A Liverpool Song (50 page)

‘Shall I gift-wrap it?’

‘I’ll do that myself, but thank you.’

‘Would you like her name engraved on the back?’

She thought about that. ‘Her birthday’s next week.’

‘Plenty of time.’

‘All right. Sister Kate, please.’

‘Older than you?’

‘Lower sixth.’

‘And you are?’

‘Helen Sanderson.’

Daniel asked for her telephone number.

‘No need,’ was her answer. ‘My father’s a doctor, so we must keep the line as clear as possible.’ There was a second number for the family, but she wasn’t
about to give him that one, either. ‘I’ll come back in a few days,’ she added.

‘I’m sure Kate will love your gift. See you soon.’

As she closed the shop door, a thought struck him. Next month, the school would close for the summer. His parents were school governors, and they had received invitations to the sixth form ball.
They wouldn’t use the tickets. A ball was not their scene, so he would go in their place. He would go alone, too. Kate. The sister must be found. ‘
Cherchez la femme
,’ he
whispered. The loss he’d sustained on the silver locket was of no significance, because Kate’s sister was worth every penny and more.

He stood in the window and watched Helen crossing the road. She was clearly aware of herself, ugly shoes, slackened belt, hair scraped away from a classically perfect face. Well, she
didn’t fool him, not for one minute. The girl was jail bait, far too young for tampering with.

Helen could feel his eyes burning into her back. He was a very handsome man, and he knew it. Dad had explained this kind of stuff. ‘Chemistry,’ he had told her, ‘is a word used
for the basic attraction between male and female. It starts in the brain. Without being aware of it, we search for a match, someone to have or to father our babies. Almost invariably, the chemistry
happens between two people who would measure as equals if looks were quantifiable. A beautiful woman picks a handsome man and vice versa. The moderately attractive mate with each other, as do pairs
considered ugly. It’s an animal thing.’

Had it just happened? Why was she tightening her belt? She was too young for this type of thing, and he was . . . older. And he was gorgeous.

Dad had also explained that teenage years were difficult. ‘As with all animals, we reproduce best when young. A girl who menstruates is ready, in the physical sense, to breed. Her body is
supple, yet not fixed, not hardened by time. A teenage birth can be as easy as shelling peas. But civilization has altered our code. Caveman bred early and died early. So remember that any feelings
you have for a boy must be put aside until your education is over.’

It all made sense. The education of women was of prime importance, because there might be widowhood, abandonment, divorce, and many women these days were responsible for fatherless children. But
none of these thoughts rendered the jeweller less attractive. This was probably just the first of many such encounters she would experience before reaching the magical age of twenty-one. She
glanced across the road. He waved. She waved back. But he was surely a man who wanted to get into her knickers. At his age, he wouldn’t want to put anybody on a pedestal.

She couldn’t have been more wrong. He already had her on hoardings rather than on a plinth. In something diaphanous, diamonds on her earlobes, diamonds and a sapphire at her throat, a
sapphire chosen to agree with those dark blue eyes, three carats on the engagement finger, hair severe, hair free and flowing, a very slight smile, a pout, a profile, full face, looking over her
shoulder, taut buttocks pushing against pale voile . . . oh hell, he would need a woman tonight.

Mary and Andrew Sanderson, also governors of Grange College, attended the end-of-year ball. For half the young people here, this evening marked the completion of their
schooldays. Kate, with a year to go, was with Lower Sixth pupils. She looked amazing in a plain silver shift, silver shoes, silver bangle, and the locket bought by her younger sister. ‘She
has wonderful skin,’ Mary whispered to her husband. ‘And her hair’s glorious among all that metallic garb. When she stands away from Helen, she’s a real corker.’

Andrew smiled. ‘And Helen’s not here, so Kate can position herself in her own limelight.’

Governors and teachers were here as chaperons. People could dance together, of course, but kissing and wandering hands were strictly out of bounds.

‘That tall fellow keeps staring at her,’ Mary said.

‘Oh, it’s young Rutherford. We saved his legs and his life years ago, and there’s not a mark on him. Meningitis, a bad dose of it. He was away from school for more than a year
what with one thing and another, so he’s older than his classmates.’

‘How did you save him? Was it blood poisoning?’

‘Yes. And never tell him, but we used maggots and leeches. Building him up again took the longest time once he left hospital. Three nights, I sat with him. He was talking some of the
finest rubbish I ever heard. Yes, he’s fixed on our girl, all right. But so is that other one, older still, I think.’

‘Jeweller from St Johns Road,’ Mary pronounced. ‘He’ll be here because his parents are governors – you know them. Popes. He’s got a face like a busted gusset,
and she has a bloodhound’s jowls. So much for your idea of ugly people having ugly children – look at him. Anyway, he’s too old for Kate.’

He was talking to Kate. He was touching her locket. ‘Helen must have bought that from him,’ Mary said. ‘I can’t see his parents, so he’s probably here in their
place, like a deputy governor. They wouldn’t fit in here. Joy’s a word missing from their dictionary.’

Andrew noticed that the Rutherford boy was scowling at Pope. A part of him wished they would fight over Kate, give her a sense of her worth, but fights were not listed on the curriculum at the
Grange. Pope walked away and was intercepted by Richard Rutherford.

‘I wish I could hear what they’re saying, Drew.’

She would have been disappointed.

‘What’s that girl’s name?’ Richard asked, just to open the conversation.

‘Oh, it’s Kate. Kate Sanderson. I sold that locket to her sister, Helen. It was for Kate’s birthday last month. Have you seen Helen?’

‘Not here; she’s in the fifth come September, so she’s too young.’

‘I didn’t mean tonight. Have you seen her?’

‘Yes, I sometimes walk them home. Helen’s continually persecuted by men and boys.’

‘Oh, right.’

The light dawned. ‘If you’re interested in Helen, there’s a very long queue.’

Daniel straightened his tie. ‘I don’t mind competition.’

‘She’s fifteen.’

‘She won’t stay fifteen, though, will she?’ He walked away.

Richard Rutherford inhaled deeply, crossed the room and invited Kate to dance. ‘May I have the pleasure?’ he asked.

She pulled him away from her group. For a reason she failed to understand, no badinage could take place within the hearing of others. ‘What pleasure would that be? I mean, do what you like
for your own amusement, but not in a public place.’

‘The pleasure of dancing with you, of course.’

She scarcely knew what to say. ‘Listen, Rich. Thanks for walking us home and all that, but she’s not interested.’

He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Neither am I.’ It was a modern waltz, and he was holding her. She proved light on her feet and a good dancer. ‘Helen’s not my type. You
are.’

Kate stumbled slightly.

‘If we were elsewhere, your head would tuck nicely under my chin. You smell wonderful. And you shine like a little silver star in that outfit.’

She stopped moving so suddenly that he, too, was forced to stand still. ‘Are you on tablets?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Well get some, then. Because you’re talking twaddle. Mind, your hair’s in better shape than it was. Did you get rid of the cricket?’

‘Yes. Very sad. It croaked.’

‘Was it a cricket or a frog?’

‘Both. The frog ate the cricket.’

‘So they both croaked?’

He nodded. ‘It was a terrible day. As a nature lover, I was forced to wear a black armband. You’ve no idea how beautiful you are, have you? May I ask for a date?’

‘Not till Christmas. Mum buys a couple of boxes then.’

‘Give me a chance, Kate. I enjoy your company. I shall disappear soon into the bowels of ancient Oxford, and I want you to miss me.’

Kate was seldom stumped for words. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. It was all so surreal, almost like history repeating itself. Mum had gone out to see the Beatles at the Cavern, but
she’d accidentally collected Dad instead. They’d tried to explain to her and Helen that it sometimes happened that way, but that it was rare and often just a passing fancy.

‘Lost for words, little one?’

He made her feel special. Thus far, she’d felt special only in maths classes, where she left the rest of her fellows standing. ‘I’m not used to this sort of thing,’ she
replied eventually. ‘This is Helen’s department. My brother and I try to keep her many admirers at bay.’

‘I know.’

‘And I suppose you did return the tennis ball.’

‘I did.’

Only then did they realize that the waltz had finished, that the DJ was playing pop, and that they stood out like a pair of statues among all the writhing bodies. ‘Shall we sit
down?’ she mouthed over the cacophony.

They sat at a safeish distance from the speakers. He continued to hold her hand, and she made no attempt to retrieve it. There was no one else in the room; everything melted away like snow in
strong sunlight.

‘Your father and grandfather saved my life many years ago.’

‘Did you need a wooden leg?’

It was Richard’s turn to be silent.

‘Granddad makes furniture and kitchens from wood, Rich. Your saviours were my dad and my grandmother’s lover.’

‘Whoa! How modern is your family?’

‘Very. I have an aunt in St Helens born out of wedlock. She’s my real grandfather’s illegitimate daughter. He now lives with a woman called Thora, though they don’t share
a bed, or so I’m told. But my parents are monogamous.’

‘Good.’

‘You’re an old-fashioned boy, then?’

‘Not a boy.’

‘You cross-dress?’

‘No. I’m a man, twenty next birthday. But the glandular fever, meningitis and recovery took a total of eighteen months all told. I lost time, forgot a lot of the stuff I’d
known since infancy. I was a blank page. Catching up took a while, and my parents worried about brain damage.’

‘Yes.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘If you’ve chosen me, it could be a symptom. You clearly can’t tell the difference between gold and iron pyrites.’

‘But I know my little silver girl.’

She blushed. Kate Sanderson never blushed.

‘Kate—’

‘I hope you’re not going to be a nuisance,’ she said before he managed to say anything more. ‘As things are, we may have to auction Helen to the highest bidder, because
it’s all becoming tiresome.’

Richard grinned. ‘What about the curtains?’

‘They’re not for sale.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘Neither is my virginity.’

His reply almost floored her. ‘I’ve no intention of paying for it.’

Goose pimples covered her arms; every tiny hair seemed to be standing to attention. So this was it, then. This was chemistry. But she didn’t remain fazed for long. ‘About that ball,
Richard. ‘You can have it back and stick it where—’

A speaker above their table suddenly came to life, belting out Michael Jackson at a level that was almost deafening. But he read her lips. She didn’t mince her ancient English, then . .
.

Andrew Sanderson, sixty-one years of age and in several minds, stared hard and critically at his image in the cheval mirror. He was a man. He was a man well past his prime, but
in spite of that fact he continued an adult human male. He had a full set of chisels, two pianos, four valuable cars, a macho-looking dog, enough spanners to service a fleet of taxis, two
daughters, one son, six grandchildren, one headache and a few problems. He was being managed. Never since his years as apprentice to Compton-Gore had he felt so mithered. They were all watching him
and no, this was not paranoia; he’d smoked no skunk since 1962 when a student known as Steve the Weed had been sent down for growing his own.

Tired and worn down by the will and supposed wisdom of others, he had finally conceded and agreed to do their bidding. Strangely, all he had needed to do was nothing, because his superiors took
silence to mean total submission. Females, self-elected presidents of the whole world, were drawing detailed maps and listing ingredients necessary to make his life enjoyable and fulfilling. Well,
he was OK, and he wanted no changes for better or worse, yet here he stood like a shop-window dummy, because this was expected of him. Being in several minds was not suiting him in the slightest
way. This, he supposed, was the definition of real confusion.

He’d done hip replacements and knee surgery, mended countless numbers of limbs, invented a special fixing agent that most human bones found acceptable; he had met Her Majesty, had waded
through blood and tissue after major road accidents, had even revived the dead, but he couldn’t deal with his own family. Perhaps he should invest in a gun or start slipping tranquillizers
into their drinks.

All dressed up in a good suit and crisp white shirt, he wondered what the hell he was up to. He knew very well what he was up to. No, he didn’t. Yes, he did. But why? Helen had pushed him
along with a determination he’d never noticed before. Yes, he had. She’d been pretty stubborn while leaving Daniel Pope, and she was at it again, wasn’t she? Was she? Oh, what
wouldn’t he give for a bit of quiet, the ability to finish a crossword, read a book, stand on his head in a corner should the need arise.

Sarah, now in her third year, was a questioner. Why didn’t the sun fall out of the sky, did it hang on a string, how did birds fly, when would Cassie walk? Two-and-three-quarter-year-olds
were supposed not to be so verbose, but she had to be the exception, of course. Cassie was a crawler. She got under everything, behind everything and inside a lot of things not suited to occupation
by a quadruped child who was desperate to become a biped. As for their mother, well . . .