A Liverpool Song (37 page)

‘So you’re lesbian?’

She bared her teeth. ‘Do you want another thump?’

‘Er . . . may I take your kind offer under consideration? Give me the box.’

She handed it to him, her heart in overdrive, because she knew what was in it, but continued to wonder what the heck he’d done to ensure that her ring would be different from anything else
in the world. Ah, here came the dramatics. He was such a ham at times like this.

‘Don’t hug me,’ he said.

‘I won’t hug you.’

‘Don’t kiss me. My nose is sore.’

‘I won’t.’

Like a man of at least seventy, he steadied his feeble person by placing a hand on his bed while lowering himself on to one knee. He opened the box with his teeth. ‘And don’t
laugh.’

‘I won’t laugh.’ Hysterical, she turned her back on him.

‘You’re laughing.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Your back’s shaking. And I am not proposing to your bum.’

Mary managed to calm down, but she couldn’t look at him.

‘On this solemn and important occasion,’ he began, ‘I must say before we go any further—’

She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door while her almost-fiancé banged the box lid closed.

Andrew stood up with no difficulty and sat on the bed. They had just made another time to remember, a gem that would shine forever like Great-gran’s jewellery. He opened the box again. The
engagement ring was an ellipse crammed with small, perfect white diamonds. A wedding ring in a second slot was shaped to cradle the ellipse. Mary was going to love this because it was not only
beautiful, it was also unusual and quirky, as was she.

Mary emerged, still dabbing at her face with a flannel. ‘Well? Get on with it. I’ve rearranged myself and altered my attitude.’

‘You have done no such thing. Here I am, mortally wounded, and you think it’s hilarious. So I’m sulking. I’m good at sulking.’

‘Ah, yet another talent. Shall I go home, then?’

‘This is your home. Pam can move across the street over Dad’s house once we’re married. Is there someone she’d share with?’

‘I suppose so. Still sulking?’

‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’ He folded his arms, cringed, and unfolded them. ‘I was hoping to bed you tonight, young lady. However, under the circumstances, I have to allow you to
tether me blind. While mixing metaphors, I might as well say we’re jumping in without testing the water, aren’t we?’

She nodded. ‘You may be no good at it.’

‘I love you, Miss Collins.’

‘And I love you, Dr Sanderson.’

He offered the box and watched her face while she became a delighted child. The jewellery, recently cleaned, was splendid without being garish. ‘This wedding ring’s made to fit round
the shape of the engagement one,’ she cried, clapping her hands. ‘No one else will have anything like this, you’re right.’

‘It’s an heirloom.
Semper fidelis
is engraved in the wedding band.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’ She stopped jigging about. ‘Oh, you missed a bit out. The marrying bit.’

‘Will you?’ he asked.

She considered the question. ‘OK. Just this once, though.’

And that was it. In the interest of ribs and nose, no hugging, no kissing, no cuddles. Sometimes, a moment became special and memorable because it was wrong, because it didn’t live up to
expectations. For many years, the picture of Mary delighting over Great-grandmother’s rings was set in a frame in Andrew’s memory. Occasionally, he would take it out, rub it clean with
his mind’s eye and relive the joy of that precious time.

So, in the space of a few hours, Andrew had been battered, fought back, sorted out a hospital department’s attitude to suspected concussion, had his ribs strapped, become engaged to a
beautiful woman and learned to play the piano in modern jazz tempo. It was one of the best nights of his life. And Mary was top of the bill. Always.

Andrew went back to Dad’s to nurse his wounds. He visited Mary and Pam every day, but grew determined to save lovemaking until the wedding night. Why? He had no bloody
idea, but he’d hung on this far and could manage the extra mile. There was stuff going on behind his back – dresses, hair ornaments, shoes – all the items he wasn’t allowed
to see because of bad luck. Bad luck? He’d had his share already with the Webster boys.

He knocked on the door of his own flat in Mother’s house, unable to walk in, since the bolts were on. It should be easy to get annoyed, yet he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.
There was something lovable about Pam, too. She was another good nurse, a pleasant girl with humour and no boyfriend, but Andrew had plans for her. Stuart was going to be best man, of course, but a
few young doctors would be attending, including one shy lad who needed a Pam to bring him out of himself.

The door opened a few inches, and a green face inserted itself in the gap. ‘You can’t come in. We’re green.’

He pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Thank God for that; I thought I was haunted. Are you my Mary or Mary’s Pam?’

‘No, I’m the ghost of quarter to twelve.’

He had to ask, couldn’t resist. ‘Why quarter to?’

‘Cos I’m not all there. I mustn’t be all there, letting Mary spread this mess all over me gob.’

Andrew felt he deserved that reply for taking the bait. ‘May I come in, Pam? It’s a bit of a bugger when a man can’t get into his own place.’

Pam shouted over her shoulder. ‘It’s him. Can he come in?’

‘Not while I’m green.’

‘She says not while—’ She suddenly found herself pushed to one side.

Andrew strode in, determined to be bold. He said a quick hello to George, then sat in his own living room on his own favourite chair after tossing aside a bridal magazine that was nothing at all
to do with him. Women, in his opinion, made far too much fuss about this sort of thing. A second green-faced woman passed through. ‘Hello, love of my life,’ he said. ‘May I have
the ring back? I didn’t know I was marrying a Martian.’

‘Shut up, you,’ was all he got in return.

He’d show her who was boss. In a few days, she would be chained to the sink or to a bed, no choice in the matter. Mary had bought new sheets, silk ones. They’d probably need to stick
together just to stay warm in those slippery, shiny things. He wondered idly why the girls had turned green, but guessed it was something to do with beauty. ‘How often do you go green?’
he shouted. ‘And can you give me adequate warning in future then I can take my pleasure elsewhere?’

She reappeared, back in the pink, but bearing weapons. She waved a loofah and a brush for scrubbing backs. ‘Where would you like me to shove these?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Think
carefully before naming an orifice.’

‘In my bathroom.’

‘Come on, then.’ She led him by the hand, locked the bathroom door and undressed him. She studied his fading bruises, said he’d live and told him to get in the bath.
‘Fine figure of a man,’ she said before beginning his ablutions. ‘Yes, very promising, Dr Sanderson. Though so far, a promise is the best I’ve been given. No action
whatsoever.’

He hadn’t been bathed by a woman since childhood. ‘I believe I couldn’t live without you, Mary.’

‘You could. You might have to one day.’

He shivered. Did someone just walk on his grave? Or hers?
Dear God, let it be mine
. He stood and allowed her to dry him. She was meticulous but gentle, so tender, so loving.
‘I’m a lucky man,’ he whispered.

‘From my point of view, I’m the fortunate one,’ she replied. ‘You’re just about perfect except for the bruises. They’ve nearly gone, but I was responsible for
those.’

‘No, you weren’t. Life at sea seems to change some people, though they must have allowed the change to happen. Where’s Pam?’

‘In her room. I told her to go away. Still want to wait till Saturday, then?’

‘No. But I shall. It will be special.’

‘Dr Romantic. I’ll make a drink, then you can go back to Joe’s.’

‘Oh no. I’m sleeping with you. Dad’s OK. I’ll see you in bed.’

It wasn’t easy this time. Compromises were reached, possibilities explored, while sighs and giggles abounded. ‘We are the forever children,’ he told her. ‘We go hand in
hand. I forget the name of the poet.’

‘Get your toenails cut,’ she ordered.

‘No, that wasn’t his name. I think it was Wilfred Owen.’

‘Will we be happy, Drew?’

‘We have to be. Go to sleep.’

Morning brought a different story altogether. Mary didn’t want to wait. As far as she was concerned, people should have a few trial runs before embarking on the marathon named marriage.
Practical as ever, she took charge. ‘Don’t worry about this,’ she told him sweetly when he opened an eye. ‘I won’t hurt you. Just lie back, close your eyes and think
of England.’

The words ‘role’ and ‘reversal’ shot through his sleepy brain. It was already too late; she was taking advantage of him, and she was doing a fair job. Fair became good,
good became excellent, excellent became amazing. This small, naked woman was a force he would never tame. Not once did she lose eye contact with him. Oh yes, she meant what she was doing, all
right.

‘There,’ she said when the deed was done. ‘I can cross that off my “to do” list. Your mother’s icing the cake, Pam’s going to see the florist and Stuart
will mind my wedding ring, the sex was OK—’ She burst out laughing. ‘That was lovely, baby.’

‘Yes, it was,’ he agreed. ‘But I thought you were a lady.’

The laughter stopped and became a frown. ‘No. I’m a woman. I was born in a cruddy little flat over a chandlery shop on Scottie Road. I have three brothers and two sisters, and nobody
knows where they are, because they buggered off down south when I was young. My mam and dad were tired, so when they won the pools I sent them off to live somewhere a bit warmer. The others
don’t know about the win, or they’d have hung around like bad smells till they got their hands on that bit of money. We never had much, Mam, Dad and I, but they looked after me, Drew.
They’re so proud of their little girl going in for nursing. But the word “lady” actually annoys me. I’m a woman. A lady’s a boring bugger in a hat.’

‘You certainly are a woman. Shall we try for an encore?’

‘Yes, please. But get those bloody toenails cut before Saturday.’ She stood up and pulled on a robe. ‘Tea and toast first, have to keep your strength up. Where are your
clippers?’

‘Top drawer.’

‘I’ll cut them myself in a minute. I don’t fancy scratches on my legs.’

Andrew lay with hands clasped behind his head and stared at the ceiling. She was incredible. He’d had sex before, but he’d never made love. Love made the difference, then, just as
he’d expected. Did he regret what had happened this morning? No. She had wanted closeness, so she had instigated it. One of the most lovable qualities in Mary was honesty; another was her
refusal to be shy, and she didn’t mind taking the lead. He looked forward to living under her dictatorship. As for her parents, they were right to be proud of her.

She came back with toast, tea, honey and marmalade. ‘Eat,’ she ordered. ‘Why are you staring at me?’

He smiled. ‘I suspected that you were wonderful, and I do love to be right. Ouch! That’s no way to treat the
Daily Telegraph
, or my head.’

They ate, did his pedicure, made love, washed, dressed, and went to work. It was a brilliant day. Mary discovered that she’d come out top in the exams and that she was to receive an award,
a medal of some kind left by a long-dead hospital matron. Andrew was approached by Mr Compton-Gore, who was just about the best orthopaedic surgeon for many a mile. At last, he was on the team and
on his way to making George’s existence more meaningful. Bones. He was going to be a mender, a reshaper, a carpenter.

Andrew fell in love immediately with his precious girl’s parents. The first thing they asked of him was a run to Scotland Road where they clung together while staring at
their old shop. They had raised six children here and, because of the business, they’d been too worn out to keep track of the five older ones. Mary, their little afterthought, was the only
one who had turned out to be decent. ‘We had more time for her, you see,’ they said, speaking in turn like a well-rehearsed act. ‘We got help in the shop. Mary was one on her own,
always bright and clever, though she was a little monkey when she had a cob on. We just feel we should have made time for the rest of the kids when they were young.’

‘It’s not easy,’ Andrew said.

‘No,’ they chimed together.

‘You did your best,’ Andrew told them. ‘With six stomachs to fill, you had to work long hours.’ But he could tell that Enid and Bert Collins would always blame
themselves, and that saddened him.

He left them there to explore the old neighbourhood, because he wanted to get to a lecture. There was more planning going on. Groups of colleagues stopped talking whenever he was within earshot,
so he knew that a plot was being concocted. There was to be no stag night, as half were working or on call, and they were probably targeting the wedding day, when most would be available.
Fortunately, the bride had a sense of humour, as did her bridesmaid, though Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if Pam clouted a few heads.

He found out no more. Even Tim, often called Timid, was giving away little or nothing. ‘I want you to look after Pam, Mary’s bridesmaid. She recently separated from her boyfriend, so
she’ll value your company.’

Tim blushed.

Andrew hoped the poor lad wouldn’t go in for obs and gynae, as he would probably be permanently pink if he did. Pam was exactly what Timid needed, though she might just frighten him to
death long before any relationship got the chance to develop. Oh well, never mind. Andrew was a bit oversized to play Cupid anyway.

This was his last night as a free man. He and Stuart were to stay at Dad’s, while Mary, Mary’s parents, Andrew’s grandparents and Pam were across the road at Mother’s. It
gave the two younger men the chance to catch up, as Andrew was too busy in hospitals to visit Bolton, while Stuart led the life of a typical writer, shut away for most of the time, buried in his
work, unaware of life outside his narrow sphere. ‘So, you stood still long enough for a woman to catch you, eh?’