ancient – would she have felt the same? She hadn’t been looking for attention or love; she’d gone to see the Beatles. She’d seen them as The Quarry Men, but not since they’d changed their name. Strong rumour forecast that they were about to change the face of music worldwide, and she’d decided to have a look at this phenomenon. Instead, she would be listening to Grieg.

  Of late, she’d noticed Andrew Sanderson lingering, probably waiting for her outside the Women’s, so she’d slipped out of a back door of the hospital. Why? Because she couldn’t be alone with him, couldn’t take the risk. If they kissed, they would probably need surgical separation. Given half a chance and some privacy, they would make love. At a concert, all should be OK, because other people would be there. ‘I don’t trust me,’ she told a wall.

  Pam ran in without the promised cup of tea. ‘Erm,’ she began.

  ‘Erm what?’

  ‘There’s somebody to see you.’ The poor girl swallowed audibly. ‘Oh, God help you, queen. He’s bloody gorgeous. Cary Grant.’

  ‘Gregory Peck,’ said Mary without hesitation. She sat bolt upright. ‘How did he get our address, Pam? Because I never told him. Stick him in the kitchen.’ There was something dependable about kitchens. Everybody needed one, but they were mundane and, in the case of this particular kitchen, rather small and uncomfortable.

  ‘Are you going to do your hair?’ Pam asked.

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m going to tell him to bugger off.’

  Pam leaned against the door, her arms spread wide so that her friend couldn’t leave the room easily. ‘He’s gorgeous,’ she repeated.

  ‘I know. And when he picked me up and carried me, I was at home, as if I’d always been there in his arms. I’m scared, Pam. I’m scared of me.’

  ‘It’s called love at first sight, babe.’

  ‘You disapproved till he turned up. You were all worried about John. What’s changed?’

  ‘He’s beautiful, charming and standing behind a dozen long-stemmed red roses is what’s changed. I know we had plans, but I was being selfish. Calm down. If you tell him to bugger off, he might just do that, and you could well live to regret it.’

  Mary’s little alarm clock poured its disparately loud ticks into a heavy silence. ‘Tell him I’m not well. No, that won’t do, because he’s halfway to being a doctor and he’ll come up and take half my temperature.’ He’d take anything he liked if he got up here, but she kept that suspicion to herself.

  Pam went down to put him in the kitchen.

  After a decent interval during which she did change her clothes and tidy her hair, Mary sauntered down the stairs. Three people looked at her with daggers in their eyes, but Pam nodded in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Go on,’ she mouthed before shooing the other girls out of the living room.

  Pam was right; he was gorgeous. He rose from a rickety chair at the rickety table as soon as she entered the kitchen. ‘Roses for a rose,’ he said.

  Right. So he was one of those, was he? All flowers and flowery words, but no substance. Well, this could be dealt with quite easily. Although engaged, Mary had not kept herself completely to herself during her fiancé’s long absences. This would just be sex, then finished.

  He placed the roses among debris on the table.

  ‘Thank you, they’re lovely,’ she said, ‘but how did you find my address?’

  ‘I have friends at the Women’s.’

  She glared at him. ‘Then I shall complain to personnel. Your friends shouldn’t give out personal information to any Tom, Dick or Harry.’

  ‘I’m Andrew.’

  ‘Don’t get clever with me, sunshine. I may be just a nurse, but I’ve a full set of teeth and nice long nails. Oh, and there are no slates missing from my roof, so back off.’ The bloody man was smiling at her. ‘What’s funny?’ she asked.

  ‘You are. You’re a perfect if somewhat miniature pot of anger. Beautiful, too. Meeting you altered me. I’ve started to avoid women, and my arms have felt empty since the moment I set you down on terra firma. So I’ve come to claim my prize.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You.’

  He was so direct, so damned bold that she found no answer.

  ‘Just a meal one evening?’ he begged.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Are you afraid of me?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘I’m not the sort to be afraid of anyone. People as small as I am have to stand their ground.’

  ‘Unless they’re being scraped along a wall in Mathew Street. Mary, when I picked you up, something happened, and not just to me.’

  She concentrated on the roses. ‘It’s called sexual attraction.’

  ‘Which always comes first,’ he said. ‘And it’s more than that. You know it as well as I do. Look at me. Look at me, Ma
ry.’

  She obeyed reluctantly.

  ‘We have nothing to lose.’

  ‘Except my fiancé out there on a merchant ship in all kinds of weather.’

  Andrew wanted to tell her that she wouldn’t be needing her sailor, that she was his, and had been his since long before they’d met, but he knew how daft that would sound. He was like his mother. Emily seemed to know what was what even in areas as grey as this one. ‘I won’t give up,’ was all he managed in the moment.

  Mary looked straight into his eyes. ‘I did want to see you again,’ she admitted. ‘But in circumstances of my choosing. Sanderson’s Kitchens advertised your concert, and I plan to attend.’

  ‘Right. I suppose that must suffice. As long as you wait for me at the end of the concert. Oh, one more thing. The orchestra will not be playing for you and only for you, but the soloist will. Music was my alternative subject. I’m good at it. I’m good at several things.’ He winked, just about managing not to be crude.

  ‘So am I. I sing.’

  ‘You see?’ He stood up. ‘A perfect match.’

  Mary rose to her feet and walked to the door, but he caught her up in his arms, just as he had at the Cavern. But this time, he kissed her gently, tenderly. When he pulled away, his eyes questioned hers and seemed satisfied with the answer, as he repeated the action, this time with urgency.

  And that was that. When their mouths were finally separated, each did a brief but fair imitation of a hyperventilating patient during a panic attack.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Mary whispered.

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘Just Andrew, but Drew will suffice – I am not quite a deity. Drew’s the abbreviation I saved for my wife.’ He put her down and left.

  Pam found her friend on the brink of collapse and on the edge of an unreliable kitchen chair. ‘What the bloody hell happened, Mary?’

  Mary shook her head. He seemed to have sucked all the words out of her.

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘Shut up a minute.’

  Pam busied herself with roses and a vase. She found a card among the blooms. This is it. You know it and I know it. Semper Fidelis. Drew. ‘He’s left his phone number, Mary.’