A Liverpool Song (22 page)

‘And you don’t mind?’

‘Not for myself, but for the girls. I have a supportive, decent family. My dad’s the kindest man. He let us turn his dining room into a living room, and he plays with the children,
so they have a man in their life. But they also have a dad and they have a right to their dad.’ She shook his hand. ‘Thank you for being there. You gave me the opportunity to see
straight through a man I used to adore. Oh, and change those curtains, for goodness’ sake, because they belong in a skip, not in a beautiful Georgian window. And stop being so bloody
tidy.’

She drove off.

Halfway up Rimrose Road, she noticed that Daniel was following her, so she parked illegally, used the central locking system and phoned her father. Daniel remained where he was, about thirty
yards away. The stand-off endured until Andrew appeared in his Rolls-Royce. There were times that begged for a bit of swank, and this was one of them. He turned the ancient but pristine Silver
Ghost and purred into position in front of his daughter.

Daniel Pope’s tyres screamed as he wasted rubber in a dangerous U-turn that caused many horns to sound.

‘Oh well, he’d better stay alive,’ Helen mumbled. Though she might do better as his widow? No. She shivered. Wishing someone dead was wrong, even when he was a total pillock. A
very rich total pillock, he was. All the same, death was a stride too far.

‘You all right, love?’ Andrew asked when they reached Rosewood. ‘We can get an injunction.’

‘Yes, and thanks for coming, Daddy, but no injunction. If he makes any trouble, we’ll resort to the law. He was in a fairly bad temper because I knocked this mediation lark on the
head. It’s just a waste of time and money. I didn’t realize how typecast I’d allowed myself to become. Freedom is beyond value.’

They entered the house. ‘We’re all right to talk,’ he said. ‘The News of the World has gone home. Today’s lesson was on the subject of Jehovah’s Witnesses and
blood transfusions. I swear I’d get rid of her except for your mother.’ He wiped his brow. Sometimes, Eva wore him out.

Helen patted his arm. ‘Mummy’s dead. You have to live your life for yourself now. Which is what I plan to do. I’ve . . . I’ve met someone.’

‘Oh?’ He pretended to be surprised.

‘My new solicitor. He’s single, thirty-ish, thinks I’m beautiful and wants to take me out for lunch in the near future.’

‘Oh, Helen. Did you never hear about on the rebound?’

‘Yes. Floyd Cramer recorded it. You and Mum used to play it.’

‘You know what I mean, madam.’

‘Yes. I also know it’s just lunch with a very nice man. And he doesn’t merely leer at me – he listens. Baby talk gets a bit tedious, Daddy. All these dedicated Mumsy
types who say they enjoy the company of infants are either liars or thick. Another day of Humpty-flaming-Dumpty, and I’ll throw myself off the wall, and to hell with the king’s horses
and the king’s men. Anyway, I’ll be back at work soon enough, and Sofia’s starting a foundation course to become a translator. She needs to move on, because she’s
bright.’

‘Ah. So what about the children? You know I’m devoted to them, but—’

‘But. Anya will take the job.’

‘Right. Will she live here?’

‘To begin with. When everything’s sorted out, I’ll buy a house near Kate and Rich. Then you’ll get a bit of peace, just you, Eva, and that poor dead woman in the back
garden.’ She made a sound that was remarkably akin to a growl. ‘Protracted mourning isn’t grief. It’s self-pity.’

As he walked his dog hurriedly in the face of an incoming tide, Andrew heard his daughter’s words. Self-pity, not love. Was she right? He also wondered about the value of peace and quiet.
At this precise moment, there was no chance of it, as Storm had taken serious umbrage at Mighty Mersey’s renewed vigour. The dog’s attempts to prevent the inevitable were hilarious and
clumsy, but at least the tide was moving in the right direction, and he’d be washed ashore if he went too far. ‘It doesn’t listen, Storm,’ he shouted. ‘It’s
fastened to the Irish Sea and won’t sue for divorce.’

Peace and quiet? Was that what Andrew really wanted or needed? Apart from Eva, who was something of a mixed bag, his retirement might have been lonely. Instead, he had gained a household teeming
with life, and although a move began to seem attractive whenever the baby had a screaming fit, he often liked the house being busy. Was he mentally ill?

Then there was Mary. He couldn’t take her with him, couldn’t leave her here alone. A new householder wouldn’t want a grave in his garden, would certainly neglect it. The flat
stone might well be used as a stand for plant pots or statues or a water feature. And this was not love, it was indulgence of self. Was Helen right? She’d become a clever and capable young
woman, and he was an old enough fool. A soggy dog joined him. ‘Woof.’

‘Ah. Here comes the aforementioned water feature. The Dripping Dog by Henry Moore, huh?’

‘Woof woof.’

‘It’s OK, Storm. We walk up the steps.’ Another few metres, and the tide would be fully in. The vagaries of man and Mersey were items Andrew had come to terms with long ago.
Forty-two years, he’d lived in Liverpool. He could scarcely recall the undulating moors he’d missed so badly four decades earlier.
They’ve got no moors in Venice
. What a
card she was. Perhaps he should commit Eva to paper, let the world take a look at her.

But one aspect of the moors he would never forget. Heathfield Farm and the Beauchamps. That particular chapter he would always remember. It had once been etched deep inside him, in a cold place
reserved for the worthless, the inhumane and the downright evil. Eva visited that place occasionally, though she had not yet become a resident and probably never would. She was in the pending tray;
but the Beauchamps had sat in the refrigerated area for several years during Andrew’s teens. And he had been wrong. Again. His cold storage now contained several inadequate doctors, Daniel
Pope, and ministers who had systematically hacked away at the NHS. Beauchamps were forgivable and had long been forgiven.

He remembered that boiling hot day when he had dragged poor Stuart halfway to nowhere and back. He would never forget any of it.

He found the main farm. It was a remarkable building, reminiscent of a medium-sized stately home: sweeping driveways, white columns upholding an exterior open porch, striped
lawns, a fountain, the word
HEATHFIELD
curled into tall, wrought iron gates. Window surrounds and lintels were hewn from stone, and all windows were patterned in stained glass. This was
true opulence. It would do as a setting for a film populated by mustachioed airmen and hopeful products of girls’ Swiss finishing schools.

Andrew’s heart hurt. Mother had been raised here on a diet of duty heavily laced with emotional blackmail. With her education geared towards the genteel arts, she had been propelled in the
direction of wealthy, land-owning families. By ‘selling’ their children through generations, the Beauchamps had acquired a portfolio of properties that stretched from here to the feet
of the Pennine Chain.

With steam beginning to rise from his water-drenched clothes, Andrew returned to his friend. All previously planned strategies were dismissed; neither boy would work for the farmers, as Andrew
had decided to meet them as an equal. That would mean a week or more of study, but he was equal to it. Oh yes, he intended to be ready for them.

He hailed Stuart with a wave. ‘We’re going home,’ he called.

‘Thank God for that – I’m like a poached egg in these wet things.’ It was clear that Stuart Abbot was not amused.

The ride back was slow and almost silent. Fortunately, it was largely downhill, and Andrew got the chance to think. He needed that time; he also needed to be less damp when presenting himself at
their door. A bit of reading, and he would talk like an expert on cattle. Work for them? Oh, no. They were his target, his goal, his holiday prep. ‘Build them up, then drop them like
worthless stones,’ he mused aloud. He was tall. He had no acne, and he was beginning to produce stronger facial hair. The fly in the oriel bay came to mind. ‘I’m the
spider,’ he said.

‘Talking to yourself again, Sanderson?’

‘I am. This way, I’m sure of an intelligent and handsome audience.’

‘Andy?’

‘What?’

‘Drop dead.’

‘Not today, Stu. Things to do. Yes, several things to do.’

After the fateful third session of mediation, Daniel Pope was seething with temper. He wanted the contents of that safe back. First, they were valuable; second, they were
dangerous. The problem was that Helen thought things out carefully, and his ill-gotten gains, now her ill-gotten property, might not be at Rosewood. The stuff could be in a bank vault
somewhere.

On the other hand, Andrew was a millionaire, or would be when his old man died, because Sanderson’s Bespoke Furniture was worth a bomb, while Sanderson’s Intelligent Kitchens PLC was
the size of an active volcano, so Father-in-law possibly had a safe in the house. However, even if the stuff was there, its container would be impenetrable, since Andrew Sanderson bought nothing
but the best . . .

Oh, sod it. He booked himself in at the Adelphi, as he hadn’t the energy to drive home. The house would have to be sold, because he could no longer live on the Wirral, where every man and
his dog knew that Helen had walked out with both children, one of them still just a few months old.

He sat in the hotel’s largest bar, nursed a double cognac and stared gloomily at the table. Life in the vibrant city of Liverpool continued outside, but he had hit a full stop. There were
clubs, eateries by the score, women a-plenty, but he suddenly seemed not to care. He didn’t feel like dancing, talking or watching surgically deformed females removing clothes or sliding down
poles. A light had gone out, and its name was Helen Pope.

Women. He’d had more than his fair share over the years, but being married had been part of the fun. He’d been getting away with something forbidden. Childhood had been the same,
because a vigilant, doting mother had made disobedience inevitable. Lying had become part and parcel of everyday life, since he had been forbidden to do even normal things like swimming, playing
football or straying beyond certain local boundaries. As a consequence, he had done all the aforementioned plus several other activities of which Mother would certainly not have approved.

He took another sip of brandy. Helen was probably right; Mother had made him deceitful. Sex addiction therapy had failed, due to the fact that he was judged clear of the disease. The therapist
had been cruelly blunt. ‘You’re just selfish,’ she had said. ‘You don’t want to stop, so you carry on.’ Another bloody woman, a bluestocking rejected by society
and pushed into a position where she could judge the afflicted.

He was sick of women, yet he wanted his wife back. ‘Why?’ he asked the brandy globe. The answer lay not in the bottom of a glass, but deep within himself. Life without her was going
to be terrible. She was well known and loved in the business, particularly among the northern chain of six huge shops. Jewellery looked wonderful on her, though her beauty drew the eye away from
smaller items, so she had always arrived at functions in huge pieces whose prices looked like telephone numbers.

He drained the glass. A blonde at the bar was giving him the eye, but he wasn’t interested in her. She nudged her friend, then showed Daniel three fingers, thereby indicating that they
were willing to make a threesome, but he remained unmoved. The bartender, however, was moved. He shifted them out to where they belonged, on the street. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he mouthed.
‘We do our best, but they still wander in.’

‘No problem.’ No problem? Of course there was a bloody problem. It sat a few miles up the coast in its father’s house. He remembered how she’d looked in the Rodney Street
consulting room, animated, alive and magnificently angry. The idea of a fight was stimulating. Even now, he knew that if he managed to get to her while she was alone, she would allow him to make
love to her. Allow? She’d be glad of it. That sweet, quiet girl was dynamite in bed, and . . . and she’d get picked up by someone else unless he staked his claim soon. The thought of
her with another man was excruciating.

Upstairs in his en suite, he lay in a frothy bath and tried to plan. Sofia had every Wednesday afternoon off. She visited her mother’s house, and returned to her job late on Wednesday
night, or early on Thursday morning. When lecturing at the university, Helen shaped her working week round Sofia’s comings and goings. Wednesday was the day, then, as Wednesday was also
Eva’s day off. But he had to get rid of his father-in-law. Not easy, but by no means impossible. There had to be a way of arranging something.

By the time he was dry, powdered and lying on the bed, Daniel’s plan was complete. He would need to be clever and prepared for all eventualities, but he knew that Andrew had his
daughter’s best interests at heart, so surely he would come to discuss those interests? ‘Once he’s driven away from the house, I get in,’ he advised the ceiling. ‘He
won’t be back for well over an hour, so that will give me plenty of time to talk her round.’ He would dominate her. She had always enjoyed games.

Satisfied by his own cleverness, Daniel Pope fell asleep, and for the first time since Helen’s abandonment of him, he stayed asleep for the whole night.

Andrew had raided his piggy bank, his Bolton Savings Bank account, Dad’s old suit pockets and the bases of upholstered furniture. The cost of a taxi from town to the back
of beyond was considerable, as was the price of an elegant briefcase, but he needed to look the part. Fortunately, he had a good suit that was usually saved for concerts, weddings and funerals, so
he dug that out and borrowed one of Dad’s ties. He still looked young, but older than sixteen. ‘No shaving,’ he ordered his reflection. ‘A bit of shadow adds a couple of
years.’

Mother was at work, while Dad had returned to base in Liverpool. Andrew was going for his mother’s pound of flesh; for the first time ever, he had discovered the place just south of his
stomach where feelings could be put in cold storage, which facility allowed him to fear little or nothing. This was his day, and he would grab it with determination, a leather briefcase and a
non-existent farm at the other side of the Pennines.