A Liverpool Song (27 page)

‘How did you do it, Dad? How did you manage to stay in love with Mother while she was living with Geoff?’

‘We looked after each other, lad. And when poor Geoff died, we clung together like brother and sister. I know it all seemed mad, but it worked. If it works, don’t knock
it.’

Andrew nodded. ‘Our houses are both consulting rooms now,’ he said. ‘But you can bet your bottom dollar that they’ve kept the kitchens.’ Sanderson’s products
managed to be timeless, always in vogue.

‘Nay, some folk are having unfitted kitchens now, Andrew.’ He closed his eyes. ‘There’s something you don’t know, son. I might as well tell you now, because
I’ve nowt left to lose except my life. I couldn’t satisfy a woman. There. I’ve managed to tell my son at last.’

Andrew paused for several seconds. ‘Oh Dad, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Remember how your mam kept Geoff ’s ashes in that big trinket box I made for her? She couldn’t let go. So when she died, God love her, I kept them
together. He was a good lad, you know.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you know what to do with me?’

Andrew shivered. ‘Listen. You’re hanging about till you get your telegram.’

‘I’m tired.’ As if to prove the statement, he fell asleep. He was always doing that. It was almost as if death claimed a little more of Joe’s time every day. Hands that
had worked hard for well over half a century rested on his stomach. Near-transparent skin allowed veinous maps to show, while fingers whose dexterity and accuracy had been famous were now twisted,
their joints swollen and deformed.

‘Oh, Dad.’ Andrew blinked back the tears. He, too, closed his eyes. And he saw those two splendid houses on Rodney Street, both near the Mount Pleasant end, one diagonally opposite
the other. He’d had a top floor flat in each house, and his parents used to joke about him dirtying one, then moving into the other until that, too, became disordered and unclean.

Dad had blamed Geoff. ‘It’s you, you great lummox, you with your Do Not Tidy room.’ The two men had often gone for a pint together, painted and decorated together, eaten in
each other’s houses. Although Mother and Geoff could not have existed apart, Joe had become part of the recipe. Andrew had never been deprived of a father, while Geoff had become a great
friend who helped during exams and in various areas of study. Having two dads had been great.

And Joseph Sanderson had outlived both his wife and her lover.

‘Wake up, Andrew.’

He opened his eyes. ‘I wasn’t asleep. I was just thinking about our Rodney Street days.’

‘Grand times, we had. Remember going to see Ken Dodd? I was in pain through laughing.’

‘Oh yes, I remember. You got loud hiccups and Ken Dodd made you stand up, told you you should never have swallowed that hand grenade. Then he pretended to ask management whether the
theatre should be cleared.’

‘Nearest I ever came to causing a riot, that was. Eeh, we had some times. New Moon, eh? You and me fishing and helping with rescued donkeys – I remember all of that. But not
yesterday or this morning. I never know whether it’s Tuesday or breakfast time.’

‘Normal at your age, Dad.’

They stared hard at each other. ‘But it wasn’t normal for poor Geoff, eh, Andrew?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘We looked after him, though.’

‘Yes, we did our best, Dad.’

‘Your poor mother.’

‘I know.’

‘Fine man, fine brain. Come here, son. Hold my hand.’

So Andrew Sanderson was awarded the rare privilege of being there when his father died. Weary eyelids fluttered, breaths rasped over worn airways, while the old man smiled. ‘Hello,
Em,’ were his last happy words. Then life left him on a soft, easy sigh, and the hand Andrew held was suddenly heavy.

Staff found him there half an hour later when they brought Joe’s pills. Until then, Andrew hadn’t realized that he was weeping. Very gently, they separated him from the cooling
corpse and sat him in an easy chair. They said the usual things like, ‘It was his time’ and ‘He didn’t suffer’.

Andrew dried his eyes. He picked up the remains of Mother and Geoff. ‘Thank you for looking after him,’ he said. Outside, a warm breeze fanned in from the sea. Everything looked
washed and bright from recent rain. And Dad was dead. How could birds sing at a time like this? There was a poem about a similar moment, W. H. Auden, he believed.

Life has to go on
. That was another saying. Well, of course bloody life had to bloody go on. He packed Mother and Geoff in a car rug before fastening their seatbelt. The lid was taped
on, anyway, so there’d be no spillage. Outside the home, he sat in his car and looked up at Dad’s window. The curtains were closed. They would be washing him now, tying closed his
mouth, preparing him for the next step. ‘I’ll get Grey’s,’ he said, referring to the company that had taken care of Mary.

But before phoning the funeral director, he rang Stuart Abbot, his friend of fifty-seven years. ‘Joe’s dead, Stu. My dad. He just died. I’m outside the nursing home
now.’

‘You going back to your house?’ Stuart asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there soon. I’m sorry, Andy.’

‘So am I, Stuart.’

He was a sixty-year-old orphan. After driving home, he did everything in order. He called Grey’s, Dad’s doctor, Daisy’s nursing home, Kate and Ian. When the children were
upstairs with Sofia, he told Helen. Then he sat in a window and watched the water and the sky on this day, the last Dad had ever seen.

And when he’d gone through a thousand memories and dozens of emotions, a thought finally struck. He was a multi-millionaire, and he would give away every penny if he could just have them
all back. Yes, all of them. Mother, Dad, Geoff, the Beauchamps. And Mary.

But life had to go on. And the phone was ringing again.

Every single day started with a discussion . . . well, a heated exchange, or even a row, between Eva and Andrew. Like morning prayers in better-organized households, this was
the rule, the law at Rosewood. A small complication like a funeral did little to encourage Eva to hang fire, and she was in fine form today, as she was dealing with frozen flaky pastry shells.
‘How many of these volley venties do we want?’ she asked. ‘And Anya’s arrived just now with a load of Polish sausages. Oh, that dog of yours has gone and ate some of the
skirting board in the lav. And me feather duster’s gone missing, too. I’m sick of buying towels. Bloody animal’s not right in the head.’

Andrew eyed his friend/enemy. ‘Eva, none of that is important, especially today. Just throw the food in the function room and let them all fight among themselves. By the way, they’re
vols au vent. And the dog’s name is Storm, and he is not negotiable. He’s a family member.’

‘Oo-er.’ She folded her arms. Eva with folded arms bore a strong resemblance to a miniature Sherman tank. ‘Your dad was a very well thought of bloke all over this country, so
he deserves a good send-off. Half the bloody kitchens round these posh parts are Sanderson jobs. He done a butcher’s block for a woman down Burbo Bank, and it’s going strong after
thirty years or more. It’s a bit dented, like, but—’

‘Eva?’

‘What?’

‘Shut up. This is my poor old father’s funeral, so I want no chewed skirting boards or ruined feather dusters in the mix. And if you leave your books on the piano, I’ll get
Stuart to sign them later, I promise. Now, go away and try to behave yourself for a change. Any change would be greatly appreciated.’ She needed surgery to sew her mouth closed for a few
hours, yet her heart was in the right place. She probably thought she was taking his mind off the loss of his dad.

Her body disappeared, but the voice didn’t. ‘Stuart Abbot’s coming,’ she screamed at poor Anya in the kitchen. Eva was clearly of the opinion that the deaf and the
foreign needed shouting at. ‘He writes them wonderful mystery stories what have been on the telly. Supposed to be for young folk, but I’ve always stayed young. My favourite’s
Fingal’s Folly
. He’s going to sign books for me later. I’ve got every one of them.’

Anya joined Andrew. ‘She shouts at me,’ she said, her head shaking sadly. ‘As if I am child who will not listen. Sometimes, she is make me anger.’

‘I know. It’s because you’re Polish.’

‘Polish is not being deaf or daft,’ Anya said. She was picking up English very quickly. ‘How you feeling today, Andrew?’

‘Better, thank you. Not wonderful, but glad I was with him at the end. He knew he was going, because he asked me to hold his hand. Oh, I did want him to get to his century, though. But he
was tired. I think he made up his mind that the time was right. He seemed happy enough. Almost smiling, he was, like a child preparing to go on holiday.’

‘And he saw his wife as he went?’

Andrew shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe, Anya. But his last words were a greeting for Mother, and he spoke quite clearly. Hey, hey,
don’t cry. Don’t set me off. I have to talk about him at the crematorium.’ She was lovely. She looked beautiful in black, neat little figure, pretty face, beautiful smile. When
she wasn’t weeping, that was.

‘Daniel is coming today?’ She dried her eyes.

‘Yes. Dad was great-grandfather to the children. Not to worry. Daniel’s treatment, whatever it is, seems to have calmed him down considerably. We must be grateful for small mercies
and just do our best with things as they are.’

But Eva wasn’t calm. She rushed in, her face like the thunder she feared so much. ‘He’s had it away with one of Anya’s sausages. I was slicing it for topping pizzas
– kiddies and your daughters and Sofia love pizza – and I’m cutting one end while he’s eating the other. I let go, and he buggered off with it. By the way, he’s chewed
the toothbrush I use for cleaning round the taps. And he hates me.’

Andrew coughed.

Anya shook her head sadly. ‘He is naughty, Eva.’

‘He’s a dog with discerning taste,’ Andrew told his disgruntled housekeeper. ‘Just for once, can we have a day without your moaning? It’s like living with an audio
version of the
News of the World
.’

Eva left in a hurry. There were times when Doc’s face wore a look fit to freeze a woman on the spot, and it was best to make a swift exit rather than hanging about like Lot’s wife.
No, he wouldn’t sack her. She was Mary’s choice, and he still kept Mary close in his heart. And in the back garden.

‘Do not mind her,’ Anya advised. She slipped her right hand into his left.

He inhaled sharply. This small, friendly touch travelled up his arm like an electric shock.
Oh, Mary, Mary.
The little Polish woman sought only to comfort him, yet for the first time in
ten years, he wanted more than comfort. And on this day, too.
Are you here, Dad? Are you making this happen?
Did he really want this woman? Did he want any woman after all these years of
drought?

A flurry of arrivals put the brakes on Andrew’s train of thought. He switched to automatic for the greetings, and his hand forgot to tingle as soon as it made contact with ordinary
mortals. Daniel was here. Without a word to his wife, or a glance in her direction, he picked up his daughters and carried them away into the dining room. All the children were to stay here with
Sofia and a friend, as they were judged too young for funerals.

Andrew peeped round the door. His disreputable son-in-law was playing with his older daughter while cuddling the baby. It was clear that Daniel was avoiding close encounters with Helen; perhaps
this was part of his treatment. A small glimmer of hope warmed Andrew’s heart.
Never mind me, Dad. Concentrate on Daniel, Helen and these little girls. If there’s a power beyond,
try to help my daughter and her family.
What was he doing? He was supposed to have travelled beyond agnosticism towards atheism. And he didn’t like Daniel Pope. Daniel Pope was not good
enough for Helen. Yet . . . Yet there was a funeral to be got through.

Sam Grey, the stonemason who had made Mary’s dog-proof cover in the garden, stood outside the front of the house. He wore black clothes, including a frock coat and stovepipe hat. In his
right, black-gloved hand, he carried a staff much taller than he was. His brother Archie sat at the wheel of the hearse, while several black cars followed.

The coffin looked too small for Dad. Joseph Sanderson’s only son stood briefly by the hearse and studied its contents. The casket was covered in white lilies; this was a perfect copy of
Mother’s final transport.
Goodbye, Dad. Thanks for everything you were, everything I wish I could be.

Andrew and his three offspring occupied the main car. When Sam began his slow, stately march, the sombre cavalcade crept along behind him until the hearse reached the coastguard station at the
end of the road. After a short full stop during which Sam joined his brother in the hearse, the procession set off in the direction of Thornton Crematorium.

All were unprepared for what they found at their destination. His employees were there. People from Sanderson’s in Reading, Birmingham, Devizes, Liverpool, Bolton, Leeds and Durham lined
the final couple of hundred yards. Among them were customers who had become friends, some in wheelchairs, since Joe had catered for special needs.

Andrew clung to Kate and Helen. He mustn’t cry, couldn’t cry.

Six of Joe’s managers lifted their boss and carried him inside. When family mourners were seated, the rest flooded in until there was standing room only. The music played was Acker
Bilk’s ‘Stranger on the Shore’. Andrew found himself thinking that if there was a shore, Dad wouldn’t be a stranger, because Mother and Betsy would be there to greet
him.

A vicar paid lip service. He was there only to appease believers, since Joe and Andrew had always nursed reservations about the hereafter. Wasn’t one life enough without enduring
eternity?

Then it was Andrew’s turn. He looked at a sea of faces and decided to concentrate on his children. Someone was sobbing quietly, but he didn’t need to wonder who, because any sound
coming from Eva was immediately recognizable. She was hurting. She and Dad had been great friends.