Authors: Ruth Hamilton
A Liverpool Song
This work is for two very important people for whom I hold great respect, though I seldom express it.
Diane Pearson, who discovered me (probably while digging for Roman ruins) and taught me how to edit in the good, old-fashioned way. Her input was beyond value.
Wayne Brookes of Pan Macmillan is the one who opened my wings and encouraged me to fly. I am privileged to be on the list of this multi-talented, caring and hilarious man.
Without these good friends and their publishing houses, I’d be living on disability allowance. I send both my love and boundless gratitude.
One
A ragged formation of swallows meandered in a very loose, ill-regimented fashion across the sky. Drifting from U to V to W, they looked rather like a company of soldiers who
had taken the command ‘at ease’ rather too literally. Perhaps they’d forgotten their alphabet? Or was this yet another symptom of a world gone mad?
Andrew Sanderson continued to stare upward and decided that the birds were in two minds; climate change possibly meant that they could go or stay with impunity. ‘Very much like my own
situation,’ he told the dashboard. ‘And I went. I chose to go because the atmosphere no longer suited me. In fact, it suits very few these days.’ He was supposed to feel free; he
felt numb.
According to militants, the NHS was going to the dogs. Well, it could get there without any further help or argument from him. There was talk of young doctors working to rule, of mass exodus
abroad, even of walkouts. Whatever was needed in order to crease the stuffed shirts in Westminster must be contrived by fitter, abler men. Andrew’s time was over.
But would he understand a life without work? He removed the key from the ignition and dropped it in a pocket. ‘I’ve got nothing to do, nowhere to go, won’t someone listen to my
tale of woe?’ he sang in a steady baritone. ‘Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself for goodness’ sake, Sanderson. You couldn’t take the heat, so you walked out of the kitchen.
Walk out of the kitchen, and you get no custard with your pudding. In fact, you probably don’t even get the pudding, and to hell with cheese and biscuits.’
Perhaps this was the end; perhaps he would follow a path already worn flat by the passage of many who had retired, only to die within months. Did he care, did it matter? It had to matter, had to
be made to matter, because there needed to be a pattern. Without a template, what remained of life could well become a total void. What might Mary have said? Oh, he knew the answer to that one,
right enough. His career had taken his mind off the grief, and she would not have approved of the grieving. Her voice echoed in the chambers of his mind. ‘
Straighten your face, Sanderson;
it takes few muscles to smile, and many to frown. You’ll get wrinkled. I don’t want a wrinkled husband.
’
The swallows continued to hang about, regrouping, shifting round on a skittish wind that had suddenly leapt off the Mersey. Should the half-hearted battle for leadership heat up, stragglers at
the back would fail and fall. Or they might be pushed, murdered by fellows determined to press on. For a migrating bird, retirement meant death. For Andrew Sanderson, orthopaedic surgeon, it meant
a gold watch, a top-of-the-range laptop computer, an OBE and uncertainty. He stared hard at the building in front of him. This house had always been big, but today it looked enormous. ‘Andrew
Sanderson, this is your life. So bloody well get on with it.’ Without Mary, Rosewood was not a home. It was just a place where he slept and ate, where he pretended to be alive.
Twelve red roses lay on the passenger seat. At this time of year, the long-stemmed began to cost an arm and a leg . . . An arm and a leg. How many limbs had he amputated in the past thirty-odd
years? The children had always been the worst, yet how well most adjusted to prosthetics. Adults, on the other hand . . .
On the other hand. That poor man a few years ago, both hands severed by unguarded machinery. Andrew and a multi-disciplinary team had saved what they could, and a big toe now imitated a thumb,
but adjustment? Not easy, never easy. Now came his turn to reshape his life, to learn to walk without the crutch provided by a career. Oh, there was ample money, so that wasn’t the problem.
Always, he’d had a timetable, a reason to go on. But the clocks wouldn’t stop, and the hours they marked had to be filled somehow.
The powers had begged him to reconsider, but he’d had enough. It was as simple as that. Qualified medical and care staff were heavily outnumbered by pen-pushers – well,
keyboard-clickers – while cleaning contractors had no idea when it came to thoroughness. He was well rid of all that palaver. Every week, every day, a fight for theatre space, a battle
against new and stronger bacteria, germs carried home by visitors and by discharged patients to spread their malice on public transport, in houses, churches, shops. It had all become
infuriating.
Elective surgeries put back and back while emergencies got rushed through. It simply didn’t make sense any more. Too few doctors, too few nurses, too many administrators. Too few
hospitals, theatres, theatre staff. Yes, it was as well to be away from all that. Spreadsheets, pounds and pence mattered these days; patients were just units, items on a rolling belt like those
used in Sainsbury’s. Five pounds of spuds, click, a dozen eggs, free range, click, a greenstick fracture, click . . .
Yet the future yawned before him, and he had no idea what to do with it. Crown green bowling, fishing, card games in the pub? Should he take up clay pigeon shooting, deer stalking, ballroom
dancing? No, not his scene. His scene? Did he have one? There was surgery, there was music, there was furniture. He owned an antiquated Silver Ghost and another couple of vintage cars with which he
tinkered from time to time. Voluntary labour was not his idea of fulfilment. There was work, there were hobbies, and between work and hobby stretched a chasm the size of the Grand Canyon.
Dad’s voice echoed down the years. ‘
You’ll be a gradely carpenter, son. Aye, you will that. You’ve got my hands.
’ Oh yes. At twelve years of age and
without the usual guidance of his father, Andrew had built a bookcase. After that first item, he had never looked back. The only difference was that Joseph Sanderson, now ninety-three and in a
nursing home, had worked with wood. His son had specialized eventually in the treatment of human bone, and the tools had been remarkably similar.
The two areas of labour had melded one with the other after Joseph’s hip replacement, and the worn bone now formed the handle of a walking stick. That bizarre item meant a great deal for
both men, as it represented two lengthy and successful careers. Andrew smiled, remembering his truculent father under the influence of a drug meant to calm him before theatre. ‘I want me bone
back,’ he had yelled at a poor nurse. ‘It’s mine.’ Nick-nack, paddy-whack, give a dog a bone, that old man came rolling home. Dad was a character, a lovable rogue who, like
fine wine, had improved with age.
‘Have I done the right thing?’ Andrew asked himself now. There was his other qualification, of course. Proficiency at the piano had gained him many years ago an offer of a place at
the Royal School of Music, and although he had never trained as a teacher, he could now take individual pupils. Everyone knew him from recitals in Liverpool, so he was respected. Music, then? Or
music and classic cars?
Oh, well. Whatever, as the kids said these days. He was sixty, he was slower, he was no longer the best in his field. But one thing was certain – he would not be leaving Liverpool. This
city had served him well, while he, in his turn, had given his best years to the hospitals in which he had worked. Liverpool had also introduced him to Mary, and Mary would stay in this place
forever.
Why did you take her, God? Why not some damned fool instead, someone with no contribution to make? When I think of all she did, all she might have done. Don’t think. Stop
thinking . . .
He picked up the bouquet and opened the car door. Oh no. Madam Bossy was still here, and she’d seen him. There she stood at the drawing-room window, arms akimbo, yellow duster in one hand,
face like a bad knee. She’d probably watched him talking and singing to himself. The urge to drive away was strong, but it was too late. While the woman at the window was his employee, he
often felt that the upper hand would always be hers.
Eva Dawson, housekeeper, cook, cleaner and general dogsbody in the house known as Rosewood, shook her head in despair. Here he came, the bloody lunatic. A patient dies of a deep vein something
or other that shifts during surgery, and in his own mind it’s this fellow’s fault. The anaesthetist, who might have kept a closer eye on things, was carrying on regardless, but soft lad
here had thrown a strop and handed in his notice. He was dafter than three Siamese cats trapped in a pillowcase. Brains? If this man was clever, God blessed those at the back who played with
Plasticine, because brains seemed to restrict other areas of growth. When it came to living life to the full, Andrew Sanderson had no idea.
He entered the drawing room. ‘Don’t start, Eva, please,’ he said by way of greeting. This was the last day of life as both had known it. Fortunately, the house was large, but
was anywhere big enough to contain the pair of them? They were both stubborn, both direct when prodded towards argument. And they had both loved Mary.
‘Me?’ Her eyes widened. ‘I never said a bleeding word, did I? Look at the cut of you, though. Nice-looking feller, still in his prime, all that bloody learning and experience,
so you go and retire at sixty. Years of wear you’ve got left in them hands. I mean, if you’d been a shopkeeper or something else ordinary, I might understand it, but your training cost
quids. A waste, that’s what it is.’
‘Eva, they’ve had their money’s worth, plus a pound or two of flesh—’
‘Let me have my say for once.’
For once? She’d been known to kick off at lunch time, blow the whistle for tea, then pick up the second half from there. Left to her own devices, she added on injury time plus extra
minutes on top of that, no penalties allowed. ‘It’s been an emotional day,’ he told her. She would hand him a red card with an accompanying lecture. A small woman, she had a
personality that filled a room and even spilled over into the rest of the house. She hailed from Seaforth, and she owned a husband, several offspring, a marked Scouse accent and very definite
opinions on a plethora of subjects. But she was Mary’s choice, so . . .
In truth, she didn’t know where to start, as she had already given him the benefit of her wisdom on several occasions. The man was gorgeous. She studied him, not for the first time, and
wondered whether he ever looked in a mirror properly. Grey at the temples seemed to emphasize his good looks, while excellent bone structure and a lack of loosening flesh made him a very desirable
property. ‘I could advertise you, I suppose,’ she said. ‘One previous owner, good bodywork, automatic transmission on a good day, engine in fair condition—’
‘I’ve been round the clock a few times,’ he told her. ‘More mileage on me than on my 1939 MG. In fact, I’ve worn out three gearboxes and several handbrakes.
I’m in no mood for lectures. I’ve heard enough of those from the young and restless at work.’
‘You and your cars,’ she exclaimed. ‘I suppose you’ll be walking oil and sawdust through, so I’ll charge extra. You’ll be under me feet, and God help my
parquet. I’m already a slave to it without your muck.’
The aforementioned God chose this moment to deliver a flash rainstorm with accompanying
son et lumière
. Thunder rumbled, while lightning added intermittent brightness to the
drama. Andrew, unimpressed by weather, watched with interest as a terrified Eva curled into an armchair. At least she had shut up. Silently, he thanked Thor, god of thunder.
