A Liverpool Song (11 page)

‘My will. I’ll provide. And you don’t think I’m daft enough to face him by myself, do you? Just remember, every man has a price. Now, if he agrees in front of my
solicitor to treat the child as his own, will you come back to him?’

Betsy shivered. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, think on it. Write to Elsie, make sure of the lie of the land. And let me know what you want to do.’

After she had left, Joe sat with his head in his hands, elbows on the table, fear in his heart. He’d needed somebody. Emily didn’t like sex. She daren’t risk another pregnancy,
or it would kill her. Even though she was in her early forties, she might still conceive. So he’d lowered his standards and hit rock bottom with poor Betsy. She was seldom just Betsy in his
thoughts; the adjective ‘poor’ was usually attached to her.

He remembered walking into the Starkie that night. She cleaned the saloon bar and the snug, and she’d left her purse behind earlier in the day, so she’d returned to collect it. He
bought her a couple of drinks, and she was friendly enough, so he’d used her as a receptacle, and that wasn’t nice. He wasn’t nice. Emily knew. She never said anything, but
she’d moved into the spare room and . . .

And life was a bloody mess. He would talk to Marty Liptrott only if Betsy wanted to come back. There had to be a way of persuading the great lummox that a child could be a good thing, but did
Marty know that his wife was spreading the news about his impotence? She’d told her sister, but her sister was family. Oh yes. What a bloody mess this was.

The move was relatively painless. From the very beginning, Emily was happy because of a knock at the door. Surrounded by boxes and upended furniture, she climbed over all
obstacles to reach her goal. And there, at the front of her new home, she met Thora Caldwell.

Thora was not a mere bundle of cellular mischief; she was a force of nature. As thin as a rake and with rusty-red hair, she breezed through life at the speed of sound. She refused to be held
back by her drunken, feckless husband and four children and took an interest in everything and everyone, seldom out of place, not swayed by a different accent, better clothes, a superior
three-piece suite. Thora simply belonged just about anywhere.

Her greeting was interesting. ‘Hiya. I’m Thora Caldwell from next door. I’ve got four lads, three of them training to be hooligans, a useless husband, varicose veins, a job as
an orderly down the hospital, and I could murder a cuppa. Who are you, then?’

‘Emily Sanderson.’

Thora clapped her hands. ‘See? I were right,’ she said to nobody at all. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Your husband. Bespokened cupboards and stuff. Matron thought she were
the dog’s bollocks when she got a bespokened table and chairs. They say if you go round her house, first time, like, she makes you get down under the bloody table to look at Joseph Sanderson
wrote in indelible ink on the bottom. See, let’s make a path.’ As she spoke, she moved boxes, righted a few chairs and marched into the kitchen.

‘The kettle’s on,’ Emily managed to squeeze into the diatribe.

‘It’s all inlaid, though,’ Thora continued. ‘And hoctagonal. That means it’s got eight sides and eight chairs. Very clever man, your husband.’

‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

‘No suppose about it, love. Mine can’t be bothered to scratch his arse most days. I found him fast asleep on the lav the other week, with his head resting on the sink. He was
supposed to be building a wall up Tonge Moor, so I booted him out, and he never came home for three days. Have you got some biscuits? Anyway, he’s pulled himself together a bit, but he
can’t leave the booze alone. We’ve rent to pay, food to buy, and them lads of mine go through shoes faster than a hot knife through butter. Can I have a bourbon? I like
bourbons.’

Emily felt breathless by proxy, because the woman scarcely stopped to take in oxygen. ‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked while Thora dipped her bourbon into her cup and bit into
it.

Thora swallowed. ‘About six months. I told him. I said I wanted a decent street this time, not a midnight flit address. The number of times we’ve cleared off in the dark cos he
wouldn’t pay the rent. So I got a job and I pay the rent here, but he’s supposed to tip up for the rest. Any road, I think I’ve found a way round it.’

‘Really?’

The red-haired intruder nodded. ‘I get my youngest lads in their worst clothes, drag them round to where Harry’s working, and show him up. He gets a sub from the boss, I take it off
him, and Bob’s your uncle.’

Emily started to chuckle quietly. She’d been on nodding terms with several householders on Crompton Way, but this woman was magical. Comparing her to neighbours across town was like
weighing a hurricane against a light breeze. If this was a downmarket move, it was suiting Emily already.

‘Where’s your lot, then?’ Thora demanded to know.

‘Clearing up on Crompton Way.’

For a split second, the new neighbour was stunned. ‘You’ve left Crompton Way for here? Whose idea was that?’

‘My husband’s.’

Thora shook her head in disbelief. ‘Ever thought about killing him?’

‘So far? No.’

Both women burst into the special laughter that is the property of women alone, the helpless, boneless hysteria that reduces its emptying containers to heaps on the floor. Never in all her days
had Emily felt so overpowered, yet so free. From her new position in life, she looked up and saw her husband’s signature under a chair, and this caused her to shriek all over again. Her knees
hurt, but it didn’t matter.

Thora crawled across and joined her new neighbour. With tears streaming down her uncomely face, she pointed to Joe’s name. ‘I bet . . . oh God, this is painful . . . I bet . . . I
bet he thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks and all, eh?’

Emily managed a nod.

‘But you’ve never felt like—’

‘No. But if I did . . .’ Emily failed again and descended into the shape of a comma.

‘If you did?’

‘Food. Poison in food.’

‘Oh, no. I want to see blood,’ Thora said. ‘After what mine’s put me through, I’d torture him and finish him off with a guillotine.’

‘Do you have a guillotine?’

‘No. How much are they?’

‘You’d have to ask in France.’

‘I’m not going there. It’s full of bloody foreigners.’

When Joe and Andrew finally reached the house, they found a dignified wife and mother on the floor with a woman whose tiny frame was just a whisker away from emaciation. Andrew couldn’t
help himself. Seeing his mother out of control was brilliant. Her companion had removed her spectacles, which were, in her words, ‘covered in compensation’, and one of her eyes had
floated inward as if trying to keep company with a sharp, freckled nose. Andrew burst out laughing.

This event affected the women, who were now weeping with mirth.

Whatever was in this room was a communicable disease, and Joe found himself grinning along with the rest. Worry about poor Betsy had clouded his mind for quite some time, so he scarcely knew how
he was managing to laugh, but it felt good.

‘Why did you move here?’ Thora asked the condemned man. No, Emily mustn’t poison him – he made gradely furniture.

‘Most of my customers are nearby,’ he replied, trying to squash a new burst of laughter. ‘And Andrew’s school’s here, as well as Emily’s place of
work.’

‘Then there’s the kitchen.’ Emily wiped her eyes. ‘Bigger than the one we had on Crompton Way. Joseph’s going to update it and make it into a guinea pig.’

‘Clever.’ Thora replaced her glasses. ‘Do you pull rabbits from hats as well?’ she asked Joe. ‘It’s all right, I know what she means by guinea pig.’ She
struggled to her feet. ‘I’d best go and start peeling,’ she said. ‘The trouble with having a half-Irish husband is he eats about three pounds of spuds a day. And the lads
are catching him up. Cheerio.’ She was gone.

Joe looked at his wife. ‘Where did she spring from?’

‘Next door. Life may become rather noisy, because she has four sons and a husband who isn’t always up to scratch.’

‘These walls are thick,’ he informed her.

‘So is her husband.’

Joe wasn’t used to humour from his wife; he was also having trouble adjusting to the idea of her working. ‘When do you start at the infirmary?’ he asked.

‘A week on Monday. The house should be straight by then, unless you decide to start hacking at the kitchen.’

He wouldn’t be hacking at anything; he’d be taking poor Betsy to St Helens. Probably. ‘Right, let’s get a shift on. Andrew, boxes marked upstairs, take upstairs. Emily,
you do everything for the kitchen.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘I’m directing traffic. Have you seen my bobby’s helmet?’

She smiled at him. For Joe, that smile was a gold medal.

Joe drove poor Betsy to St Helens and handed her over to Elsie. Very little was said. Elsie knew nothing about the pregnancy, and Marty Liptrott was also left in the dark.
After dropping off the mother-to-be at the Eagle and Child, Joe began the drive home. He was hovering on the brink of danger, and he was painfully aware of that fact.

Betsy had told her sister that Marty had gone violent. Joe, having been the recipient of one beating, knew that on this occasion Betsy was telling no lies. So. When would the second beating take
place? Joseph Sanderson Ltd couldn’t keep a low profile, as his products were advertised all over the town. And his name might well become mud if his dalliance with Marty’s wife should
be thrust into the public domain. Oh, God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Dread filled his chest, and he began to sweat.

He parked the car, took out a handkerchief and mopped his suddenly fevered brow. Options. Were there any? Would Liptrott assume that Joe was at the back of Betsy’s disappearance? How on
earth could the great lump of a man be persuaded otherwise, especially since otherwise would be an outright fib? Would he search for and find Elsie, would he find out about the pregnancy, how would
he react if he did? Joe’s chest felt tight. He wasn’t himself at all.

Suddenly, he was home. For as long as he lived – which was to be some considerable time – he would never remember the journey from St Helens to Bolton. As soon as he entered the
hallway, he hit the floor. Twenty-five minutes later, Joseph Sanderson was in hospital with double lower-lobe pneumonia.

Thora arrived at the infirmary to escort Andrew home. ‘Don’t worry, lass,’ she advised Emily. ‘I’ll stay with your boy. Me mam’ll come and mind my
lads.’

‘I’d rather be here,’ Andrew said.

Emily touched her beloved son’s hand. ‘Go and look after Toodles. I know she seems to be settling, but she needs you. Your father’s a strong man. He’ll come out of this,
Andrew. I promise.’

So Andrew spent the evening with the ridiculously funny Thora Caldwell and her next-to-youngest son, Michael. Michael was not as rough or as loud as his brothers. In fact, his quietness was much
appreciated by Andrew, who wasn’t in the mood for Mrs Caldwell’s wittering. His father had pneumonia in both lungs, and Michael’s mother was beginning to annoy her young host.

Michael, who was strangely sensitive for a member of the Caldwell family, noticed the unease in Andrew’s eyes. ‘You’d best go home, Mam,’ he said. ‘Dad’s got
some Irish in, half a bottle, I think. And you know Gran can’t manage him once he kicks off.’

Thora jumped to her feet and left, muttering under her breath about mad customers giving booze to Irish idiots.

Like a couple of old men relaxing, the two boys leaned back in armchairs and closed their eyes.

Michael spoke. ‘Sorry about the way she carries on. Me mam, I mean. She’s not had it easy, so . . . anyway, I’ll sleep here tonight if you want.’

‘Thanks.’

The quiet was beautiful. Mrs Caldwell had chattered seamlessly about the price of cod, the perils of being married to half an Irishman – that seemed to be her best subject –
pneumonia becoming treatable these days, and a woman across the way who never washed her windows or her doorstep.

Then bigger trouble arrived. Someone battered the front door as if trying to free it from its hinges. Andrew leapt up. If it turned out to be bad news about Dad, he had to be the one to receive
it. He opened the door.

‘Where is he?’ a huge man wanted to know. ‘Left a forwarding address stuck on the window on Crompton Way. Always an eye for business, eh?’

Andrew retreated slightly. ‘I’m sorry. Who are you?’

‘A man looking for Sanderson, that’s who. Anyway, I want to talk to the organ grinder, not the bloody monkey.’ He pushed Andrew to one side and entered the house. ‘Where
is he?’ he demanded, this time throwing the words at Michael Caldwell.

Michael said nothing.

‘Where is that bastard?’

Thora entered the equation, bursting through the front door and placing her arm round Andrew’s shoulders. ‘Who the blood and sand are you, trying to knock my neighbours’ door
down?’

‘Who am I?’ Marty roared. ‘Who am I?’

‘Well, if you don’t know, we can’t tell you. Happen if you wore a dog collar with a disc, you could get your details carved on it.’

The invader blinked. ‘Don’t come the clever talk with me, missus.’

She folded her arms against a very flat chest. ‘Listen, ear’ole,’ she said. ‘We’ve enough on round here without you trying to break through the front door. You can
bugger off back to the stone you live under, or you can start making sense.’

This was a woman who was afraid of nothing and nobody, and Marty wasn’t used to coming up against the unafraid. ‘Where is Joe Sanderson?’ he asked, the words spaced out as if
being offered to somebody with developmental problems.

‘In the bloody hospital with bloody double bloody pneumonia,’ Thora snapped. ‘He came in from work today, and fell spark out on the hall floor. He’s in a tent,
that’s what they call it. Having oxygen pushed into him cos he can’t breathe proper. And that’ll be why you can search this house from cellar to attic and find no sign of him
except in photos.’

Marty swallowed audibly.

‘If you go to the hospital and ask at the front desk, they’ll confirm that my dad was admitted today,’ Andrew said. ‘I think I know who you are. Touch Dad again, and
you’ll be locked up. Now, leave my house. You weren’t invited in, so you’re guilty of trespass. That’s marginally better than grievous bodily harm, but it’s still an
offence.’