The Liverpool Trilogy (17 page)

He smiled at her, leaned against the door frame and watched age-old enemies eating together. Laws were made to be broken. Why could he not alter his own stupid and meaningless manifesto? Lucy would make someone an ideal companion, a beautiful wife and, he suspected, a willing and interesting lover. What was the matter with him? If he didn’t get a move on, someone would snap her up. Heat rushed to his face. He’d been thinking of her as some sort of bargain in the basement of a department store.

The front door crashed inward. ‘Happy birthday, Mums,’ chorused two voices. Paul and Mike drew to an abrupt halt when they saw David. ‘Sorry,’ said Paul. ‘We forgot about you. You’re the man who’s going to make use of the old homestead. Yes? I’m Paul, he’s Mike, and this is John Lennon.’ He held up a brown paper package. ‘We got him in Liverpool.’ He stared at David. ‘You look a bit like Lennon.’

Lucy entered from the kitchen, a dog and a cat hot on her heels. ‘This is Samson,’ she told her boys. ‘He works with David – Dr Vincent – helping to care for sick children. I thought you were going clubbing? And my birthday was weeks ago.’

Mike explained that they came home early because someone might have pinched John Lennon had they stayed out late. ‘We had a bit of trouble finding him, and we weren’t letting him go,’ Mike explained.

She opened the package, her eyes riveted to the picture. ‘All his songs,’ she said quietly, as if she were speaking in church. ‘His face – even his spectacles – made from words.’

Paul spoke to David. ‘According to Mums’s friend Glenys, she’s been in mourning ever since he died, which was before any of us were born. Wore out two copies of “Imagine” when we were small, she did. Then we were forced to listen to
Shaved Fish
for months on end.’

‘Shut up,’ Lucy ordered. ‘John was special. And thank you for this lovely, wonderful present. It’s going in the kitchen, because I always felt he’d be happiest in a kitchen. At home, you see.’ She kissed the glass that sheltered the print. ‘You’ll be OK with me, kid. You should never have gone to New York – I would have looked after you.’

The three men listened while she continued to talk to a dead man. Mike squatted down and stroked the dog. ‘You’re a grand fellow,’ he said. ‘She’ll get no sense out of John Lennon, will she?’

David sat and watched a happy family. The twins looked like their mother, though they were by no means feminine. They seemed to have inherited her nature, too. ‘My dog and your cat just had supper together.’

‘Smokey likes dogs,’ Mike said. ‘I wish we could keep this one. He has a lovely coat.’

‘Fish three times a week,’ David advised. ‘If you ever get a black Lab, remember the fish.’

‘As long as it’s not shaved,’ said Paul. ‘We all had our fill of that. Anyway, Mums,’ he called into the kitchen, ‘we’re off next door for supper. See you later.’ They left.

David stood again in the kitchen doorway. She was hanging her picture next to a huge Welsh dresser, but she couldn’t quite reach the nail. He came up behind her, took the item and, with his arms enclosing her, placed John Lennon where he belonged. ‘There. Is he straight enough for you?’

‘He was always straight,’ she answered. ‘When he said the Beatles were more famous than Jesus, he was voicing his truth. Not many people spoke about Jesus, while everyone knew the four of them.’

David continued to hold her.

‘Remember King Lear? What a fool he was? It was his jester, the court entertainer, the fool, who had all the sense. John Lennon was like that. He acted the idiot and spoke the truth. That’s why I like him. Oh, and his music was a bit good, too.’ She turned and faced the man in whose gentle hold she stood. ‘Isn’t this a bit dangerous, David?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then slow down. We have the rest of our lives to inject a little steel into your vertebrae.’ She laughed softly. ‘You’ll be safe enough tonight, because my sons will be here. But you should be forewarned – I think you’re gorgeous, little David Vincent.’ She ducked under his arm and sauntered away. It was going to take time, but Dr David Vincent was a marked man.

He lay in a bed in her house, Samson on a blanket in a cardboard box on the floor by his side. The room was spectacular, black and white with an occasional splash of red. She had style, and was clearly unafraid when it came to decoration. Metallic wallpaper stretched the breadth of the room behind his bed. Compared to his bedroom at home, this was pure, hotel luxury.

He thought about the woman downstairs. Like any other man who desired a particular woman, he wanted to breathe her in, taste her, touch her – all the ordinary things that happened daily to guarantee the future of various species. But he indulged himself, allowed himself to be different. ‘Too bloody precious to be normal, David,’ he whispered. ‘Too bloody precious to step on unknown soil. You’re a coward.’

It was a warm night, so David had settled on top of the covers, just a couple of throws over his body. She was downstairs, and sleep seemed to be a million miles beyond his reach. ‘I’m not right in the head,’ he told the dog. He’d undergone bereavement counselling, psychotherapy, acupressure and hypnosis. Nothing worked. That wasn’t true, because work worked, but it was a distraction, something that engrossed him to the point where he didn’t have time to think about his pathetic self. She made him think. By God, she presented a challenge.

Lucy had been talking about a new cleaner who was starting tomorrow. She was half of a pair, and the other half was attached to rotten wisdom teeth that needed surgical removal. ‘When did I stop cleaning?’ he asked.

Samson delivered a quiet, polite woof before going back to sleep.

Mrs Moss had been the cleaner – Anne’s cleaner. He’d let her go when he’d buggered off to India, and the house had scarcely been touched since then. He was a disgrace to his colleagues. Although people in the medical profession had a reputation for living in dirt, he didn’t know anyone who existed as carelessly as he did. It had to stop. No. It had to start. Life must begin again, because he was on the verge of thinking that he might just—

The front door slammed. It wasn’t the twins, because they’d been back for an hour or more and were asleep in an area referred to as ‘the gods’, because it was built into the roof at the rear of the house. David sat up and listened. He heard movement, then two female voices. One was raised until the words stopped and the crying began. He pulled on a towelling robe he’d discovered in the bathroom. It made him hot, but that couldn’t be helped. ‘Stay,’ he said to Samson. ‘I won’t be long.’

He crept downstairs and listened guiltily at the door, which was too thick to allow sound to pass clearly through its panels. After a few moments, he knocked and entered. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I heard a noise and thought I’d better . . . Is this Lizzie?’

Lucy nodded and motioned him to sit in an armchair. ‘What’s the matter?’ he mouthed.

Liz dragged herself out of her mother’s arms. ‘Sorry,’ she sobbed.

‘Don’t apologize on my account,’ he said. ‘I was having difficulty sleeping among all this splendour. Brilliant wallpaper,’ he told Lucy. ‘Bold and brave. It works. Now, why is this beautiful girl crying?’

Liz, slightly calmer, focused on the stranger. ‘Dr Vincent? Glad to meet you, though I’d have preferred to be in a better state. I think I’ve run away. I’m supposed to be in Manchester.’

‘I know I’ve run away,’ Lucy said.

‘I used a car to get here.’ David smiled at the weeping girl. ‘I gave up running when I stopped playing cricket.’

‘He was rubbish at cricket, anyway.’ Lucy stood up and walked into the kitchen. She knew that David would make her daughter feel better; she remembered the kindness he had displayed in childhood.

Behind her, David addressed her daughter gently. ‘Is this about your dad, Lizzie? Because if it is, that’s perfectly reasonable. You say you’ve run away?’

She nodded, too upset for speech.

‘Sometimes, life’s too hard to face.’

She blurted it all out to this stranger. The words were crippled by emotion, but she managed to make herself understood. She had to be a trouper, had to go on stage tomorrow no matter what. Except that it was already tomorrow, and she was going to be exhausted. If she phoned the hospital at one and learned that her father was dead, she would be unable to perform, and that would be unprofessional. Even if he didn’t die, he’d be on the edge, fastened down in some high dependency unit – so was she really an actor? The show had to go on, no matter what.

David listened intently to every word. ‘Your mother has a cleaner starting tomorrow, I believe. To be honest, I find the prospect of this particular woman terrifying, but Louisa will need to be on hand. I’ll go with you to Manchester. I’ll be there in whatever you call the wings when you’re out in the open. You don’t know me, but I knew your mother thirty-five years ago.’

Lucy entered with mugs of hot chocolate on a tray. ‘Carol Makin can manage without me, David. In fact, if I stayed, she’d be organizing me as if I were an untidy wardrobe. We’ll both come, Lizzie. I’ll make the phone call, and we’ll talk about it after the play.’

Liz shook her head. ‘No. I have to know right away. Stuff happens all the time to people in the theatre, but they carry on. Because a real performer can march ahead, and—’

‘And you’re still a student.’

‘The will to continue no matter what – that sort of thing isn’t learned, Mother. It’s either in you or it isn’t. It’s all part of being an actor. An actor wouldn’t need his mother tonight, because he’d be completely wrapped up in tomorrow. I’m too engrossed in my selfishness. It’s not even the idea of his death that’s frightening me – it’s my own pathetic reaction to it. I shouldn’t be so worried about me, should I?’

‘And a doctor whose wife has just died shouldn’t be coming over all hare krishna on top of a mountain in India while his son develops leukaemia,’ David said.

This statement put a stop to Liz’s tears. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We all have failings. The secret is to learn from them. Hare krishna might have helped me reach a purer state of inner consciousness, but it did nothing for my boy. Might he have been saved? I’ll never know. So. Did you drive here after a panic attack?’

Liz mopped her eyes with a tissue. ‘I visited my dad. I’ve no illusions about him, but he’s still my father, part of my family. Even when Mother divorces him, he’ll be a huge portion of my history. I don’t want to lose him. He’s shrunk in the past few weeks. He looked ancient. He’s not fifty yet, but he looks about eighty.’

It took both of them the better part of an hour to calm Liz to the point where she fell asleep on a sofa. Lucy pulled a car rug over her child, then left the room with David. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And I mean that. I’m glad you were there. She needed me for the love, you for the sense. Will you drive tomorrow? I’m a bit jittery, too.’

‘Of course I’ll drive. I’ll need to make a couple of calls to get my patients diverted to other doctors, but it’s all doable.’

She put her arms round his shoulders. ‘You’re a good man, David Vincent. I’m not ready for you yet, but I promise you that when I am I’ll show no mercy. You’re lovely, you are. I managed you when you were a child, and I can manage you now.’

‘I would question that,’ he said before attempting a change of subject. ‘Doesn’t she look like Diane? Lizzie, I mean.’

‘Yes. I think my sister came back to me in my youngest child. She’s talented, lively and afraid. Whereas you are talented and afraid without the lively bit.’

‘And you’re going to be my lively bit?’

She smiled. ‘I’ll poke a stick through the bars of your cage and see what happens.’

‘And if I bite?’

‘You’d better.’ She abandoned him and returned to the main job. She was still a mother, and David would keep.

*

Sleep eluded Alan. They’d given him something, but it wasn’t going to work. Perhaps the dose was low, as he was to be anaesthetized in the morning. It was two o’clock. In a few hours, he would be a piece of meat on a slab with that bloody Welsh butcher standing over him. Meat. ‘Will I ever taste steak again, will I ever have another cup of tea?’

Starvation was now total, something to do with the operation. Easterly Grange had always skimped on food, supposedly for his own good, but this was ridiculous. He had no appetite, and he reckoned that was because they had shrunk his stomach to the size of a walnut. He wasn’t afraid, he told himself repeatedly. But he was lying, and he knew he was lying. Death was not a pleasant prospect, but neither was life if he could never have another drink, a smoke, or a decent plate of northern fare.

The chap next door was moaning again. Night after night he did this, but the staff had been unable to move him. Alan’s room was no longer locked, because he was supposedly through withdrawal, and this was one of his small rewards. He walked into the corridor and listened, an ear against the door behind which the wailing man was parked. Very quietly, he turned the knob and let himself into the room.

A woman sat next to the bed. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘He’s being shifted upstairs tomorrow, because the rest of you need some peace. You can come in. He won’t know you’re here. Sometimes, he doesn’t know I’m here.’

Alan closed the door. ‘What’s up with him?’ he asked.

‘Brain tumour,’ the woman whispered. ‘They did what they could, but there’s damage and that’s why we’ve had all the crying. He went a bit childlike, and now . . . What about you?’

‘Heart op, nine o’clock. I can’t sleep. Nothing to do with your husband – I think I’ve got used to him, and I have a thing that plays music through headphones. It’s not him. I’m nervous.’

‘You must be. I’m Trish, by the way.’

‘Alan.’

They sat and stared at the frail, sick man in the bed. He looked a lot older than his wife, Alan thought. Just a shell, he was curled and twisted as if left out in the weather for months on end, no shelter, no care. ‘How long’s he been like this, Trish?’

‘Months. It started with headaches and a bit of double vision, some dizziness – could have been anything, but it wasn’t anything, it was something, something big. They had a go – took away about eighty per cent of it, but they damaged some of the good cells as well. We managed. Till it kicked off again for its second bloody half. Too late for chemo. So we just sit and wait. I sit and wait, that is. Howie lies there moaning while I try to keep the business going.’