A Liverpool Song (29 page)

‘Don’t worry. We will. He’ll be missed.’

Helen, Sofia and Anya were upstairs putting weary children to bed. From the kitchen, Eva’s dulcet tones delivered a plethora of swear words while she filled the dishwasher. An inebriated
Storm stretched out on the hearthrug, while Stuart rested in a fireside chair opposite Andrew’s. ‘This dog’s an alcoholic,’ he said gravely. ‘Do they have Alcoholics
Unanimous for dogs?’

‘Wouldn’t work. He’s half French.’

‘Ah. That’s a big problem, though my French is excellent.’ He scrutinized his host for a few seconds. ‘So, Andy, I’ve known you all my life, and I can read you like
a book as long as you’re not in Swahili. Who is she?’

‘Be quiet.’

‘Ah. The mother rather than the daughter, yes?’

‘The one in the kitchen can hear the quietest whisper. And it’s nothing,’ Andrew mouthed.

‘You’re different.’

Eva arrived. ‘Whisperers have a lot to hide,’ she announced.

‘And eavesdroppers hear nothing good,’ Andrew snapped. Who was he to talk? He’d done his share of listening on the stairs in Mornington Road . . . ‘Go home,’ he
said. ‘You’ve had a long day.’

‘I’m doing me pots.’

‘They’ll keep.’

She noted the facial expression and went to get her coat. One of these days, she might find herself out of work, and she didn’t like that idea. With just her husband, her sister, and
granddaughter Natalie at home, she didn’t fancy being idle, especially when her man was out doing gardens and Natalie was at college. And she’d promised Mary that she’d look after
him, hadn’t she? Oh well, she knew when she wasn’t wanted.

The front door closed. ‘The mother, then?’ Stuart asked. ‘Little foreign woman, black lace dress, fitted jacket?’

‘She’s a pianist. Hadn’t touched the keys since leaving Poland. She practises here.’

‘Right. And?’

‘And nothing.’

‘Liar. I’ve seen how you manage not to look at her. More to the point, I’ve noticed how she looks at you. She’s smitten.’

‘You don’t half talk some carrot and turnip, Stuart.’

‘And you got that saying from my mother.’

‘Is it carrying a copyright?’

‘No, but you pinched it.’ He glanced down. ‘Can dogs die of alcohol poisoning?’

Andrew shrugged. ‘We can but hope.’

Stuart stood up. ‘Right, I’m off. I’ll let you know when we set the date, and you’ll let me know when you’ve—’

‘Bog off, Stuart.’

Stuart bogged off.

As soon as he was alone, Andrew got down on his hands and knees. ‘Storm? Storm? Don’t leave me.’

The dog opened an eye. ‘Brrruff,’ he managed before continuing his beer-fuelled dream.

Storm’s master returned to his chair. Dad’s ashes would be cooling now, and he must keep his promise. So, after a short rest, he brought water for a potentially dehydrating animal,
then went out to his workshop. The casket he had made needed a lid, and he began the task of carving into that lid three initials; there was G for Geoff, the first to die, then E for Emily and
finally a J for Joseph. The last letter passed through the other two, as if welding the whole together.

When the hinges and lock were fitted, he inserted the lining of strengthened ceramic. As he finished his task, birds began to sing, while a rosy glow announced the sun’s imminent advent.
He could do no more. Never again would he read aloud from a newspaper to allow Dad’s eyes to rest, nor would he carry in a hip flask a small amount of whisky so that Joe might have a secret
swig between meals.

As for Mother – well, he hadn’t seen her in years, had he? That sweet, gentle soul had reappeared in Helen, who had her limits. Just as Mother had faced her family, Helen had
punished her husband. Kate, too, had inherited Mother’s stubbornness, while Ian displayed Emily’s quiet, pensive side. And they had all been gifted with her loyalty. Ian was a surprise.
He had found the help for Daniel Pope; he had organized the sessions.

Oh well, at least life was never dull, though it might become so once Helen and the littlies were gone. Eva would be here in a couple of hours. He made a notice, Do Not Disturb, and stuck it on
his bedroom door. The dog had survived the night, and Eva would feed him.

Time for bed.

In 1958, Andrew Sanderson received a definite offer from the University of Liverpool’s Faculty of Medicine, a thousand pounds from his grandfather, medical books from his
mother’s lover, and a car from Dad. He passed his driving test before his eighteenth birthday, grew to six feet and two inches, lost his virginity and learned that his best friend was
different.

Stuart Abbot accepted a place at Durham to read French. During the long summer holidays, he began to shut himself away in his room above the shop for hours on end. When asked what the hell he
was up to, he muttered darkly about Fingal Fergusson, characters not behaving themselves, writer’s cramp, a sticky typewriter and an inability to read his own notes.

‘You’re writing what?’ Andrew asked.

‘I don’t know. I’m coasting like a car with no gears coming down a mountain road at three hundred miles an hour.’

‘Put the bloody brakes on,’ Andrew suggested.

‘I can’t. I’m not in charge – he is.’

‘Who is?’

‘Fingal sodding Fergusson.’

Andrew drained his glass. They were sitting on the pavement outside the Man and Scythe, and Stuart was decidedly pale. Locking himself away with Fingal Wotsisname was clearly doing no good. He
was eating rubbish, getting no exercise, and was obviously being pushed along towards insanity by some kind of brainstorm. ‘I thought you wanted to teach French.’

‘I can be a writer at the same time.’

‘Really? Seven age groups, seven different levels, Racine and Corneille in the sixth form – thank goodness I never had to work them out – where’s the spare time? Can you
wrestle with thirty essays on Guy de Maupassant and still have time to write?’

‘How the hell do I know? According to experts, nobody under thirty has anything to write about, but I do.’

So Andrew sat while his friend tried to delineate the character who was stealing his final summer before university. Fingal was an accidental hero. Like the prince in a fairy tale, he always
happened to be where he was needed, and his natural ineptitude was very appealing and totally invisible to those he rescued.

‘So it’s comedy?’

‘Not quite. He’s funny in a way, but clever underneath. He lacks confidence, yet the ladies love him.’

‘Ah. Will you let me read some?’

Stuart thought about that. ‘Not yet. It’s like asking to taste a pie before it’s cooked. Fergus is shy. I’ll have to dress him up a bit.’

‘You’ve gone mad, haven’t you, Stu? You’ve finally cracked.’

‘Something else. I don’t want a girlfriend. I’m queer.’

‘You’re drunk. Come on, let’s get you home.’

Later, back in Mornington Road, Andrew thought long and hard about Stuart. He didn’t mix. He’d never been out on a date with a girl, always finding an excuse if Andrew found a pair
of females ready for a night out. But he didn’t chase boys, either. So how did he know he was homosexual, and would he end up in trouble?

Geoff peered round the door. ‘Have you packed anything yet? We go in just over a week. Andrew? What’s the matter?’

The most amazing thing had continued. Dad and Geoff got along better every day. They both loved Mother, yet managed not to hate each other. Miracles did happen.

‘Andrew?’

‘How does a person know he’s queer?’

Geoff closed the door. ‘You’re not homosexual, Andrew.’

‘Not me. It’s Stuart.’

‘Bloody hell. Mind, he’s not one for the girls, is he? Whereas I’m damned sure you already have notches on your gun . . . but I thought he was, perhaps, just a bit slow in
developing.’

‘And he’s writing, Geoff.’

‘That doesn’t mean a thing. All kinds of people write. What’s he writing? The Ballad of Strangeways Jail?’

‘That is
not
funny.’

‘No. Sorry. Has he told you directly? There are all sorts of campaigns going on, but it could be years before the law changes.’

Andrew gazed at the wall. ‘He’s in a bit of a state. I shouldn’t move to Liverpool yet, because he needs me. And no, he hasn’t got his eye on me, but he’s my best
friend. I don’t care what he is, and I’m more worried about the writing thing, anyway. It’s running away with him, like a tiger that’s got him by the throat.’

‘Most good writers are mad,’ Geoff said. ‘Seems to be a prerequisite. Look, you have to pack. Your mother’s getting irritable, and your father’s starting to grunt a
bit. I’ll go. I’m on cutlery. She reckons I can’t break that. Little does she know . . . And don’t worry. In my experience of this kind of thing, people are what they are
and none the worse for it. If Stuart’s going to write, he’s going to write. If he prefers men, he prefers men. The agonies he’ll go through are imposed by a so-called civilization
that condemns out of hand. I’ll have to go before I get condemned by your mother. I’ve discovered the hard way that she can be quite fierce.’

Andrew ignored the packing yet again. He drove through town back to Thicketford Road and knocked on the side door. Mrs Abbot opened it. ‘Come in, lad. Happen you can get him out of his
room. He’s not sleeping. Says he thinks he won’t have time for university because the cart’s driving the horse. We’re flummoxed, me and his dad.’

‘So am I, Mrs Abbot. He’s brilliant at languages, and he’s always wanted to teach. Shall I go up?’

She nodded vigorously. ‘Tell him we’re going to break the door down. And that flaming typewriter’s keeping us awake at night.’

Andrew went up three stairs at a time. ‘Open the door, Stuart, or it comes down. Your mother’s sending for the fire brigade.’

The door opened. Stuart stood back, a letter in his hand. He thrust it at his best friend. ‘They say I’ve found a niche market. Teenagers and young twenties. I don’t know what
to do.’

Andrew took the sheet of paper. ‘Open the curtains and the window, Stu. This place is like the black hole of Calcutta.’

When there was sufficient light, Andrew read the letter. It was from a Wardour Street agency, a very big one that represented writers, directors, musicians and actors. ‘Bloody
hell.’

Stuart sank onto his writing chair. ‘What the heck should I do, Andy? If I miss this chance, I’ll never forgive myself. If I don’t go to Durham and fail as a writer, what
then?’

‘This woman’s got you interviews with three publishing houses. But I’ll tell you what I’d do. OK?’

Stuart nodded.

‘Well, I’d come clean with Durham if I got an offer from a publisher. So I’d go to London, see all these people, then make a decision. Your choices aren’t yet clear cut,
are they? You don’t do anything at all unless or until you have a firm offer backed by money.’

‘Right. Then what?’

‘Beg Durham for a postponement. Tell them you’re being published, and the editing and so forth means you need a year. A choice between two definites would have to be made, whereas a
choice between one definite and one possible is actually impossible.’

‘I wish I had your brains, Andy.’

‘And I wish I had your talent for writing. Anyway, get washed and come home with me. I have to pack, and you’re elected to help. No arguments.’

So Andrew was packed and ready to go by tea time.

Five civilized people sat and ate together. They discussed the two Rodney Street houses they had bought, talked about Andrew’s two second-floor flats, Stuart’s book and his chances
with three publishers, the cost of the removals men and their vans, Andrew’s future as a doctor.

Stuart seemed happy enough, Andrew mused as he bit into Mother’s apple pie. Perhaps the unconventional household suited him, since it probably conveyed the notion of acceptability. Andrew
experienced a need to protect Stuart, just as he might have looked after a brother, but they were going their separate ways, and nothing could be done about that.

He drove his friend home. It was the end of something, the beginning of something else. Stuart’s something else
had
to be OK.

‘I’ll see you before you go to Liverpool, then?’

‘Of course. I’m coming to London with you. You’re not grown-up enough to be allowed out on your own in the big bad city. I might let you go to meetings by yourself, but someone
will have to make sure you’re wearing matching shoes and carrying a clean handkerchief.’

‘Thanks, Andy.’

Andrew drove back to a house that would soon cease to be home. He supposed that his true address was New Moon, as the property had been signed over to him. The grandparents and Mother were fine
now, and weekend visits would continue even over the greater distance.

An idea dropped into his head. If Stuart took a contract with a publisher, he could move to the farm and write there. The parcel was used by farmers, so the land wanted no minding. But Stuart
did. He needed to work on his books and to take time to think about himself and his future. If he carried on living with his parents, they’d be complaining about the typing, his absences from
table, his unwillingness to help in the shop.

Up in the countryside, he could take walks between chapters, start looking after himself and work without interruptions. But first, they had to do the London thing and see what came of it.
Andrew didn’t know what to hope for. Making a living from teaching was safe; survival through writing was a less dependable prospect. Whatever, he intended to do his best for Stuart. That,
after all, was what friendship was about.

Daniel Pope opened his front door. ‘Ah, do come in.’ Ian Sanderson had turned up trumps for his brother-in-law, while Andrew had done his share. The latter remained
in touch by phone, keeping Daniel informed of the children’s progress, and twice each month he brought the children to visit their daddy. ‘Good to see you, Ian. Go through, I’m in
the kitchen.’

Ian stepped inside. As with his own patients, he hung on like a bulldog where Daniel was concerned. This outwardly quiet, thoughtful and humourless doctor was amazingly thorough. His personal
pledge was to improve life wherever he could, and that philosophy embraced all comers, even those who weren’t his legal responsibility.