A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  He offered to take her home, but she insisted on staying. ‘I’m not leaving you to fret on your own, only I’m not sleeping with you.’

  But they did sleep together. He buried his head in her upper body and, in darkness, told her all about Daisy, about his early assessment of Betsy having been wrong, about Dad and his genius with wood, about Stuart, about grandparents, about a house known as New Moon. He told her he loved her too much to break her rule about John, that she was his future and he would wait.

  When he finally slept, a few more sobs made their escape, and she cradled his poor head, trying to stroke away the unhappiness. It was then that she realized that she had collected her first child, that this doctor and brilliant pianist, older than she was, more vulnerable than she had imagined, was about to become her much-loved responsibility. Mary remembered a lecture on psychology, where the tutor had said, ‘When I see a young man with his girl, I see someone who has found his next mother. Much more than a mother, of course, but there to nurse the pain and bind the wounds.’ It had sounded so daft at the time, but now the message seemed real and true.

  She released him gently, made sure he remained asleep, and went to the bathroom. In the mirror, she saw an unkempt girl wearing a pyjama top that hung like a collapsed tent round her tiny frame. She also saw a fabulous bathroom. Earlier, she’d viewed his Sanderson kitchen, his massive living room, a spare room, a gigantic bedroom. ‘We can live here,’ she told the mirror before returning to look after him.

  He woke. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Bathroom. Go to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.’

  And she was.

  They separated the next day. Andrew drove Mary to Sefton Park, where she picked up her belongings, Pam, and Pam’s belongings. He installed the two girls in his flat at Mother’s house, while he went to live with Dad. Dad needed looking after. While Joe would be fed across the road at Emily’s house, he drew the line at sleeping there, a decision of which Andrew approved. Joe had his pride, and he owned every right to that pride in whichever form he decided to exercise it.

  Pam couldn’t believe her luck. ‘No rent?’

  ‘No rent,’ Mary repeated. ‘We just have to feed ourselves and be supportive if we’re needed.’

  ‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. We have a bedroom each, both bigger than the ones we had in Seffy Park.’

  ‘You could both live here.’

  ‘We might do that.’

  Pam paused and gazed round the room. ‘When?’

  ‘When I say so,’ Mary replied. ‘Though I’ll let him think it was his decision, of course. John first, Pam. I admit to sleeping with Andrew last night, but nothing happened. I have to tell John before anything does happen.’

  ‘And I’ll have to go back to Sefton Park and the three witches if you get married and live here.’

  But Mary had plans for her friend, too, though this was not the time to illustrate the details. ‘Put your stuff away, babe, then come and look at this Sanderson kitchen. He’s left food for us, proper food, not beans on toast, and we have apple crumble for afters, made by his mum.’

  That evening, Andrew dined with the two girls while his dad ate downstairs with Mother and Geoff. His list of ‘good at’ grew longer, as it now housed lamb with rosemary and real gravy laced with rum, as well as roast potatoes and crisp vegetables, all followed by crème caramel. The apple crumble would do for tomorrow, he advised them, as he had wanted to demonstrate his ability with a bain-marie, whatever that was.

  They played Monopoly, and he changed the rules every five minutes, in his own favour, of course. His behaviour in the company of two lively Liverpool lasses was not appreciated, and he finished up on the floor, bestridden by two females who beat him mercilessly with cushions. He had needed some fun, because life with Dad promised to be grim until after the funeral and the settling of poor Daisy.

  ‘Who’s with her now?’ Pam asked.

  ‘Augustinian sisters, God bless them,’ he said. ‘In so far as we can tell, Daisy knows them, though she keeps looking round and making an extra-loud grunt. We think she’s calling for her mother.’

  ‘Heartbreaking,’ Mary said.

  ‘And she sits there playing with the same toys she’s had for about seven years. Not playing, not really. Just holding them. I feel so bloody useless. We all do.’

  Pam leapt up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘You’ll do for our Mary,’ she said. ‘You’re a good lad. I’m off to bed now. Night-night.’ And away she went.

  Andrew and Mary sat on the sofa holding hands. Nothing needed saying. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he stroked her hair. It was yet another of those forever moments she was beginning to treasure. Time lost meaning. They had always been here together, would always be like this, no beginning, no end, no clocks, no calendars. It was just as Andrew had said; it had been designed before their births, and they must embrace the gift.

  ‘I have to go and look after him, darling. He won’t sleep here. It’s the only rule he has where Mother and Geoff are concerned.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a big girl, Drew.’

  ‘That’s it – that’s my name. And you’re not a big girl. I could eat you in two bites.’

  ‘I sting.’

  ‘So do I,’ he promised. ‘But I always kiss it better.’

  The family went as a whole to support Joe through poor Betsy’s funeral. Mary was working as usual, but Andrew was determined to be with Dad, as were Emily and Geoff. Betsy’s sister Elsie accompanied them, though her husband, not the most sociable of folk, stayed behind to run their business. With paying guests staying at the pub, someone had to keep the place ticking over.

  So just one funeral car followed the hearse to Bolton. As they neared their destination, Emily and Andrew inhaled sharply at the first sight of their beloved moors. Joe hardly noticed, as he was too busy going through his list of should-haves. He should have employed people to relieve Betsy for at least a few hours each day, could have sent more money, ought to have been more supportive and more frequently involved on a personal basis.

  His gratitude to the Augustinian sisterhood knew no bounds, and he had already made a sizeable contribution to their coffers. At this very moment, two nuns were with Daisy, while two more were trekking about to find a decent place for the child.

  Emily hung on to his hand. ‘She’ll be taken care of, sweetheart.’

  ‘We’ll all make sure of that,’ Geoff added.

  It occurred to Andrew yet again that this unconventional family worked better than many ordinary marriages. Since their arrival in Mother’s Rodney Street properties, Dad and Geoff had grown close, and the latter never turned a hair when Emily fussed over her very best friend, the man to whom she remained legally wed. They were courageous people leaving their mark on a brave new world that wasn’t quite ready for their eccentricity, and Andrew felt that they were making no small contribution towards a more tolerant society.

  Betsy had left a letter for her sister.

  Dear Elsie

  I know that my Daisy is not expected to live till she’s grown up, but I wonder what will happen to her if I pop my clogs first. If I do, go straight to Joe. I want to be buried at home with Marty. I know he was handy when it came to a fight, but he died as my husband, and I registered Daisy as his, born after his death. There’ll be room for Daisy in the same grave when the time comes.

  The sisters will mind her till Joe finds a place good enough for her. All she needs is kindness, her soft toys and the music I collected for her. On telly, she likes the children’s programmes and cartoons. She doesn’t always look at the screen, but she listens. She wants things repetitive and familiar. If one of her records gets scratched, it has to be replaced or she has a tantrum.

  I tried my best, Elsie. I got her walking, but that was it. Apart from a special noise when she wants me, it’s just that grunting busi
ness all the time. She’ll want to keep her wooden jigsaws with the big pieces. Sometimes, not very often, she picks a piece and sticks it near the right place, and that’s the closest I got to making her concentrate.

  Joe and Andrew will visit her, and I hope you will. But she doesn’t have to stay in St Helens, because Liverpool’s not far and Joe’s there. She needs sedating to go on a car journey, or she might take another fit, and she needs help with walking after a fit. Tell them not to let her hair get knotted, because she screams when it’s brushed. She likes a bath. She’d live in the bath if she could, like a little mermaid.

  Well, our Else, if you’re reading this, I’ve gone. I’ve gone to make sure heaven’s good enough for my angel. Joe, when Elsie reads you this letter, please remember I haven’t regretted for one minute having our Daisy. It’s been hard work and I’ve been tired, but she’s my life and I love her to bits.

  Daisy, I’ll see you when Peter opens the gate to let you in.

  Joe dried his eyes. Betsy, once upon a time a scruffy mare, had turned out to be a perfect mother. ‘I wish I’d done more, Em.’

  ‘We all feel like that when someone dies, Joseph. Here we are, St Augustine’s. This has to be done.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  Stuart Abbot, who was managing to make his name without a degree, was there with his parents, and they completed the tiny congregation. The vicar, who had never met Betsy, had taken the trouble to speak to those who had known her, so there was enough said to remind the assembled few about Betsy’s virtues as a mother and a carer.

  She was interred in her husband’s grave at Heaton Cemetery, which was nicer than Tonge, as it was further from the centre of town. Andrew, Joe, Geoff and Emily, who had discussed the terminus of life, had all chosen cremation for themselves. Seeing Betsy’s wooden box being lowered into a subterranean cavern served only to strengthen their determination not to become part of the earth’s crust.

  They repaired to the Abbot house behind their shop, which was about to be sold. With one novel and several radio plays under his belt, Stuart’s first priority was to get his parents out of town to somewhere fresher in the shape of a brand new bungalow in Harwood. He lived at New Moon, which property belonged to Andrew. Instead of paying rent, he had financed upgrading work, always consulting his lifelong friend before instigating a project.

  Andrew cornered him as soon as he found the opportunity. ‘I’m getting married,’ he said. ‘And you have to be my best man.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘The love of my life, Stuart.’

  A few seconds passed. ‘So when did you meet her?’

  Andrew grinned. ‘Before I was born and after I died. About four or five weeks ago. I’ve been celibate ever since, because she has to rid herself of a fiancé.’

  ‘Can’t you ever do anything normally?’

  ‘No. I don’t do normal, and neither does she.’

  Stuart tried not to laugh. Laughing among sausage rolls and curling sandwiches at a funeral tea seemed inappropriate. ‘Are you sure about her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Absolutely.’

  ‘And she’s sure?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘So . . . when?’

  ‘Whenever, so get writing a speech. Mary and I will live in my flat at Mother’s house, and Pam can live across the road above Dad. She’ll have somebody with her. Mary and Pam are like us, friends since childhood, now engaged to a pair of brothers in the Merchant Navy. It was all planned until I happened along. Their ship docks soon, so I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. Or should I say when the coast isn’t clear?’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘Yes, and happily so.’

  ‘Describe her.’

  ‘No. You come and meet her, judge for yourself. She has a pretty friend if you’re interested.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m still a queer.’

  ‘Don’t use that word. You’re one of the least queer folk I know. Medical students beat you into a cocked hat. Some were sent down for having a party in the morgue. The attendant got the sack, too. That’s queer. I never in my life met so many weird people gathered together in one place.’

  ‘Not even at school?’

  Andrew thought about that. ‘Some of the teachers were odd.’

  ‘And at university?’

  ‘Oh, they’re all peculiar. Clever-peculiar, but none the less . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Come to think, doctors are rather unpredictable.’

  ‘There you go, then. You’re nearly one of them.’

  ‘But the daftest of all are writers, Stu.’

  They were five years old again. And the sandwiches continued to curl.

  Thirteen

  Some people refused to accept defeat gracefully, as Andrew found out to his cost when John and Michael Webster, home from their travels, tried to beat the living daylights out of him. Having never been attacked before, he was more frightened by his own automatic reaction than he was by this pair of ocean-toughened thugs.

  Andrew had never trained or boxed or played team games. There’d been the compulsory stuff at school, but he hadn’t done much since apart from a bit of cycling and the occasional lengthy walk. His next piece of heart-quickening activity would probably take place in bed with Mary, and that would be no marathon, would it? Oh, no, loving her would never be a chore . . .

  He was strolling homeward up Rodney Street after a modern jazz session in student digs off Mount Pleasant, when he was accosted from behind, sworn at, spat upon, and kicked in the ribs, the nose and the skull. While the two maritime heroes took a break from their labours, Andrew decided to play comatose. Blood poured from his nose, forming a large pool blackened by moonlight. They possibly thought he was dead, and he was more than happy to allow them to continue mistaken. His ribs hurt like hell and his nose imitated Niagara, but his skull seemed to have survived the onslaught without too much damage.

  ‘Look at all that blood. We’ve cracked his skull,’ said one of the charmers, panic lifting his tone. ‘You shouldn’t kick people in the head. If they have a thin bit of bone, it goes into their brain and kills them. You could get done for murder, and I’m telling you now, you can swing on your own because I never done that.’

  ‘Calm down, Mike. He’ll live, worse luck. Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?’ The rejected fiancé stood and watched helplessly while his brother abandoned him. ‘Come back now, you rotten coward. Tell you what, you keep going in that direction, and I’ll give you a clout later. I’m serious, lad. Come here this minute.’

  But brother Mike continued to flee the scene at speed.

  John Webster turned away from his escaping sibling to find a vertical, bloodied, tall and well-built man facing him. He curled and raised his fists, but was too slow for Andrew Sanderson. The student doctor who had stolen Mary smashed him in the face, and as he fell he felt a weighty size ten shoe banging forcefully against his genitals. Too winded to call again for his brother, the sailor rolled into a fetal position in an effort to preserve what, if anything, remained of his manhood. He retched and brought up several pints of ale that had tasted a lot better on their way down.

  Andrew stood back and frowned. For the first time ever, he had hit someone deliberately. The realization did not please him, because he seemed to remember feeling momentary triumph about what he’d done. There was absolutely no excuse for such behaviour, though what other course of action might he have taken? He flexed his fingers to convince himself that there were no breaks in the digits. The man on the ground groaned. This curled-up wreck was Mary’s ex–intended. What a mess.

  With blood still dripping from his nose, Andrew looked down at his handiwork. He wasn’t designed for such behaviour, but when push came to shove it was every man for himself. The two lunatics could have killed him, and Andrew had too much to live for. She was worth the pain. To him, she was more valuable than anything or anyone on earth.

  Alerted by the noise
Mary and Pam arrived, both breathless. They’d been enjoying a game of dominoes with Joseph, helping to keep his mind occupied by something other than poor Daisy while his son played jazz down the road. ‘Oh, God,’ Mary said quietly. ‘I think we need an ambulance.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ John groaned. ‘Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be on me feet.’

  ‘The ambulance won’t be for you,’ Pam snapped. ‘I wouldn’t stop a bloody muck cart for you. The ambulance is for Dr Sanderson.’ She awarded John another kick, this time on his arm. ‘I saw what happened. We both saw, me and Mary. So you can tell your Mike to take his sodding aquamarine and shove it up his arse. I’m not marrying him, and she’s not marrying you.’

  Mary was holding on to her man. ‘Sorry about that, Drew. Pam has a wonderful way with words, very Beatrix Potter. It’s what comes of mixing with riff-raff like this. Come on, let’s get you sorted, baby. You look like the wreck of the Hesperus. I’m sorry, so sorry.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Andrew bent over his assailant. ‘Only as a matter of interest, what made you believe that kicking shit out of me would persuade Mary to take you back? Are you so devoid of intellect that you still fight like rabid dogs? She doesn’t want you, doesn’t need you, doesn’t love you, and now she doesn’t even care what happens to you. My solicitor will be in touch with both you and your brother.’ He glanced round; several doors had opened. ‘Look at all the witnesses, bird brain. Set one foot in Rodney Street again, and you’ll be looking at life through bars. And I don’t mean these railings.’

  Joe arrived in shirtsleeves, best tartan braces on show. ‘Did this bugger bust your nose, Andrew? Let me at him, damned animal. He’ll be sorry he was born when I’ve done with—’

  ‘I’ve dealt with him, Dad, so don’t panic. Just drive me to get checked out, will you? My nose isn’t broken, but I need looking at for ribs and perhaps for concussion, though I think I’m OK. Mary, don’t cry. I can’t carry you this time. Take her in to Mother, Pam. This object can crawl away under its own steam. Fortunately, it’s in dark clothing. With any luck, it’ll be run over.’ These words had the desired effect, as John Webster edged his way through vomit to the safety of the pavement.