A Liverpool Song (18 page)

Emily took her son’s hand. ‘Darling, you aren’t to blame.’

‘I know, but I was a factor, as was Mrs Caldwell.’

‘No. You did as you thought best.’

‘Neither are you to blame, Mother. I know you have separate rooms and that you started to sleep away from him because of the woman. Snoring is the official line, of course. But I’m
not stupid.’

She squeezed his fingers.

‘So I’m not going to tell anyone what I know.’

‘Thank you.’

What did he know? ‘What do you know, Andrew?’

‘I know you’ve found someone to love, someone who loves you back. I know you’ve been with him today, because your hair’s wrong and you look . . . well, you look younger.
I also know you’re happy.’

Emily expelled a long sigh containing an improbable mixture of relief and fear. ‘Thank you, son.’

‘You must go and make yourself look more like somebody who’s been making dinner. He’ll be here shortly. But your secret is completely safe with me. Oh, the other thing is that
Mrs Caldwell sometimes asks where you are. There’s a knowing look on her face, if you see what I mean. Remember, she works at the infirmary. It may be time for the big break I used to dread.
I want you to allow me to come with you. I’d try not to be in the way.’ There, he had managed to say all of it.

‘I would never, ever leave you, Andrew. And you’d never be in the way.’

‘I hope not. And he seems to be a decent chap.’

It occurred to Emily that this was probably the strangest conversation she’d had in her life. He was so adult, far more sensible than she seemed to be. ‘He came to a concert at the
school,’ she said.

‘Yes. And one in town. He spoke to me about my piano-playing and I told him I’d inherited the gift from my mother. It was an interesting moment. Nothing was said, yet everything came
across. He’s special, Mother. I mean, I love my dad, but I know you need something else. I’m not a child any more. And your marriage has been dead for years. I just want to see you
happy. Go on. Calm down and sort your hair. I’ll set the table.’

Emily went away to dress herself in something dull. She would explain herself to Geoff tomorrow. Who else knew or suspected? Someone must have seen them walking into the Chorley New Road flat;
the affair had lasted so long that only a miracle could have allowed it to pass unnoticed. Perhaps this was the time to make a change?

The front door opened, and her heart sank. Living with Joseph at weekends was difficult enough, while the idea of an extended stay appalled her. She was fast becoming the sort of woman
she’d always despised, libidinous, immoral and adulterous.

Muted voices crept up the stairs. He and Andrew were having one of their rare conversations. She didn’t want to go down, but a meal required preparation, so things had to appear normal.
Normal? When had this marriage been normal?

Emily descended the stairs, found her husband and son in the dining room. She greeted the former with a customary peck on the cheek. ‘Sorry I’m a little late. I’ll make a start
now.’ She went into the kitchen. Her heart was in overdrive again, but for no pleasant reason. Looking at Joseph wasn’t easy. She’d managed for some time, but she was now acutely
aware of the fact that Andrew knew, that her neighbour suspected . . . Oh, goodness, she had been careless.

As she prepared potatoes and chops, it occurred to her that she didn’t know what Geoff wanted. He seldom encouraged discussion about practicalities. Perhaps her status as a married woman
suited him, so if she left Joseph, what then? With a sickening thud, she realized that she was probably a toy, a plaything that even put itself away at night. He didn’t want to live with her,
certainly wouldn’t like the idea of living with her son as well.

‘Emily?’

Love? Geoff ’s kind of love suited his requirements and catered for nothing beyond his own needs. He would run a mile if she suggested moving in with him.

‘Emily?’

‘You’re miles away,’ Joe said. ‘You need a plaster on that.’

She looked down. Her finger was bleeding, but she hadn’t felt a thing, because she was swallowed up by a far bigger pain.

‘It’s going to be chaos on toast, just you mark my words,’ Eva promised after depositing shopping in the kitchen. ‘I’ve never seen anything like
it in me life, even in Manchester, and that’s saying something. It’s every man for himself down Duke Street, loads of folk cutting through and shoving me out of the way. Worse than the
bloody Liverpool and Everton derby, it is. It’s a wonder I didn’t get crushed underfoot. What’s happened to manners? That’s what I’d like to know. Now me corns have
got corns. And me worst bunion got trod on every five minutes. I wouldn’t care, but nobody even bothers to say they’re sorry.’

Andrew groaned inwardly. When had Eva last apologized? She was away. She’d be on her high horse now till she fell off, or until the poor beast lost the will to carry on living under the
weight of Eva’s angst. Oh no, there was more. She sucked in her cheeks the way she did before going for goal in the next chukka. If he’d owned armour, he might well have girded his
loins at this point.

‘Have you done your shopping for presents, Doc? Three quarters of an hour I stood yesterday, just waiting to pay in Marks and Spencer’s. Are you having that big table out in the
function suite? Because you’ll have all the kiddies as well, you know. Five of them, anyway. Cassie’s a bit young for sprouts.’

He opened his mouth to speak, but she motored on regardless. ‘Whatever possessed you to open up that barn of a place? Talk about the feeding of the five bloody thousand – have you
got loaves and fishes? And you’d best find us a removal van for the turkey. Williamson Square was packed full with some carol festival and brass bands, I was tripping over Salvation Army folk
all the way down Dale Street, and the cafes and bars was fit to bust, so no chance of a cuppa . . .’

Her voice faded as she left the room, but her head returned briefly by itself. ‘Lewis’s was life-or-death. Two women fighting over one cardigan, a drunk asleep on the floor in his
own pee, then management trying to drag him out through the crowd. I’m telling you – hell on gas mark nine.’ Her head followed the rest of her royal righteousness into the
kitchen. ‘Bloody Christmas,’ she yelled.

‘Par for the course,’ Andrew murmured. ‘Full of festive spirit as per usual, tidings of comfort and joy.’

She was always throwing questions, though she seldom waited for answers. Anyway, none of what was about to happen had been his idea. The function suite had been thrown open by his daughters, and
he’d been caught in the crossfire. For the main Christmas meal, just about everybody was coming. Here. To Rosewood, his house, his sanctuary.

They called in every year at Christmas, but he’d never fed a multitude before. Six grandchildren would be present for a start, and they would be in the company of five adults, one of whom
was the most boring, judgemental man on earth. ‘My son, my son. However did you manage to become such a bloody bore? I must have a word with you, try to work out what makes you tick.’
Or did he tock . . . ?

Andrew had loved his parents, and he continued to love Dad to this day. Ian was distant, cold and apparently lacking in humour, yet his patients doted on him, as he was a ‘root
cause’ man. He would spend hours finding treatment for an ingrown toenail, and he’d broken down many a pen-pusher in his search for new and expensive treatments for his flock. He had
his uses; even civil servants feared him. But Andrew longed to see him enjoying life.

‘We were wrong, Mary,’ he whispered. ‘We should have spent more time with him.’ He thought about Mother and the love of her life, Dr Geoff Shaw, recalled the torment she
had suffered due to ethics and conscience. Like her son, Emily Sanderson had loved completely, exclusively and dotingly. But she had always included Andrew in her life, had even consulted the then
sixteen-year-old when certain decisions needed to be made.

‘Come on, Storm. Let’s get away for half an hour.’ Helen had taken over the dining room and seldom imposed on her father, but Eva permeated the whole house like gas from a
burst main. Natalie joined her twice a week to do floors and windows, but Natalie was not intrusive. While her adoptive grandmother spread herself all over the place, the girl concentrated on her
job, asking only to borrow some of Andrew’s medical books for her course. She was a sweet, hard-working girl; very quiet, too. Natalie shared no blood with Eva, and that fact certainly
showed.

He walked with his dog across the green to the beach. Storm, whose devotion to Andrew was now total, needed no lead. He walked when Andrew walked, stopped when his master stopped. Until they
reached the Mersey’s shore, at which point the dog regressed towards absolute lunacy. A latter-day Canute, he fought the river, snarled and barked at it, got thoroughly wet, and delivered a
great deal of flotsam to Andrew’s feet.

A huge length of seaweed was the first of today’s offerings. ‘Thanks,’ Andrew said. ‘You are definitely bipolar if not schizophrenic. Good as gold in the house, though
she’ll
never admit it, then stark raving bonkers out here. I wonder what Daisy would make of you?’ Daisy, Andrew’s half-sister, was in a St Helens care home. Dad had
looked after her since Betsy Liptrott’s sudden death, and Andrew had taken on the duty, as he held power of attorney over Joe’s estate. Not that Joe was mentally impaired; the old man
had simply had enough. At ninety-three, he had every right to demand some peace.

The dog carried on trying to rule the waves like an unfrocked Britannia. Storm was almost the best thing that had happened to Andrew this year, though he had to admit that his daughters were
wonderful, as were their children. But Ian? If anyone in the country had the ability to wet-blanket Christmas, this was the man. Eva came a close second, he supposed.

He snuggled into the collar of his sheepskin coat. Perhaps Storm should have a coat. A tall, long and leggy creature, he seemed to have very little body fat. But no. Storm in a coat would become
Storm in a wet coat, and that wasn’t a good idea. It was cold. He needed to go home, but Eva might pounce again. He was fed up with being her buffer. In the manner of a loaded goods train at
the end of the line, she threw herself at him daily. But he couldn’t fire her. In her strange way, she was loyal; she was also Mary’s choice.

‘Dad?’

He turned. Helen was cupping her mouth with her hands, was shouting, then beckoning him home. So he collected his dog and a bough of a tree to which the animal seemed to have sworn undying
affection. ‘Leave it,’ he ordered. ‘We’re needed elsewhere. It’ll still be here if we come back this afternoon. And Eva wouldn’t like it on her parquet. You
should know by now that you mustn’t even breathe on her floors.’

Storm dropped his precious burden and switched to obedient mode. It was time to babysit, and he was very good at his job. Had any stranger ever dared to approach Storm’s girls, he would
have gone for the throat. He was a special dog, and he knew it.

Helen welcomed her father and his dog into the dining room. ‘I’m going for food,’ she said. ‘And Daniel will be coming on Christmas Day, though not for lunch. He wants to
see the girls, and it would be subhuman of me to refuse. After all, they’re his children, too.’

‘Oh, what a shame. May I refuse to let him in? It’s my house, after all.’

‘Behave yourself, Daddy. Anyway, we have invited Anya.’ She nodded. ‘You two seem to get on well together, and it’ll be nice for Sofia to have her mother here. But I warn
you – no Eva.’

‘No Eva,’ he agreed readily. ‘She has her own family. So you and Kate are cooking?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Stick indigestion tablets on your list, will you? Kaolin and morphine, too. And who’s sleeping where, pray?’

‘Worry not, darling Daddy. No one will be poisoned, though I’m sure we could make an exception for Eva, should she put in an unscheduled appearance. We have camp beds, sleeping bags,
prams and cots. You’re sleeping on the drawing-room sofa, Kate and Rich will have your gorgeous four-poster, and I am already catered for. Ian won’t drink, so they’ll go home
after the meal, please God.’

Andrew lowered his head thoughtfully. ‘Your mother and I could have been better parents. You and Katie had each other, but he was a Lone Ranger.’

‘Oh, stop it. Look what he married. Eliza’s about as cheerful as a funeral tea on a wet Monday, and those two little boys need teaching how to play. Not everything’s your
fault.’ She kissed him and left.

Not everything’s your fault.
Andrew heard his mother saying those very words to his dad. Oh God. Life repeated itself so often . . .

For the first time within living memory, Emily Sanderson threw caution to the winds. Her husband, who had quite possibly come home to spy on her, was asleep in an armchair,
while her son had gone off somewhere with Stuart Abbot. She was in a panic. Emily wasn’t used to panic, and had no idea of how to deal with it. Did Geoff love her? Was it just sex? If she . .
. should she . . . would he . . . might they . . . Uncaring about who saw her and fired up by a rush of adrenaline, she dashed as quickly as possible down the main road. It was the wrong thing to
do. She had to do it. She had to do the wrong thing.

There was nothing pretty about her this evening, as she had changed into housewife mode. For Geoff, she always dressed carefully, because he loved unwrapping what he called his treasure, his
gift from above, his prize. This evening, she was no prize. She ran round the back and pushed the gate wide. His flat was on the ground floor, and she knocked on the window against whose sill his
wobbly desk was propped.

A huge key turned in the aged lock, and the heavy kitchen door groaned inward. ‘Emily? What’s the matter? Did you forget your keys to the front?’

With the flat of her hand, she pushed him inside and followed. ‘Joseph’s home. For several days. Andrew knows.’ She took several seconds to catch her breath. Was she being
stupid? Well yes, she was, but she couldn’t seem to control herself. Was the wrong thing sometimes the right thing to do?