A Liverpool Song (45 page)

‘Oh, shut up,’ she snapped. ‘You may be a doctor, but you’re only a man, so you know nothing at all about this.’

Her skin was whiter than normal, and she seemed uncomfortable. In fact, she appeared to be in pain. But he had been warned. Should he panic and cast a shoe or sprain a fetlock when she went into
labour, he would be downgraded immediately and put out to grass rather than to stud. Oh, and oats would be off his menu long-term.

‘Pale? That will be a pigment of your imagination,’ she went on through gritted teeth, a frown creasing her damp forehead. ‘At this moment, O knight in once shining and now
rusty armour, I feel a strange urge to kill the person who altered the shape of my destiny.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘As you qualify for that position, you should bugger off quickly and get
your mother. My waters have gone. The chair on which I sit, the upholstered seat, is saturated with said waters. Don’t start fussing.’

He gulped audibly, stood up and knocked over his own chair. ‘Oh, God. Oh, God, God, God.’

She looked at him in despair. ‘Bloody doctors? Just look at the state of you. I knew you’d fall to bits, you great lummox. Go before I find a use for this bread knife. And find me a
change of knickers and the other pair of maternity trousers.’

He wasn’t going anywhere. Mary sat and listened to him failing to make sense on the phone in the hall. ‘She’s . . . Mary’s waters . . . yes, yes. I have to get her case
for the . . . yes . . . for the . . . will you come, Thora? Bring Mother. I have to . . . yes. Thank you.’ Mary heard him replacing the receiver and dashing upstairs. ‘Damned wonderful
damned fool,’ she muttered. He was as much use as a chocolate kettle.

There was just one small but pressing problem. Stage one, with the backache, the waters, and the fingers of pain creeping gradually from spine to abdomen, lasted just a few moments before the
real business began. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not with a first labour, but Baby wanted out and Baby was breaking out.

She heard Drew running upstairs for her case. The urge to push was suddenly overwhelming. Though if she screamed, he would probably fall downstairs and break his neck. Not a good idea, even
though he was the one who’d put her in this mess, God help him. She tried panting, but the urge to bear down was primeval and undeniable. The base of her spine was moving outward, so she
knelt on the floor, as sitting was no longer the easy option.

Thora rushed in and dealt with everything while Emily watched. She removed Mary’s undergarments. ‘Yon babby’s got black hair. Well, at least we know it’s the right way
up, eh? Or the right way down. That’s it – lie on your side. You’ll be all right now, flower, because I’m here.’ What the hell was she saying? Had she ever done this
before? No, she bloody well hadn’t. ‘Breathe easy, breathe easy. Just a minute; hold your horses, missus, this isn’t the Grand bloody National. Pant for me, love. Emily –
sharp scissors and something to clamp the cord. Andy? Get your backside in here this minute. Bring towels. Right, sweetie. Give us a big push. Andy?’

He rushed in clutching a case and a couple of towels, placing them on a sofa before staggering backwards against the wall. ‘Erm . . .’ He glanced at his poor wife and Thora. ‘I
. . . er . . .’

‘Help your mother. Kitchen. Clamps. Something to cut the cord. Go before I clout you,’ Thora snapped.

He left. ‘I love you, Mary.’ The words were thrown over his shoulder as he fled through the house.

Thora tutted. ‘Now he tells you. They pick their bloody times, eh? Just let me wriggle this little shoulder round, sweetheart. Don’t push. Pant for me again. Curse if you like. Here
we go, one more push, Mary. That’s it, that’s it, keep it coming. Aw – lovely. It’s a nice little lass. By, she’s got some lungs on her. Emily? Come on,
Grandma.’

Katherine Mary Sanderson was born on 1 June 1968 after just a few minutes of sharp, vicious labour. She was tiny, furious, and very vocal. Her mother, stretched out on a beautiful silk Persian
rug, was in shock. On Mary’s chest, a screaming bundle of birth-stained humanity emptied her anger into an unattractive, over-bright world. Andrew, dangerously close to tears, dealt with
umbilicus and afterbirth.

‘I hope you can see what you’re doing,’ Thora said. Then she joined in with a bit of weeping. She’d delivered a baby. She couldn’t believe she’d delivered
this healthy-sounding baby. Her knees didn’t belong to her. She had thighs and shins, but nothing substantial in between.

‘Jesus, we’re a flaming quorum, all crying,’ said the new mother. ‘Cheer up, for goodness’ sake; it’s not a funeral.’

Emily was the only one who held herself together. ‘Well done, Mary. Thora, will you do the tying off? Let’s have a tidy navel, shall we? Andrew can’t see properly.’

‘Neither can I,’ howled Thora.

The baby, once separated from her mother and wrapped in a towel, became the star turn in a game of pass the parcel. She managed to stop complaining while Thora, after rediscovering her knees,
carried the newborn to the kitchen and put her through her paces, checking the reflexes, counting digits and making sure that Katherine could do a very strange thing that she would forget within
minutes; yes, she stood, bore her own weight and ‘walked’ on tiptoes while Thora held her arms. ‘I wouldn’t care, I’ve only read about all this, but don’t tell
them, Katie. This is our secret, little one. Never let them know you were my first.’

Andrew, standing over his wife, stopped weeping. ‘I’ll get an ambulance,’ he said. ‘You should both be looked at in a maternity ward.’

Mary forbade it. She was going nowhere, since she had too much to do, as her daughter needed to learn breastfeeding. ‘I’ve a big enough audience already, thanks. You should have sold
tickets and given everybody a balloon and a slice of cake. If I’d wanted an ambulance, I would have said so. Thora’s an excellent midwife, better than most trained in our hospitals.
Stop panicking. I knew you’d fall apart at the seams, soft lad. All men are stupid when it comes to the birth of a child.’

Thora entered the room with Katie in her arms, opened her mouth to say she’d never done this before, thought better of it again, and snapped her jaw into closed position. It was best to
look professional even though she’d almost made it up as she went along. If the truth were to be told, she felt a bit queasy, so she sat down and shut up. Had the situation been less busy,
someone would have remarked on this unusual phenomenon, because she was reputed to talk even when asleep.

Emily couldn’t take her eyes off Katie. ‘A little girl,’ she said over and over again. ‘He never had a sister, but he’s got you instead, baby. And see there? That
lady you’re lying on? That’s your mother. Lucky girl, you are. Geoff would have loved this, you know. He would have made such a fuss of you, young Katie, because he loved
babies.’

Andrew helped his wife to sit up.

‘Wash this little one,’ she told him. ‘Keep her navel dry, but get all the muck off her. She looks basted ready for the oven. There’s some powder for the belly button, so
use it.’

He blinked. ‘That’s not muck. That’s the endometrium of the woman I love.’ The colour had returned to her face; his wife was beautiful once more.

Emily accompanied him. They used cotton wool and the handbasin in the ground-floor bathroom. Katie liked the water. She remembered the water. She remembered the voices, too. She also discovered
how to be hungry and started to scream again. Making noise was fun; she’d never made noises before.

Andrew sat at the piano while Mary put her daughter to the breast. He played the tunes he’d played right through the pregnancy, and Katie did what was required of her to bring in the milk.
She remembered her mother and the music. This was the right place, though it was too bright and rather crowded for her liking. But she was warm, she was celebrated, and she was feeding.

Glad that he needed no sheet music, Andrew shed a couple more tears. He thought about his grandparents who had left him enough money to see everyone through life without needing to do a
hand’s turn, and they had both died and missed the birth of Katie. Stuart, a man who would have made a brilliant father, could never have a child. But Geoff was the one who loomed largest.
Emily, clearly pleased as Punch to be a grandma, remained sad to the core. She’d gained the skills to spread a layer of marzipan and icing over the devastation, but she didn’t fool her
son.

Geoff was missed by everyone. He’d been a blazing beacon of light and eccentricity. Andrew wanted him here now. Geoff would have written a poem, smoked a cigar and dished out some large
servings of brandy, though not necessarily in that order. Dad was on his way back from Manchester. He would bring a teddy bear. Whenever anyone at all had a baby, Joe Sanderson bought a teddy
bear.

As he played through his repertoire of Chopin’s etudes, it dawned on Andrew that he was very like Emily. He and Mother weren’t good at letting go. Geoff continued to be loved by his
partner; should anything happen to Mary, Andrew would probably follow in his mother’s footsteps. Like mother, like son. She’d fallen in love suddenly and deeply, as had he. They were
both hopeless cases; there was no cure.

The new baby, dressed now in a cotton nightdress, was left with her father while Emily and Thora took Mary upstairs for a tepid shower.

He studied his daughter closely. She looked as if she’d arrived through the post, wrinkled, tousled, blotchy and a bit squashed. ‘They should have written
Do not bend or
fold
on your packaging. You’re about seven pounds,’ he informed her. ‘Now, this new place is Earth. It hangs in space with lots of other bits and pieces, and we do
what’s called living. You eat, defecate, urinate and scream. It’s your job. I mend bones, and that’s my job. Your mother does whatever she likes, so that’s her
job.’

Katie opened one eye.

‘Can you see me? I’m your father. Your mother’s in the shower, and she’s your feeding station. You are our first child, and if you don’t stop giving me the evil
eye, you’ll be the last.’

Tiny fingers curled round his left thumb. She was perfect apart from the crumpled face. He couldn’t see her toes, as her feet were encased in bootees. But he could see that she knew him,
recognized his voice. ‘I won’t be able to call your mother Fatso any more soon, but at least I’ll get her back. I’ve missed her, you see, because you borrowed her for a
while.’

He droned on. Although she was asleep, Miss Katherine Sanderson maintained her grip on her father’s thumb. She was her mother all over again. ‘You’re going to be
trouble,’ he said. ‘Just like Mary.’ He told her about Liverpool, the Mersey, a cathedral that was taking forever to build, how to deal with a fractured ulna; he gave her
directions to Sniggery Woods and to the nearest library, and related how Christopher Robin went to the palace with Alice to see the changing of the guard. ‘I’ll find a bridge and
we’ll play Pooh sticks,’ he promised. ‘We’ll leave Eeyore and Wol for now, because they have personality disorders and trouble with communication skills. Tigger’s all
right. You’ll get on very well with Tigger.’

Mary sat on the stairs with Thora and Emily. They covered their mouths to prevent the escape of giggles.

Katie, lulled into contentment by her father’s steady voice, snoozed happily. She definitely remembered him; he’d made noises at her before.

‘I rescued your very ungrateful mother from the Beatles, you know. Not insects, just four boys with guitars, drums and a very large retinue of mentally unstable females. And I knew
straight away that she was my wife.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Life’s odd. I’m sure you’ll discover that through your own mistakes. But she wasn’t a mistake. She was
magic, still is. So treat her well, or you’ll answer to me.’

The same eye opened.

‘Ah, you’re back. Where do you go? What do you dream of? Warmth and darkness inside Mummy? Swimming about like a little tethered dolphin? Well, that’s yesterday, pal.
You’ve got responsibilities now. There are rules. First, don’t allow your parents any sleep. Second, when you burp, bring back milk and spray it on anybody within a foot or two.
Don’t bother with the real projectile vomiting, or they’ll stick you in hospital. Third, straighten your face – this is your father speaking.’

Andrew listened. He listened to them listening to him. A herd of elephants would have been quieter than the women on the stairs. ‘About your mother. She’s very short since I put her
in a hot wash, but don’t call her Titch. Her temper’s a bit short, too. Thora’s all wind and pi— urine, and your grandma is nice. What is Grandma? Say it with me, Grandma is
nice.’

A giggle exploded, but he pretended not to hear it. ‘Thora’s in charge of everybody, and Grandpa is a millionaire, so be good to him, and he’ll buy you a bike. You’ll
need stabilizers for a while, but we’ll get you going. We’ve put your name down for a good school, and you’ll be a doctor and a brilliant pianist like your dad.’

The women came in. They stood in a row and looked at him, such a tall man with so tiny a scrap in his arms. ‘You look the part,’ Mary said.

‘Can we keep her?’ he begged. ‘I found her outside under the rhubarb. She says she doesn’t like gooseberries.’

Joe, in the company of a toy bear bigger than the infant, crashed in via the front door. ‘By gum,’ he said, a smile stretching across his face. ‘I missed the main feature,
then. And I did eighty up the East Lancs Road.’ He thrust forward the inevitable gift. ‘You were quick, Mary. Did the baby come by air mail?’

Mary nodded. ‘A jet-propelled stork,’ she answered, relieving her father-in-law of his furry burden. ‘This is Katherine Mary Sanderson. She was born at nine fifteen this
morning on a very good rug. Go on. Take her away from Drew; he’s becoming too attached.’

Joe, the businessman who had built an empire from a shed in a back garden, spilled a tear of joy over his granddaughter. ‘The most beautiful sight I ever clapped eyes on,’ he
said.

Mary and Andrew exchanged glances. ‘Have you been to the optician for an eye test lately, Dad?’

Joe grinned through saline at his cheeky son. ‘Give over. She’ll grow into her face. Perfect babies seem to lose their prettiness as they get bigger. But Katherine will be the belle
of the ball.’