A Liverpool Song

by Ruth Hamilton

  Now, having perceived a gap in Dad’s life, she’d decided to close it. He was a grown man. Anya, though fifteen or so years younger than Dad, was a mature woman. ‘I am a busybody, a nosy parker, an interfering menace. The one I need to organize is me.’

  She pulled into her driveway. On entering the house, she found her man literally knee-deep in paperwork on the living-room floor, so she waved at him and carried on upstairs. The children were asleep and beautiful. ‘Heal thyself,’ she ordered the bathroom mirror. ‘And look after your own husband.’

  She bathed, dried herself and put on a beautiful nightgown. He was working hard and would need her, as lovemaking helped him sleep well.

  In bed, she read some letters from work, recorded answers into a voice-activated machine, then lay back and waited for him.

  When he eventually came in, he awarded her a broad grin. ‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ he said before going for a shower.

  ‘My perfect marriage,’ she whispered to herself. ‘And I’ll hang on to it till my last breath.’ She had to, because when all came to all, it was what really mattered. Richard was half of something, while she was the other half. It hadn’t worked out for Helen because her man was a fool. Poor Dad had lost his excellent partner to cancer, and he’d been a pitiable wreck ever since. But if Kate put too much energy into their situations, she might have very little time for her own beloved man.

  So Helen was right after all; Kate should literally mind her own business, because marriage was a business. It required balancing, supervising, care and attention. Oh, heck. He was back in the room in a curly blonde wig she’d worn for a vicars and tarts party months earlier. He, of course, had gone as an archbishop. She shook her head in mock despair.

  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said, his tone high-pitched. ‘I’m a lesbian.’

  ‘I’m not. I have a wonderful husband.’

  ‘Him?’ he cried. ‘That idiot downstairs with all the paperwork? I can show you a much better time. Move over while I shave my legs.’

  So Kate lay in her bed while the comedian she’d married started to denude his lower limbs with a small battery shaver. He’d be proselytizing tomorrow, upholding laws legal and moral, standing tall in his court clothes. But just now he was complaining because the shaving hurt.

  ‘I do that every fortnight at least,’ she told him. ‘But I don’t have legs covered in coconut matting. Give up, or you’ll be sore tomorrow.’

  He turned, an evil grin on his face. ‘Can I do your moustache?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Let me pretend you have one.’

  ‘No. Shaving encourages the growth of hair.’

  Richard thought about that. ‘I shall grow a beard,’ he pronounced finally. ‘It will come through grey to match my real wig. And I shall blame you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the grey. My beard and wig will be the same colour, so they won’t see the join, and I can be Santa in Lewis’s at Christmas, make a few bob extra.’ He looked at her. ‘Kate? Kate? What’s the matter? Oh, baby, don’t cry.’ The blonde wig was tossed to the floor.

  ‘I’m stupid,’ she wailed.

  ‘You’re not. A man of my calibre wouldn’t have a stupid wife.’

  She delivered a fractured account of her day, ending with her opinion that her father and her sister both hated her. ‘And I’m so lucky to have you, Richard. Why can’t I be nice? Why do I always have to dip my pen in other people’s ink every five minutes? I have a job, a family to care for, so why do I need to go about interfering?’

  ‘It’s an extension of your job. The company’s there to intervene for people – and you’ve always been like that. Who looked after Helen? You and Eva. Who taught her to read? You and Eva. You were there when she found out about Pope’s antics, and you’ve supported her ever since.’

  ‘While you, Dad and Ian have supported Daniel.’

  ‘No. We’ve tried to get him rebuilt, because she needs him, Kate. She’s a one-man woman, like you.’

  She dried her eyes on the sheet. ‘Don’t be so sure, buster. The Cunninghams across the avenue have a new gardener – very easy on the eye.’

  ‘Slut.’

  Kate sniffed. ‘Do you look at other women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you fancy them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you imagine them in bed with you?’

  ‘Er . . . no. There aren’t a lot of beds in Crown Court or Chambers. So it would be up against a wall or in an empty office.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Trust me – I’m a lawyer.’

  She dug him in the ribs with a very hard elbow. ‘Would you?’

  ‘That hurt. I swear you sharpen your joints.’

  ‘Would you, though?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  He kissed her. ‘One, you would kill me. Two, guilt would preclude any pleasure. Three, I love you.’

  ‘In that order?’

  ‘Yes. I’m an honest man, and that’s a beautiful nightgown. Take it off and stop weeping before you drown both of us.’

  And that was when the telephone rang.

  Anya decided to tell Andrew the truth tomorrow while they drank coffee on the erosion steps. He’d been so happy with the birds. Although swans could break a human leg with the sweep of a wing, he had gone amongst them, no fear in his demeanour. And Queen Elizabeth’s birds had eaten almost the whole picnic, leaving just coffee for the two humans. Storm had stayed near the bench with Anya while his master associated with the killer birds. From time to time, the dog’s boss displayed symptoms of lunacy.

  On the way home, Andrew stopped and bought petrol and some chocolate. Storm got the remnants of the swans’ feast while his human companions ate Fry’s Chocolate Cream. They sat in the car near Formby beach and watched the sun setting over the sea. It was a peaceful, pleasant few minutes, though Anya wished she could feel less guilty about having failed in her mission. But tomorrow would do, she supposed.

  He held her hand. She giggled like a girl, touched his face, then kissed him. A man sometimes didn’t realize how hungry he was till he took his first bite, she thought. And she wasn’t thinking of Fry’s Chocolate Cream. Yes, he was needful, as was she.

  He was realizing that the lipstick didn’t taste unpleasant, that the thought of dalliance with Anya was suddenly delightful, and that he was still very much alive in mind and body.

  Then his phone rang.

  Helen sat in Dad’s chair in the drawing room. She read his Times, completed the crossword and tidied away some of Storm’s toys. Solitude was a rare privilege in this house, and she relished it. Her days were punctured by some chores, part-time work at the university, and the older of her two girls, little Sarah, Infanta of the Spanish Inquisition. Sofia was upstairs in her room, but downstairs was all Helen’s for an hour or two.

  She found herself grinning. Not yet three, Sarah had a reading age of seven years, plus a demanding nature that was very much in the style of Auntie Kate. Did God wear shoes was one of the newer questions, probably put there by Eva as an explanation for thunder. Then there was the honey thing. How did the bees get out of the pot after donating the sweet, sticky stuff? Oh, and pigs were stupid. Only a stupid type would build a house from straw while there was a wolf on the prowl.

  Sarah conceptualized. She was going to be brilliant at school. Fortunately, she looked upon her younger sister as something not quite oven-ready, and Cassie was left alone to organize her own development. Cassie was quiet, but deadly. She emptied drawers and climbed into them, stole small items and hoarded them in unlikely places, taunted the dog without mercy, and ‘talked’ to someone who wasn’t there. So far, she was something of a mystery, though she did watch people. Both girls were heart-touchingly beautiful, and Helen adored them, as did Sofia and Anya.

  Daniel wanted his family back. He had ‘divorced’ his mother, had persuaded Helen to put the real divorce on hold, and w
as opening a new business on the Wirral. The Lion’s Den was two large premises made into one. Its upper floor was about to become a school in which arts and crafts would be taught and learned. Painters, potters, needleworkers and sculptors were to be given a chance to sell the best of their work in the shop below.

  Helen sighed. Was this all a ruse to tempt her back, and would he revert to type in time? He was definitely different, calmer, less controlling, but was he putting on an act? Only time would tell, and was she willing to risk it? Sarah was certainly old enough and bright enough to be affected by a second separation. With Cassie, it was hard to tell.

  The shop was going to sell costume jewellery that equalled anything put out by Butler & Wilson, artefacts from locals and from the third world, works from Britain’s less celebrated artists, good china and light fittings, plus decent coffee and tea with snacks. Every October, a Christmas corner would stock superior items for the season, and he was exploring further avenues.

  She still loved him, though the love was no longer unconditional. Helen’s main problem was indecision. Her thoughts moved in a continuous circuit like a toy train stuck on one track, round and round, no points on which to peel off in a different direction, no shunting yard where she might rest.

  The phone didn’t ring.

  Nineteen

  Richard replaced the receiver and stood still for a few seconds. His side of the conversation had been a yes and no affair, so Kate had no idea about what he had just been told. Oh, what a mess. With the fingers of one hand raking through his hair, he spoke to his wife. ‘Has Angela gone home?’ he asked. ‘Or is she in her room?’

  Kate knew he was agitated – fingers in the hair betrayed his state of mind. He’d been quite harassed years ago, when she’d first met him and asked for her rounders ball back at school. ‘Richard?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you all right? Of course Angela’s at home with her boyfriend – it’s Thursday. She’ll be back in the morning. Why? What’s happened? You’re as white as a sheet, darling, and I think you’ve got crickets in your hair again.’ There was wetness in his eyes – Richard had never been too proud to cry. Sometimes, he wept when she did and said he was keeping her company. This was one male creature who had no fear of his feminine side.

  He sat on the bed and took her hands in his. ‘You’ll have to stay here, Kate, if we’ve no babysitter in the house. I need to go down to the Countess of Chester – Daniel’s been admitted into A and E. That was a nurse on the phone informing me, because it seems he’s put me down as next of kin since the trouble with Helen and the discussion with his parents. He’s been in a crash just outside Chester, and I have to go, since I’m named on the paperwork he carries.’

  Kate swallowed hard. ‘Oh, God help us. He does drive like a madman sometimes. Is he in a bad way? Is he going to die? Because my poor sister—’

  Richard’s finger on her lips cut her off. ‘No details except he’s in resuscitation. But I have to get hold of your dad. He’s probably the best person to tell Helen. Don’t phone her. Whatever happens and however you feel, this has to be left to your father. Sofia’s there, isn’t she? At the house with Helen, I mean.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Yes, I dropped her off earlier. She can look after the girls. But if you want me with you, I’ll ask one of the neighbours. Doesn’t resus mean they’re having to shock him or something?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But you stay here. There’ll be four of us already, because your dad will probably bring Anya. As soon as I have news, I’ll let you know.’ He picked up his mobile, kissed his wife, grabbed a pile of clothes, and went downstairs to phone his father-in-law. There were some details, but he didn’t want his little missus upset while he was away being next of kin to a man who had just been cut out of his car by fire officers. There was blood loss and there were broken bones. Not all the blood loss was external, so . . . Daniel Pope had travelled a mile too far and too quickly this time. And another driver was dead.

  But he’d been doing so well, damn it all. ‘Jesus, let him live. Helen will blame herself if he dies.’

  Andrew was occupied. Like his son-in-law, he was with a woman who excited him, who was excited by him, but he, unlike Richard, was thinking about making love after a very long drought. Nothing had been further from his mind, but Anya had started the process, and he was far from sorry about that. She had soft skin, kind hazel eyes and beautiful hair. Anya Jasinski was small, lively and lovable; she was also a giggler, and he loved silly women with humour. ‘I don’t think we should continue in the car,’ he said between kisses. ‘This is hardly adult behaviour.’

  She agreed. ‘In sandhills, then?’

  He declined. ‘At my age, the knees and the back are not what they once were. Sand flows gently through the fingers, but it’s hard to lie on. Trust me, I’m a retired medic.’

  Anya sighed like a ham actor. ‘This is trouble with old men.’

  ‘I’m not old.’

  ‘I have forty-six years, you have sixty-one. You are old.’

  ‘And you are cheeky.’

  ‘This I am knowing. I think something, I say it.’

  He chuckled. ‘Am I the man with whom you will live sometimes?’

  ‘Yes, very much that man.’

  ‘I have a big bed.’ He would buy a new mattress. This was a fresh start, and several things needed to change. ‘Plenty of space and very comfortable.’

  ‘Then I may live with you all of the time. You would not mind this?’

  ‘I’d be pleased.’

  ‘And we still have coffee on concrete steps just the same?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Their teenage behaviour amused him. Fumbling about in a car was hardly appropriate for a pensioner with a Mercedes and with a dog as witness, yet it was hilarious. And the relief he felt was almost overwhelming, because he could function again, should be capable of living a fuller life with a lovable, amusing woman. She was delightfully different, yet very down to earth and normal.

  ‘They all know we right with each other, Andrew. This is why they push to send us to restaurant. They do not understand it is different second time. We jump when young; older, we move slower.’

  ‘Woof.’

  ‘He’s agreeing with you,’ Andrew said.

  ‘He like Polish sausage. This is why he agree, as dog thinks with stomach. I like him much. I never before saw a dog like this one.’

  ‘Nobody did. He’s definitely different.’

  ‘Yes. Storm ugly but beautiful, nice person.’

  ‘He’s not ugly; he’s a fine figure of a dog, according to Keith. He’s thinking of buying a Labrador and a French mastiff and inventing the Mastador. Or the Labrastiff.’

  ‘Keith is funny. I am meeting him at funeral of your father. Says the most dangerous animals are human females in teenage. He has horses and four wolfhound, but daughters worse.’

  ‘His wife’s far more of a threat. She thinks she’s a cook, but he uses a lot of indigestion remedies. The girls have gone on diets. I see them stuffing their faces with crisps and burgers or pizza near the shops on South Road. Then they go home and eat salad. Michelle can’t do much damage with salad.’

  Anya laughed. He loved the sound of her laughter. ‘One more kiss,’ he begged.

  ‘Is difficult to stop the kissing, yes?’

  ‘After long abstinence, it’s very difficult,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes.’ His hands wandered, and she didn’t stop him. But the phone did.

  ‘Richard? What is it? Is everyone all right?’ He paused. ‘Yes, I see. What?’ Again, he listened. ‘I’ll drive home. Don’t phone Helen, because it’s best I deal with her face to face. Yes. Yes, she’s been through a lot lately. Bye, Richard.’

  Anya stared at his profile. ‘Andrew? Something bad happening?’

  ‘Daniel’s been in a nasty accident just outside Chester. He must have gone for an extra session with one of his therapists.’ Andrew turned and looked at his companion. ‘We must go now, Anya. I have to tel
l Helen.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Will he die?’

  ‘No idea. But there’s a lot of damage. He’s losing blood and he has broken bones.’

  ‘You can mend the bones. Was your job, the mending bones, yes?’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘No, I can’t treat my daughter’s husband – it would be unethical and against the law. But I can be there in theatre if I act pushy and lean on my OBE. They know me, anyway. Fasten your seatbelt, because we have to get back.’

  Helen would blame herself. As he drove homeward, Andrew imagined her reaction to the news. Had she forced herself to forgive, had she persevered with mediation, this terrible thing would never have happened. If God could forgive, why couldn’t she? Helen was often too hard on herself. If one of her children became ill, it would be her fault; if a house set on fire, if a meal were spoilt, if furniture got scratched, it would be down to her.

  Anya was quiet throughout the journey. She had always thought of Daniel Pope as a bad man, since he had tried to interfere with Sofia, but she wished this kind of ill on nobody. Why had this happened? According to Daniel and his lovely wife, one failed breath test should mean a lifetime ban, though he had possibly forgotten his rules once the stress of probable divorce had kicked in. But what had he been doing in Chester?

  ‘Are you praying?’ Andrew asked, watching her twisting a rosary on her lap.

  ‘Yes. You don’t mind?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind. Say one for Helen, because she’ll need God on her side to help her through.’

  ‘And for you. For all of us I am asking.’

  He pulled into the drive and sat still for several seconds. He was almost sure that his younger daughter would fall apart when she heard the news. There was a fragility in Helen, a sensitivity that put Andrew in mind of his own mother. ‘I hope she doesn’t get destroyed by this, Anya.’

  ‘There is strength in her, Andrew. From what Eva is tell me, Helen has power in her soul, deep down where we not see. He will not die. He must not die. Come. I am with you now.’