A Liverpool Song (24 page)

When he reached the house, he found her solicitor’s letter lying in the mail box on the inside of the front door. Irretrievable breakdown. Adultery with persons unknown. Unreasonable
demands, blah, blah, blah. So, it was unreasonable to want a son? She couldn’t prove adultery, and the marriage had broken down due to the intervention of her family.

Shoot. There was nothing in the fridge. Beans on toast again, then. There were plenty of restaurants in the Neston area, but he didn’t want the glances, the whispers when people noticed
Helen’s absence. He had to sell up and move. She wanted half of everything. Well, she already had the whole of one item – his heart. He’d been a bastard, yet he’d never
stopped loving her. He had to get her back. Without Helen, he might as well be dead.

By the time Andrew reached the gate of Heathfield, his resolve had deserted him. He had done wrong, and he had done wrong deliberately. He couldn’t have cared less about
them traipsing about looking for a farm that wasn’t there, because they deserved to be put out, so why was he trembling now? It was about his mother, a woman he respected and adored, and
these creatures had treated her abominably. ‘Be strong,’ he whispered.

He didn’t need to knock, because the door flew inward as he entered the open porch. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ snarled Alan Beauchamp. ‘We
were back and forth all over villages round Huddersfield – people thought we were mad.’ His eyes bulged in his head, their whites wearing a tracery of thready capillaries.

‘Perhaps you are,’ Andrew surprised himself by saying. ‘And we usually get what we deserve, anyway.’ He had to hold it together, must hide the inner turmoil.

‘Cheeky bugger – get in here.’ He was dragged into the octagonal hall with its black-and-white chequered floor. For a man in his early seventies, Alan Beauchamp retained a
great deal of brute strength.

His wife waited inside, her cheeks reddened by temper and time spent out in all weathers. ‘Take him in there,’ she ordered. ‘Till we get to the bottom of this.’ She
followed her husband into the room they had used a week earlier.

Andrew found himself seated at the conference-style table once more. His grandfather stood in front of an enormous marble fireplace, while his grandmother hovered near a window. She fingered a
curtain, and seemed to be expecting somebody. She’d probably sent for the police or a lawyer.

‘Well?’ screamed the male half of the marriage. ‘What do you think you’re playing at? No Crawfords, no land, no beasts. We asked everywhere before we realized you were
playing some sort of trick on us. We missed two cattle fairs because of you.’

Andrew, suddenly calm, waited for silence. ‘There was a mix-up of some kind,’ he said calmly. ‘Codicils and so forth. The farm disappeared in a puff of smoke to all intents and
purposes. It was a bribe so that a rich landowner would marry a cousin.’ He paused and looked at their faces. It was clear that they didn’t realize what he was talking about. ‘The
Crawford land was absorbed into bigger acreage. Some of these landowning families sell their daughters to people with land. Their daughters are like cattle. Can you imagine disinheriting someone
who refused to marry for land?’

Irene Beauchamp’s hand fell away from the curtain. ‘What are you talking about, you young fool?’ Slowly, she approached the table.

‘I’m talking about you,’ Andrew replied before turning to the man near the fireplace. ‘And about you.’

A clock chimed in the hallway. ‘Who the devil are you?’ Alan Beauchamp asked.

‘I am my mother’s son.’

‘And?’

‘And you are my mother’s parents. Therefore, you are my grandparents.’

‘Emily,’ breathed Irene, staggering slightly before grabbing the back of a chair. ‘Did she put you up to this?’

‘She most certainly did not. Neither did my father. Joseph Sanderson is a manufacturer of bespoke furniture and kitchens. They are separating, though they remain close friends. Mother
married the first man who wasn’t a farmer. She held out against you for so long that she probably married in a hurry. Her next husband will be a surgical consultant.’ Well, it was
nearly the truth. ‘And I am at a good school, hoping to go to Liverpool University to train as a doctor.’

They both joined him at the table. ‘How is she?’ asked Irene.

‘Well, thank you. Though she had a bad time when I was born.’

Alan cleared his throat. His eyes were redder now, and suspiciously wet. ‘You’re a grand-looking lad. But you shouldn’t have done what you did.’

Andrew looked into the eyes of an old man he was determined to hate. ‘I knew you cared about land above anything else, including your children. I watched the greed in your faces when I
talked about Yorkshire. And yes, I was paying you back on behalf of my mother, who’s just about the best person I know.’ He stood up.

‘Won’t you stay?’ Irene asked.

‘No. No, I won’t stay.’

‘But when will you come again?’

‘I will never come again.’ He left the room, strode across the hall and went out through the front door.

They followed him. He heard them calling, asking his name, but he quickened his pace.

The driver leapt out and opened a rear door. ‘The local bobby’s on his way up from over yonder on his bike. Get in here, lad.’

The car rolled away quickly. Andrew turned just once and saw Irene Beauchamp weeping in the arms of her husband. Oh well, it was too late now, wasn’t it? Let her cry all she liked, because
misery was what they both deserved.

Andrew Sanderson answered his mobile phone. He had an inkling about who the caller might be, even before she almost deafened him. As her voice rattled his brain, he found
himself thinking of New Year’s Eve when, at midnight, every ship in dock sounded its foghorn to mark the occasion. If she didn’t rein herself in, he was in danger of losing an
eardrum.

‘Doc? Doc, are you there? Can you hear me? Only there’s not much of a signal here, what with all the traffic and whatnot. And it’s gone a bit windy through the alleyways. I
nearly got blown under a bus before.’

‘Ah, Eva.’ She was bellowing beautifully today. According to her, the satellite moved about a lot, and she lost signal if the moon or a tree or an asteroid got in the way. Even a
double-decker bus was not to be trusted. As for the microwave in his kitchen . . .

‘You there?’ she screamed again. ‘That was a motorbike going past.’

‘I’m here.’ Or the problem might be caused by a lot of cloud, a storm, even a hurricane in America. Aeroplanes got blamed, too, as did anything launched from the United States.
According to Eva, space was getting filled with junk, and this affected her reception something shocking. ‘Me satellite’s wandered off again,’ she yelled. ‘Are you receiving
me?’

Andrew couldn’t help grinning. ‘I think Hobart in Tasmania’s receiving you loud and clear, Eva.’

‘Are they? See, they should get these bloody satellites sorted out, Doc. I only need to reach the Wirral. I’m just on me way to the Co-op. Do you think I should phone Richard Branson
when I get home and complain about being diverted to Tasmania? Where is Tasmania, anyway? Manchester?’ That was another thing. She blamed Manchester for a lot of stuff.

The trouble with Eva was that a person could never tell if she was serious or taking the Michael out of him. ‘Eva, I’ve told you – it’s a phone mast, so forget the
satellite for a while.’

‘But the phone mast gets the signal off a satellite and bounces it.’

He gave up. ‘So what happened?’ he asked. ‘Was I right, or was I right?’

‘Don’t start the clever talk about always being right,’ she replied. ‘But yes, he arrived not long after you’d gone, and you should have seen his face when Kate
answered the door. His chin dropped that much it nearly landed on the parquet. You know what she’s like if it’s anything to do with her little sister. She had a big cob on, I can tell
you. I swear if she’d owned a gun, she would have shot him there and then. Oh yes, she’d a real cob on, fit to burst, she was.’

‘Right.’ A cob was a bad mood that showed in the face. ‘She gave him short shrift, then, did she?’

‘You what? No, she never gave him nothing; she dragged him in with his tie. He was wearing that pin with all the chains and safety locks on, so he wasn’t pleased. Demanded to see his
wife, then Richard came in and told him what was what.’

‘What is what, Eva?’

‘What is what is that Helen’s started proceedings. Then Danny Boy was asking for his children and saying he was mixed up and thought he was meeting you at Rosewood. Bloody lies. Anya
called him a pig in Polish, then decided he wasn’t a pig, because pigs are some use, and he’s none at all. I like Anya. She might talk funny, but she’s all right. I thought she
was going to spit at him for messing with her Sofia.’

‘I see.’

‘He ran away in the end, Doc, flew out of there like a fox with a pack of hounds up its arse.’

‘Some wisdom in him, then. I wouldn’t like to face Katie with a cob on. Thanks for being there, and thanks for letting me know.’

After saying goodbye to his difficult, lovable old retainer, Andrew continued his leisurely walk along a path above the White Cliffs of Wirral. He had named them when he’d first visited
the area with Mary, way back in the mists of time. Was there a mist? Not really.

He could see her now as clearly as ever, dark tresses bouncing as she ran barefoot as a gypsy through greenery, heard the shriek when she stepped on a small, sharp stone. Eyes dark blue like
his, but so much prettier, livelier. He’d dressed her foot with a clean handkerchief, had fallen in love with an ankle, a shin, a knee, a woman. She wasn’t his first, but she was the
only one he’d loved. Everything else had been physical, just for release of whatever built up in a young man during periods of celibacy.

He enjoyed a mental picture of her on horseback. She’d loved Percy. A small woman, so a small horse, and from a distance she’d looked like a teenager. After her death, Percy had been
donated to a riding school for handicapped children. He’d been happy, because he loved the company of other horses. Andrew had visited him a few times, but he’d stopped going because
Percy had always looked past him for Mary.

Sometimes, at home, he imagined her voice calling melodically down the stairs. That voice, like its owner, had been more than pretty. She sang, played the piano, threw enormous parties for
cancer charities and for deprived children. But now, Andrew heard only his younger daughter’s words.
Protracted mourning is not grief; it is self-pity.
Was that true?

What was he supposed to do? Should he take the usual retirement cruise, get trapped on a floating prison with company he had not chosen and could not avoid? No, he was too much of a snob. No way
did he want to spend weeks trapped in the company of plump, self-satisfied men with fat wives and fat wallets. He’d been offered a free cruise if he would give a few recitals on board. He
could have a stateroom, all meals included, a place at the captain’s table. He shuddered. He’d rather jump now, throw himself off the cliff and end up in bits at the bottom.

So. He liked music and carpentry. There was a function suite with a grand piano, and he already had pupils, one of whom showed promise. In fact, Anya Jasinski displayed a genius of sorts, though
at first she had been mercurial and not always in the right mood. Yet as time passed she was finally beginning to take the piano slightly more seriously. Furthermore, she had an excellent
mezzo-soprano voice, and he was beginning to wonder about a small choir. People liked singing. Singing lifted the soul.

Carpentry. He had all the tools he needed; he also had all the furniture he needed. No, he wouldn’t take that up again. ‘I’ve sawn through too many bones in the past,’ he
mumbled to himself. A choir, then? A choir backed up by the piano, perhaps a cello, a violin and a viola? Or what about his cars? He pondered for a few moments. There was a possibility that he
might become one boring old fart among many boring old farts, and too many farts made a stink.

Jesus, this retirement lark was hard going – it took up far too much thinking time. He didn’t want to be idle, didn’t fancy working himself into the grave, hated the
possibility of becoming flabby and useless. And he was skirting something central, something he already knew. Not since Mary . . . no, no, no!
Let it through, old chap. You like her. You
don’t know what she’s rattling on about half the time, but she appeals to you. Keep Anya as a friend, at least. Learn a bit of Polish, take her for a drink, go to the cinema with her.
It’s no big deal. IT’S NO BIG DEAL!

He smiled. Shouting at himself internally was ridiculous. He was ridiculous, ambling along the Wirral coast wondering about cruises, carpentry, music, cars and Anya. Anya. Mary would have liked
Anya. She was different, a character, a musician, a singer. Her daughter was a lovely girl, too. Oh well.

His watch advised him that there was more time to fill, and he made a sudden decision. Divorce was such a final thing. Mother and Dad never got divorced. Mother stayed faithful to Geoff, yet
they never married, and they both looked after Dad in their way. Eventually, Dad and Mother had been forced to look after Geoff. He shivered.

Andrew didn’t like Daniel Pope, but who was qualified to be judge? Life wasn’t fair. It carried no guarantees, so it didn’t have to be fair. For now, Helen needed her space.
But Pope was a human being and, with two hours to kill, Andrew was going to talk to him. There was a sudden need to lift Daniel out of cold storage and hear his side, time to find out what made him
tick. Mother had always said that there was good and bad in everybody. Though for many years she had drawn some lines where her parents were concerned.

They found Andrew when he was in the lower sixth. He was on his way out with Stuart at the end of the school day when he saw the car. It was parked on Chorley New Road, and two
people stood by it on the pavement. Andrew gulped. ‘Grandparents dead ahead,’ he said, the words forced between tightening lips. ‘You’d better leave me to it.’
Embarrassed and determined to hide his shame, he approached the couple.