A Liverpool Song (14 page)

Sarah he ignored for the most part, while Cassie was just another female child, a second disappointment. He didn’t deserve a son, didn’t deserve his daughters, either, because he was
too engrossed in himself.

She would stay here with Dad until her mind sorted itself out. These weeks after giving birth were difficult for most women; disruption in family life could not have come at a worse time. But
she had to stand on her own two feet and get on with everything. Dad and Richard would help, and she remained certain of her sister’s unconditional support. ‘This is the next scene,
Cassandra. Or rather, the next act in our little play.’

Andrew drove Anya home. She chattered about the river, his beautiful home, the furniture he had made, his prowess at the piano. ‘Helen tells my Sofia that you get place
at Royal School. This is right, please?’

‘Yes, but I decided to become a doctor. I do love music, but I preferred saving lives at the cost of limbs. Often, I saved life and limbs, and that was very satisfying. I have no regrets,
Anya. Surgery, carpentry, music have all been important in my life.’

‘And your wife, she was everything for you.’

‘Yes, she was.’

‘Me, I am same. I will not marry again. Also, I have never been asked.’

The woman was a breath of fresh air. Despite the slight break in her English, she was understandable, funny and bright. ‘Anya?’

‘Yes?’

‘I was serious about the piano. You must come and visit your daughter, and play when you are there. Practice is all you need.’

‘I thank you, good man.’

‘You’re welcome.’

She got out of the car and walked up the path. He missed her chatter and her cheeky wit. But he seemed to have gained a new friend, so that was good. She was a pianist, and that made everything
so much better. ‘Retirement isn’t the end,’ he told himself as he drove homeward. ‘It’s just the beginning of something else.’

Another person in his house was experiencing a new start, but for a far more serious and unhappy reason. Less than a month after giving birth, Helen had been forced towards something she would
have preferred never to face. And he had to help her deal with it. Oh, and Storm needed him. Perhaps this time round he might be a proper father, a good grandfather, and pack leader for one mad
canine. He was also determined to restore Anya Jasinski’s faith in her ability to play. He did have a list. Oh yes, he definitely had a list. Not all operations were surgical.

Rattling about in splendid isolation in his sandstone pile didn’t suit Daniel Pope. Helen had always been there, because she was predictable; she was also bloody gorgeous
and although she was safe for the moment, she would rebirth herself like Venus, and would rise from the shell of new motherhood like a splendid creation by some old master.

Daniel, like most casually unfaithful people, could scarcely tolerate the idea of any man getting close to his wife. There had been situations in which his stunning spouse had spent too long in
the company of a colleague or a customer, and he had steered her away and berated her for it. Helen turned heads, and she seemed blissfully unaware of the fact, though she was, in truth, completely
aware. She was beautiful, she knew it, she even said it.

A woman named Denise looked after Helen’s beautiful locks every Thursday afternoon at three o’clock. Helen would not trust a new hairdresser. A creature of habit, she would cross
from the mainland just to get her favourite beautician. Denise did hair, facials, manicures, pedicures and something terrible involving hot wax.

After the birth of Sarah, normal service had been resumed when the baby was about a month old, so surveillance began in mid-October. At half past two, Daniel parked himself outside a pub
opposite the salon, but the first time Helen came across to the Wirral her father was with her. Andrew visited shops while his daughter was beautified, then at four o’clock he parked outside
the business named Denise’s Parlour, and Helen joined her dad when she’d had her spit and polish. God, what a stunner. Daniel saw only the head and shoulders, but that was enough to
push him further into selfish gloom.

‘I probably deserve this. She’s living with her dad,’ he whispered. Andrew Sanderson was a force to be reckoned with. At sixty, he retained alacrity of mind, a vocabulary that
might kill an enemy from a distance of forty long strides, and the body of a much younger man. Oh yes. Andrew Sanderson OBE was a mightily clever and astute man. Daniel felt momentary hatred for
his father-in-law. OBE? For inventing some kind of soldering iron that worked on minor fractures? Arrogant bastard. No, he wasn’t. There was no side to him, no swank.

In the Mercedes, Andrew touched his daughter’s hand. ‘Don’t look full on, but he’s parked outside the pub. It’s a new Audi, black as his heart. Give me a hug, put
your eyelids at half-mast, and have a furtive peep at him over my shoulder.’

‘I can do better than that, Dad. Back in five.’ She left the car and sashayed towards a very expensive boutique. She had trouble with clothing unless she bought separates, since what
she referred to as the north face of her body didn’t comply with the southern regions. Andrew waited. The Audi waited.

Helen reappeared in a petrel-blue ball gown, extra inches of silk clutched in a hand between hip and thigh. Her cleavage said it all. Andrew raised a thumb in approval, and she went back into
the shop. When she emerged empty-handed, that was par for the course, since all her dresses needed alteration. Cheaper day clothes she managed herself, but a dress of the quality she had tried on
today would be left for adjustment by professionals.

She rejoined her father. ‘That told him,’ she said.

‘Did you buy it?’

‘No. He did. It cost a mere five hundred in the sale.’

‘And if he stops the payment?’

‘Then the contents of a certain bank vault go to the taxman.’

‘Ah. Blackmail, then.’

She nodded. ‘As my sister would say, abso-bloody-lutely. I have him in a vice-like grip, but he can’t touch me. I know too much, and what I know, Kate knows. What Kate knows, her
accountant knows. Home, James.’

Across the road, a man in a black Audi struggled with his temper. Why would she need a dress like that? She already owned a dozen or more. Where was she going? Something to do with her
brother-in-law’s chambers? Or was Andrew staying in touch with the medical community? Helen was an intellectual, and she would fit in well. What the hell could he do to get her back, to save
her from the roving eyes and hands of people like . . . of people like him?

He swallowed painfully. He was sick of eating out, sick of badly cooked meals thrown together by himself in the kitchen at home. Home? It was a mausoleum, a vast, empty space where the echo of
his own footfalls mocked him nightly, where the sight of one of her slippers made him want to weep, where photographs plagued him:
Look what you threw away, fool!

She was gone. Again. Her father had driven her away back to the old homestead with its hand-carved banisters, home-made tables and chairs, custom-built kitchen. Eva Dawson and Nanny Jasinski
would be helping with the girls, and yes, he missed them, too. They were sweet, like their mother, dark-haired, bright-eyed, pretty. Damn it, they were his daughters.

Furious now, he pursued his wife and father-in-law, keeping a safe distance between the two cars. Eva would go away in a couple of hours, but Andrew and Sofia were probably fixtures. Oh, what
was the point? He found a side street and turned back. There was no sense in pursuit. He needed food. He went home.

Kate Rutherford was serving supper in the kitchen of her Woolton house. Woolton, like Blundellsands, was a district of Liverpool considered posh, as many of its residents were
genuinely rich, while several lived beyond their means. This latter group was labelled by Liverpudlians as ‘fur coats, no knickers’, which placed them in a category worthy of mockery
and deserving of swift dismissal from thought, which attitude suited everyone until it came to burglary.

‘They took the DVD player, mobile phones, the TV and all Carol’s jewellery.’ She stabbed at her dish of lasagne before waving the cutter in the air. ‘Then they drove off
in her car. I want a bodyguard,’ she said. ‘One with muscles and a handsome face will do. Somebody a bit rough with a Scouse accent would be nice, calloused hands, a whiff of cement
about his person.’

Richard, who played the foil very well, did not smile. ‘I’ve told you before, Kate, you are not having a toy-boy or your bit of rough. If you want to play, play with me.’

She grinned at him. ‘You’re no fun. I’m used to you.’

‘Oh, well.’ Richard sighed. She was a torment, but she kept him grounded. ‘I’ll throw away the handcuffs. Three quid, they cost.’ He wagged a finger. The new
urchin-cut hair suited her temperament, as did the red T-shirt he’d had printed for her. Dressed for supper? It was a good job the kids were in bed, because black letters on the
pillar-box-coloured article screamed
QUEEN OF THE WHOLE FUCKING UNIVERSE
, and both kids could read, thanks to this labelled queen. ‘Behave yourself.’

‘OK, guv.’

‘I went to see Daniel this evening,’ he said carefully.

‘You did what?’

‘Now, don’t go into a strop. I did this for your sister as well. He agreed to mediation, and so must she. He’d been watching her getting her hair done and buying clothes. That
is one broken man.’

‘Broken?’ she cried. ‘He should have it broken off.’

Richard helped himself to salad. ‘This needs to be done properly.’

‘All right then, cut it off with a clean knife if you must be kind.’

‘Kate, sit down.’

She sat. ‘You are unbelievable,’ she said.

‘He’s also agreed to therapy for sex addiction. Now, eat.’

She ate. Her faith in the man seated opposite was total. She pulled him to bits, made fun of him, even mocked him brutally on occasion, but she knew she had the best man under the sun. Kate was
the heartbeat of their life, while he was the brains and the sense.

‘I want you to persuade Helen to attend mediation.’

‘She’s not ready.’

‘Exactly. Daniel knows that, too.’

‘Then—’

‘Then they do it when she is ready, when Cassie’s a bit older. Until Helen’s back to normal, we let the dogs lie. I treated him harshly at first because it was no more than he
deserved, but Helen was obviously out of control when she did what she did. You must keep an eye on her till you judge the time to be right. Too many postnatal women start divorce proceedings only
to regret the action later.’

Kate put down her fork. ‘Listen, legal eagle. She’s lucky she has no genital warts or chlamydia. Well, we hope she hasn’t. When she gets her postnatal exam, she’ll have
to ask to be tested for HIV as well. How humiliating and frightening is that? What if her children are diseased? Had it happened to me, your new accessory would have been a knife in your
back.’

‘Shut up, Kate, or I won’t let you handcuff me to the bed.’

She pointed to the legend printed on her chest. ‘Never forget this, buster. I am the queen of this establishment and of the whole world. You are a mere consort. Are they pink?’

‘What?’

‘The handcuffs. Are they covered in pink fluff?’

‘Of course.’

‘They won’t match my T-shirt.’

‘You won’t be wearing it.’

‘Who says?’

‘Me says. I bought other items, too.’

‘What did you buy, what did you buy?’

‘Later.’

They finished the meal in silence. While Kate stacked the dishwasher, Richard removed the cloth, dusted the table, then vacuumed the rug. Without his wig and gown, he was a thoroughly modern
man. ‘Alan Bennett, anyone?’ he asked.

‘Ooh, yes. The one where Patricia Routledge goes to jail.’

‘Very well.’ He went through to the snug. The children were allowed very limited TV time, so the main living rooms contained no sets. He found the disc, pushed it into the DVD
player, then prepared himself.

Kate entered the dimly lit room. He was seated on a sofa, and he sported wig and gown with nothing underneath.

‘What’s going on now?’ she asked.

‘Fraud case tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Bloody tedious. When I stand there wearing these clownish things, only I will know they’ve seen better times. Now, take off that stupid
top. Let’s see what’s underneath.’

‘Handcuffs?’ she asked.

‘Another time. Lock the door, come here and make a man of counsel for the defence. A defendant’s future depends on you, Miss Eroginique.’

Kate awarded him her slow-to-arrive smile. ‘Full body massage, sir?’

‘Yes, please.’

So while Patricia Routledge played to an empty gallery, her promised audience was otherwise employed.

Helen was determined to get her figure back. With Cassie on the bottle, her mother went through all the painful binding with crêpe bandage, gentle Pilates exercises and,
once her milk had gone, walking. At the top of concrete fortifications a tarmac walkway bordered a grassed area, and here she increased her pace daily.

Her fan club arrived within days, men who wanted to show off their jogging, their muscles, and their ability to outpace each other. She should have been used to it, since she had known it since
puberty. Helen was beautiful, and beauty had its downside. Beauty never got its own space; it was always encroached upon.

One of the reasons for the basement gym at home was her reluctance to be stared at. Several accidents had occurred at a Neston health club because men lost concentration when they saw her. It
was her boobs. They had a mind of their own and refused to take orders.

So here came the peacocks, daft men displaying not feathers but sweaty shirts clinging to six-packs, tiny shorts that revealed thigh muscles of steel, faces hard-set so as to deny their obvious
interest. Little boys. No matter how old they were, no matter what position they achieved in the world of work, they remained forever children, pubescent, needy, trying to control their unbiddable
bodies. As with her breasts, no binding was strong enough.

When she began the slow jogging, her stalkers suddenly lost speed. After a few days, she chose to sit on a bench while they passed. She would then stand and take off in the opposite direction,
which action caused collision among the ranks on two occasions, whereupon she turned, stood still, and laughed at them.