A Liverpool Song (17 page)

And he was gone.

Emily closed her gaping mouth with a snap. He wanted her? He
wanted
her? Let him want – she was a mother and just a mother. Andrew’s life needed to be smooth and . . . Oh,
goodness. A doctor wanted her. Lovely hands, a voice that might melt the coldest heart and, in spite of his forthright manner, a gentle, kind and humorous nature.

For the very first time, Emily reacted the way a teenager might, though she slowed down a process of which she was naively unaware. A little make-up. A tighter skirt. Button at the throat left
undone, shoes with heels, a nice belt. She had her hair styled in town, got her nails manicured, enjoyed facials, bought creams and lotions that boasted the ability to make her young. And he stayed
away. He was there, yet almost invisible.

The stand-off endured for almost three months. She knew when he was watching her. Even when he was behind her, she could feel his eyes travelling over her legs, her back, her hair. He watched
her often. A thrill ran up her spine sometimes, rather like a shiver. Whenever she turned, he was already walking away. Even then, in the very early days, there was an inevitability attached to the
situation.

In cooler weather, she ate in a little-used staffroom. And he arrived. Before walking across to where she sat, he tilted a chair under the door handle. ‘What?’ he asked when he
turned to face her. ‘I forgot the Do Not Disturb sign, so the chair’s in lieu of that.’

He didn’t exactly attack her. He didn’t exactly do much, though he left an impression. Having separated her from sandwich and cup, he held her firmly and kissed her. And at that
moment, she was defeated. It was ridiculous. She didn’t know him, didn’t love him, didn’t . . . didn’t want him?

He stepped back. ‘Salmon,’ he said. ‘You were eating a salmon sandwich.’ He smiled. He had perfect teeth. ‘Your metamorphosis has been interesting to watch. Did you
think I’d lost interest? You see, the chemistry comes first, and not just for men. Lust arrives before love. You dressed up for me in order to draw me in. The web is woven, my dear. Now, we
need to do the rest of it. That will cure us or bind us together for always.’

‘I’m married.’

‘I know.’

‘I will never hurt my son.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s wrong,’ she said desperately. ‘There’s nothing right about it.’

‘That’s what makes it delicious.’ He returned to the door, moved the chair and left. For a split second the door reopened. ‘Delicious,’ he repeated quietly before
closing the door again.

Emily looked at the clock on the wall. Two minutes had passed, but she felt radically altered, as if she had almost become a different person. It was silly. She was old enough to be a
grandmother, for heaven’s sake. Well, perhaps she would be allowed a rest from him for a few weeks? If he ran to pattern, she should get some peace for a while.

But no. His tactics changed radically. By some undisclosed method, he seemed to be tailoring several of his shifts to match hers. He rented a flat quite near to the infirmary, and he walked with
her as she made her way home, but for several weeks, he didn’t invite her in. When he finally did, his request arrived in terms to which she was gradually becoming inured.

‘Come in,’ he said abruptly. ‘You’re quite safe; it won’t be rape. When it happens, it will be your decision.’

‘Then it will be never, Geoff.’

‘Hmm.’ He looked her up and down. ‘How do you take your tea?’

‘Moderately strong, no sugar, just a splash of milk.’

‘Moderation. How predictable. Come.’ He held out an arm, and her feet walked past him into the doorway. She didn’t remember making the decision to do his bidding; it just
happened. So her legs were obeying him, while her brain remained on alert. As for her heart . . . she felt she might need surgery, so erratic was the beat.

She noticed a single bed, neatly made with hospital corners. The rest of the large room was a war zone. There was a desk in a nook near a bay window, and it was piled with papers, some of which
had spilled to the floor. ‘Don’t tidy any of this,’ he ordered. ‘I get confused if anyone tries to organize me. You see a mess. Well, I know where everything is. Almost
everything, anyway . . .’

Emily sat uncomfortably on the edge of an armchair while he went into the kitchen. She couldn’t sit any more easily, as the seat was covered in books. The sofa was in the same condition. A
pair of socks lay on the floor next to a tray overflowing with notebooks and pens. To the right of the fireplace, a tall bookcase was covered in confusion. He wasn’t perfect; he was
delightfully human, and so different from anyone she had met thus far.

The door from the bed-sitting room into the kitchen was to the left of the chimney breast. His head appeared. ‘Come in here, please. In here, I am tidy.’

The kitchen, though very 1939, was scrupulously clean. An ancient gas cooker in blue and cream stood on bowed legs just to the left of the inner door. In spite of its antiquity, it shone. There
was an inlaid table, a dresser that looked as if it had once belonged to some grandmother’s grandmother, and rows of shelves supporting neatly stacked dishes and dry goods. A white porcelain
sink sparkled, as did the taps.

‘Very clean,’ she said.

He poured the tea and offered her a biscuit. ‘I haven’t baked this week,’ he explained.

‘You bake? No, thank you, I won’t have a biscuit.’

‘Of course I bake. I’m a bachelor with no intention of marrying, so I cook, clean, wash, iron and shop all by myself like a good little boy.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to sound critical.’

He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Marriage is for people who intend to breed. I don’t want children.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘But you love them. Everyone says you’re magic with them.’

‘I didn’t realize I was the subject of gossip. You talk about me?’ He tightened his grip slightly. ‘Listen to me now. I have two much-loved brothers. Each has a child.
One lost a leg to bone cancer, and the other is battling infantile leukaemia. I’m taking no chances.’

Emily swallowed. ‘Geoff, I am so sorry.’ She thought about Andrew and imagined . . . Managed not to imagine. ‘So you chose me because I’m too old to bear a
child?’

His gaze did not waver. ‘I had a procedure in a Swiss clinic. A vasectomy. It’s been used for a couple of decades in America to stop the criminally insane reproducing, so I thought
I’d join the ranks, since I’m relatively sure of my insanity, and my desire for you is probably criminal. I’m deliberately sterile, and this has nothing to do with your age. I
want you, woman, and I’m prepared to wait until you want me. And I don’t need you to come to me through pity because of my niece or my nephew, or because I daren’t have children
in case there’s some weird gene ripping its way through my family. I want you to come to me in lust.’

With her free hand, Emily took a sip of tea. ‘I believe I don’t do lust.’

‘Not yet, perhaps. But you’re making progress. Presentation of self is improving, there’s a sway in your hips – you’re very aware of me, yes?’

He was right. She felt hypnotized. ‘Don’t mock me.’ She claimed back her hand.

‘Don’t go.’

‘I have things to do.’

‘We have things to do.’

‘Why me? Why did you choose me?’

He shrugged. ‘Because I remember you from tomorrow. It’s a poem I wrote. It’s somewhere . . .’ He waved a hand towards the chaos in the next room. ‘Lonely people
write, you see. No one to talk to, so they talk to paper. Don’t pity me for that, either. My own company is preferable to that of most people. By the way, he’s a good pianist. Your son.
I went to a concert where he played Chopin. Afterwards, I took care to stay behind and congratulate him. He’ll go far.’

‘He’ll be a doctor.’

Geoff blinked. ‘With a gift like that?’

Emily nodded. ‘He won’t give up the piano, but he’s made up his mind about what he wants. Far be it from me to attempt to dissuade him.’

‘Have a biscuit. They’re full of drugs to make you sleep. Then I’ll get my wicked way. Go on. You won’t feel a thing.’

At this point, Emily began to laugh. She was sitting in the company of a beautiful soul, and he was ridiculous. ‘What’s the point, then?’ she achieved eventually. ‘If I
won’t feel a thing, why . . . ?’

‘As long as you’re unconscious, you won’t get upset, so it won’t be anything untoward.’

‘You have a very distinct sense of humour,’ she said. He was funny, sweet, vulnerable, untidy, lovable. She dried her eyes. ‘I must go. Andrew will be wondering where I
am.’

‘Just a moment.’ He walked round the table and stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Even through clothing, his touch was deft as he massaged tension out of her upper
spine. ‘I do a full body treatment,’ he said. ‘With oils. The clothes will have to go, of course.’

His hands were not only beautiful, they were magic. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she sighed. ‘Typing makes me . . . oh, that’s lovely . . . so stiff.’

‘OK. Get them off.’

‘Geoff . . . no.’

‘I’m a doctor.’ He stopped the massage, picked her up and carried her to his bed, where they lay for several minutes just kissing. ‘Tell me when to stop,’ he
whispered.

But she couldn’t. The words were there, in her head, perfectly formed and ripe for delivery, yet they seemed incapable of travelling to her lips. He unwrapped her as if she were a gift,
and she clung to him, her mouth seeking his hungrily. So this was how it should have been.

‘May I finish what we’ve started?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, shut up, Geoff.’

Should he tell her now, wouldn’t it be fairer to say the words? ‘I’ve been lying to you, Emily. I love you.’

‘I know. I’m not stupid.’

‘Shall I stop?’

‘Are you ready to die?’ she asked. After that, not another sensible word emerged from her, though he talked softly into her ear, quiet words tailored and delivered to send her senses
reeling, to reduce her to a quivering mass of brainless anticipation.

When it was over, she continued to shake. ‘I had no idea,’ she eventually managed to say. ‘It spread all over my body. Arms, legs . . . feet. I may need to learn to walk
again.’

‘Told you – you’ve been a dormant volcano.’

‘Mountains can’t walk at all.’

He grinned. ‘No, but they can alter the scenery. You’ve altered mine. I should cook for you now, a feast of moussaka, perhaps, or some bloody steak to replace the energy we expended.
Come on. Let’s make you decent and send you home.’ And he dressed her. She hadn’t been dressed by another person since she’d been four or five.

‘I’m falling in love with you,’ she told him.

‘No, you’re not. You loved me before you stepped into my parlour. Hang on, that’s the wrong way round. You wove the web and I got stuck in it. We established that fact earlier.
So this is all your fault.’

‘Of course.’

He rolled stockings up her legs and fastened the suspenders. ‘You’re ready. Go and feed your son. I shall be lonely without you.’

The dream ended. It had been quite sensible this time, all in a straight line, no interruptions, no looking over her shoulder to find Mother there with a rolling pin or a pan
of rising dough or a snide word and a sneer.

She had to end this affair, couldn’t end it, refused to imagine a life without him, mustn’t allow this situation to continue. She dressed, wrote I LOVE YOU in lipstick on the
over-mantel mirror. Andrew had finished his O levels today, and she must get home.

Andrew. He had to realize that something was going on. And Joseph would be home soon for the weekend. Joseph, who had no real idea of the joy of love, the abandonment, the fun of it. Joseph, who
had never covered her in condensed milk, never brushed her hair for over half an hour, never written a poem or even a note of love. This sleeping man had bathed her, dried her, powdered her body,
fed her, worshipped her. She might have gone through life without any of this. Liverpool in two years. Geoff would follow. Of course he would. He had to. He mustn’t. He must.

Andrew waited. He knew where she was; more to the point, he didn’t blame her for being where she was. Stuart had gone, as had Mrs Caldwell from next door. There were lamb
chops in the fridge. Andrew was a clever enough boy, but when it came to lamb chops he could cope only with the side salad. He was washing lettuce when his mother came in.

Right. It was time to stop messing about, time to face the music. In fact, he would have to play the music. ‘Hello, Mother.’

She placed her bag on the dining-room table before joining him in the kitchen. ‘Thank you for starting the salad, sweetheart.’

He turned to face her. There was no easy way of doing what he must. ‘Dad phoned. He’s coming home today instead of on Friday, says he needs a break from work. I asked how long he
would be staying, but he was vague. I think he’s suspicious.’ He noticed that she had the grace to blush.

‘But I didn’t buy enough chops. You and he can have them, and I’ll make do with an egg and some bacon.’

Andrew swallowed. ‘It isn’t about chops, Mother. It’s about where you’ve been since three o’clock. Don’t worry, I’m on your side, but the excuses about
dealing with patients in their homes are wearing rather thin, I’m afraid. Even the head almoner stays in more often than you do. Anyway, you have no car, so—’

‘You know I’ve been learning to drive? I’m getting a car, Andrew. I passed the test a few weeks ago.’

‘Congratulations. Let’s sit down, shall we?’

They went into the dining room. ‘Don’t get upset, Mother. As I said before, I’m on your side. You must always believe that. I saw Dad with . . . with that woman years ago.
Michael, Mrs Caldwell and I got rid of her husband when he came here to see Dad. Dad was in hospital, and you were with him. The man went home and killed himself. His wife, according to the paper,
moved to St Helens to be near her sister.’

‘Why didn’t you—’

‘We decided, Mrs Caldwell and I, that you had enough on your hands with Dad’s pneumonia. Anyway, to cut a lengthy story short, when Michael took up his apprenticeship he found out
from other people at Sanderson’s that Dad didn’t work that day. All the men remember it clearly, since it was the day he went into hospital. It’s likely that he took the woman to
St Helens. Because of Dad and her, the man committed suicide. I didn’t help, of course, because I was harsh and rude.’