A Liverpool Song (16 page)

Once a routine established itself, Betsy and Daisy got on with it. But it was a monotonous life for a grown woman, and she became grey, shapeless and stooped. Joe did his best, but he was a
guilty man. The suicide of Martin Liptrott sat heavily on his shoulders, as did the situation of Martin’s widow. It was all Joe’s fault, and Joe had stayed away from women ever
since.

Then there was Emily. She remained with Andrew on Mornington Road, but she was very different. After a year or so dedicated almost exclusively to paperwork, she had done a couple of courses and
was now assistant almoner at Bolton Royal. She had come out of her shell. She was prettier, livelier, happier. The job was just a vehicle; he was almost certain that Emily had met someone. A
doctor? A patient whose recovery involved visits from her? Was she capable of throwing herself wholeheartedly into a relationship? Was she?

No. Emily wasn’t interested in men, wasn’t interested in much. Her hobbies excluded anyone who wasn’t Andrew, anything that didn’t have black and white keys and pedals.
Yet he felt uneasy. She walked with the spring of a twenty-five-year-old in her step, and she was wearing high-heeled shoes, perfume, Yardley’s face powder, coral lipstick, jewellery. The
legend on the lipstick tube read
Koral Kiss
, and that, too, made him anxious. If she’d found someone, a bloke who lasted more than a few minutes, she would know what a failure her
husband was. Could he imagine Emily giving herself away in gay abandon?

The Emily he remembered had always dressed simply in order to avoid attention. She was a shy woman, afraid of her own prettiness, determinedly unadorned unless attending one of Andrew’s
concerts. But now, she was suddenly confident; she laughed more, talked more, was slightly less careful about the house.

He parked in a lay-by and wondered what to do. A week off? Could Liverpool manage without him? Of course it could. But did he really want to know what she was up to? ‘Knowledge is
power?’ he mumbled. What power might he gain from finding out what Emily was doing? She knew about Betsy, though she was not privy to the whole sordid truth. As far as Emily was concerned,
her husband had come home from work that day with pneumonia; she had no idea that he’d driven his lover and unborn child to St Helens. But the earlier beating from Martin Liptrott had proved
his faithlessness.

A week off. He had to do it. Wondering and worrying served only to pave the road to madness, and that road grew shorter with every passing day. If he carried on, he’d end up in a
straitjacket on a funny farm. Why did he care? God, why did he have to care about Emily? And if he, the gander, had tasted sauce, why should the goose be scrutinized? Because it was different for
women? Because men were wild beasts while women were angels? If women were angels, where did men find their sleeping partners?

He started the car. Perhaps he should bring Emily and Andrew to Liverpool now, let the lad do his A levels at a good school over here? That would put a stop to Emily’s games. If there were
any games. The O levels were almost over; Andrew was expecting top grades in all subjects. There were just two school years left, then university. Yes, they might come to Liverpool now, let their
son get used to the city.

‘Then I’d be house-hunting,’ he said. ‘I’m stupid. They can’t live where I live – it’s a shoebox.’

But he needed to know what his wife was up to. If she was innocent, she and Andrew could stay where they were, thus allowing Joe to concentrate fully on the business. If she was messing about .
. . Joe wished he could understand himself. One thing was becoming clear – an adulterous person always suspected his partner of having the same fault. Oh, and he loved her. So that made two
things.

At thirteen, Andrew Sanderson had been old enough to know that he wasn’t old enough to deal with the Beauchamps of Heathfield Farm. So he’d postponed the plan, kept
quiet, stayed at home, studied, done his homework. He was at a good school, the best for many a mile. Yes, it was sometimes boring, and yes, he still learned more about life while away from his
alma mater, but as a means to an end, Bolton School was more than adequate. Andrew Sanderson was going to be a doctor as long as he got the grades. But in two years he would be a Liverpudlian, so
it was a case of now or never.

He and his friend, Stuart Abbot, emerged from their final exam. They were on their way to Andrew’s house, where his mother had left a cake for them. ‘She still treats me like a
child,’ Andrew said. ‘She’s made us a celebrate-end-of-exams Victoria sponge.’

‘You’re lucky. You don’t get sent through to serve a customer with a quarter of boiled ham when she needs a rest. I want a job this summer, something away from the shop. If I
hear the ding of that till once more, I’ll end up dafter than I am already. There must be something I can do to earn a few bob.’

They entered Emily’s beautiful kitchen, where Andrew pondered for several seconds, filling in the gap in conversation by cake-cutting and pouring orange juice into glasses.

‘This is great,’ Stuart said. ‘My mother would give an arm and a leg for a kitchen like this.’

Andrew chuckled. ‘Then she’d need a special. Dad’s doing research into kitchens for disabled people. But I’d tell your mum to hang on to her limbs if I were you. Arms and
legs have their uses from time to time.’

‘I suppose they do.’

It was indeed a wonderful kitchen, solid oak cupboards and drawers, a long work surface, knife blocks, new cooker and sink. ‘Time, motion and geometry,’ Andrew said thoughtfully.
‘A triangle. Cooker, sink and fridge are pivotal. Their positioning is of prime importance. Everything’s always thought out in factories, and a kitchen is a small factory, because it
produces things. My dad thinks these matters through very thoroughly. Stuart?’

‘What?’

Andrew swallowed. It was now or never, so it had better be now. ‘About a job for the holidays. We’ve exercised our minds, so how about getting some muscles? I’ve been thinking
about farm labouring. Imagine if we go into sixth form in September all sun-tanned and strong. The girls’ division will have to lock its doors to keep them in.’

Stuart grinned. ‘You don’t half talk some mashed potato, Andrew. They might look at you, but I’ve still got a metal five-bar gate across my teeth. The girls’
division’s already listed you as a five-star bloke. I bet I haven’t even got one star with these braces. I mean, look at your height for a start. When are you going to stop
growing?’

‘No idea.’ He could trust Stuart. He had to trust him, because two heads were better than one, and the idea of going up there on his own was not particularly attractive. ‘Look,
it’s about my mother,’ he said. ‘Top secret, of course, but there’s a massive farm that stretches for miles. Heathfield, it’s called. It’s so big that they need
lots of people living in cottages all the way to the Pennines. Half a dozen or more huge farms, really, but all under one heading.’

‘Right. And your mother?’

Andrew shrugged. ‘She’s the farmer’s daughter. The main farmer. Beecham spelt the French way – Beauchamp. They kicked her out because of Dad. She was supposed to marry
land, you see. When I first found out, Mother and Dad were going through a bad time, so I vowed to uncover all I could in case she needed her family.’

‘Does she need them?’

‘No. But I’d like to meet them, see what they’re made of.’

Stuart grabbed another chunk of cake. Before biting into it, he agreed to go with his friend to try for work on the farm.

‘We’ll be brothers,’ Andrew said. ‘Stuart and Andrew Abbot.’

Stuart found this so hilarious that he breathed in a few cake crumbs. He was standing over the sink with his friend battering him on the back when Thora came in. She took over, of course.
Whatever was afoot, Thora had to be in charge. ‘Your mother told me to come in and tell you she’ll be late, something to do with catching up with paperwork. Or was it a meeting? Oh, I
can’t remember. Are you all right now?’ she asked Stuart, who was probably black and blue after two beatings.

The poor lad got his breath back and sat down.

Thora turned to Andrew. ‘I’ve two of them now,’ she announced.

‘Two what, Mrs Caldwell?’

‘Teddy boys. I’ve a blue one and a green one. Kieran and Sean. Kieran’s blue with bright yellow socks, and Sean’s green with shocking pink socks. They look so stupid
standing on corners swinging chains or combing their quiffs. I said to Harry, I said, “Have you seen the state of your two eldest?”, but he just carried on watching that test card thing
on the television. Did you know he sleeps through programmes but watches the test card? I’ll just have a bit of your mam’s cake, Andrew. She won’t mind.’

There followed a brief pause while Thora gorged herself. Andrew winked at Stuart, who was not yet used to the carryings-on of the Sandersons’ next door neighbours.

‘So.’ She brushed away a few crumbs from her flat chest. ‘You’ve done with exams, I take it?’

‘More in two years,’ Andrew said. ‘This is growing-up time, Mrs Caldwell. According to our masters, we’ve been spoon-fed so far. The gap between O level and A level is
wider than the one between A level and university. So we have seven weeks to become men.’

‘Well, as long as you don’t become Teddy boys. I can’t be doing with them there stupid suits. If you need anything, you know where I am.’

Outside, Thora sat on her garden wall and lit a Woodbine. Andrew would suffer, she thought. Emily’s relationship was fast becoming an open secret, especially since her husband went to
Liverpool. It was often the quiet, withdrawn ones who went off the rails. Andrew had to carry on studying, while Joe needed to stay in the dark till the affair blew over. Was it an affair, or was
it something bigger? God forbid on the divorce front. That would cripple young Andrew.

For the first time in her life, Emily Sanderson was experiencing the joy of physical love. In his thirties, Dr Geoff Shaw was a decade her junior, but that didn’t seem to
matter to either party. While unease often weighed her down, she felt she had not betrayed her husband, but she worried about her one and only son. And might she lose her job because of the
relationship?

Geoff was not particularly attractive. He wore thick-lensed glasses and was not tall, dark and handsome. In heels, she matched his height, and he was by no means a fine figure of a man, as he
was slight of frame and his hair had already begun to recede, but his voice could melt her heart, while his gentle approach and brilliance of mind had taken terra firma from beneath her feet long
ago. She was finally, dangerously, in love.

She lay now in his arms, her mind filled with concern about Andrew, her body satiated by this skilful lover. It had to end; she must put a stop to it. But, as she drifted towards sleep, she
curled into him, unwilling to leave the smallest space between their two bodies. And she floated into a dream that would fill her nights for years to come, though its order would vary, as is the
way with dreams.

‘Where’s Mrs Dobbs?’

Emily looked up from her typing. ‘Oh. She’s following up on a patient who’s being moved to the TB hospital. He needs help in understanding what’s happening to him –
psychological problems.’

‘Right.’

She felt his eyes travelling over her face and upper body. ‘May I take a message?’ she asked. ‘Mrs Dobbs should be back before two o’clock.’

‘No, but you may take lunch with me in the canteen. One o’clock?’ And he left without another word.

Emily didn’t do a single tap of work after this event. She stared at the unfinished letter, blinked several times and picked up her flask and her sandwiches. Who did he think he was,
coming in here and telling her where she must lunch? It was a nice day, and she intended to sit on a bench at the park side of the hospital, eat her food, drink her coffee, then return to finish
the typing. The canteen food was good, but the place was noisy, filled with chattering cadets and student nurses.

But when she reached ‘her’ bench, he was already seated and waiting for her. ‘I knew you wouldn’t go to the canteen,’ he told her. ‘You don’t appreciate
being ordered about, and you like to overlook the park, don’t you? Am I right on both counts?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when the weather’s fine, you come here at exactly half past twelve. Creature of habit.’

‘You’ve been watching me,’ she accused him.

‘Yes. It’s become a hobby, and it’s completely free of charge, I believe.’

It was his voice. It wrapped itself round her like a sheet of pure silk. What did he want? ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘You. I want you.’

The sandwiches remained in their wrapping, while her coffee flask stood between them. No one had ever spoken to her in such a forthright way. She stared ahead at the trees bordering
Queen’s Park. Her brain was on strike; she could think of no words, no response that might convey how she felt. How did she feel? She hadn’t the slightest idea.

‘You’re Emily,’ he advised her.

‘I know my name, but thank you for the reminder.’

‘Your husband’s in kitchens and bespoke furniture, and your son’s at the school up the road.’

‘Yes.’

‘Clever boy?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘I understand that Mr Sanderson is moving to Liverpool. Spreading his wings, so to speak.’

‘We shall all be in Liverpool within a few years.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m Geoff, as in Chaucer, not the American Jeff. And when you go to Liverpool, I may follow, because I am a Scouser – from West Derby. Grammar-school
boy, working-class family, salt of the earth. Dad’s a dock worker, and Mam works at the biscuit factory. There are hospitals in Liverpool. I’m quite prepared to play the long
game.’

Emily turned to him. ‘I don’t play games, Dr . . .’ She had forgotten his name, but he was a paediatrician.

‘Shaw.’

‘Dr Shaw. I’m not available.’ He had beautiful hands.

‘I’m a patient man.’

‘I’m a determined woman.’

‘Promising, then.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘This game is going to be challenging.’ He raised a hand. ‘I know, I heard you, you don’t play. Well, let me put you
straight, Emily. You’re a dormant volcano. You are in serious need of tender, loving care. I was going to be a psychologist, but I turned left into paediatrics. You require fulfilment. I need
your body. We should get together some time soon. I can promise you a satisfactory result. Enjoy your lunch.’