A Liverpool Song (6 page)

They cleared the table and washed dishes. Together, Andrew and his mother worked like a well-oiled machine, even here in the confines of a small kitchen. It occurred to him that life without Dad
would be a great deal better than life without Mother. If his father never came back, it wouldn’t matter, because he had another—

The front door flew inward. ‘You there, missus?’ yelled a male voice. ‘Keep your rubbish off the street, will you? We get sick of shifting trash like this.’

Emily left her son in the kitchen. On the floor in the hall, her husband was moaning and trying to get to his feet. She bent to help him.

‘Leave me alone,’ snapped the heap on the floor. ‘I’ve been robbed. I’ve been beaten, too.’

Andrew offered to go for the police.

‘No,’ Joe snapped. ‘He got nothing but my watch.’

Andrew backed away. There was no doubt in his mind that the probably fast-escaping visitor was the husband of the woman in the dirty house. The letter box opened, and the missing watch landed on
the doormat. ‘There’s your watch that fell off, you cheap bastard. Even mine’s better than yon, and I’m nobbut a bin man. Like I said, I’m used to shifting muck and
rubbish.’ The flap clattered back into position.

‘Andrew, go and pack an overnight case. We shall stay at the Pack Horse tonight.’

‘Why?’ groaned Joe.

‘Because the creature out there’s angry, and he may return and burn the house down. Senseless people have a tendency to react badly.’

Joe struggled to his feet. One eye was closed, his nose was bloody, and his clothes were in tatters. ‘Don’t talk daft,’ he snapped. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

Andrew was not in a position from which he might see his mother’s face, but he could picture it in his mind’s eye. She would be calm, straight-lipped and steady-eyed. There’d
be no nervous blinking, no outward fear, no tears. ‘Andrew and I are going,’ she said. ‘And I strongly advise you to do the same for the sake of your own safety.’

They walked to the hotel, which was some distance away. Emily left her husband bruised and bleeding at home while she booked a twin-bed room for herself and her son. Since leaving the house, she
had spoken not one word, and her son had respected the silence. But once in their room, she asked him to sit on his bed facing her.

She sat. ‘You must try not to be angry with or worried about your father. He leads what I term a Saturday night life, and he meets some people who are not very pleasant. They get drunk,
throw their weight about, argue over a game of dominoes or darts, and sometimes they fight. Tonight your father became a victim of misunderstanding. He may come here, or he may stay at home. I
can’t order him about and tell him what to do; he’s a grown man.’

‘We left Toodles,’ Andrew said.

‘Don’t worry about her.’

‘You said the man might come back and set fire to the house.’

‘Ah, yes.’ She reached across and patted her son’s hand. ‘I just want him to think about the people he mixes with, Andrew. If he were a little more careful, he would get
less trouble.’

‘Has there been other trouble, Mother?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid there has.’

It was all connected to the woman with the battle-scarred front door. Mother probably knew that, but Andrew dared not say a word on the subject. Emily Sanderson courted nobody’s pity.

That night, Andrew slept fitfully. Once, during a period of wakefulness, he heard his mother sobbing quietly just a few feet away. Hatred for his father deepened; had Joseph Sanderson stayed
away from the filthy woman, her husband would never have come near Mother. Dad was a pig. Andrew made up his mind there and then that he would never go into a public house.

Joe Sanderson nursed his wounds, flinching slightly while cleaning torn flesh. By tomorrow, he would have a real shiner. There was no steak in the refrigerator, but ice wrapped
in a tea cloth helped the eye to feel slightly less painful. She’d gone. She’d gone and she’d taken his son. ‘A proper wife would’ve tended to me. Mind, I did tell her
to bugger off, I suppose.’ But try as he might, he couldn’t stop loving her. He would always love Emily, but a man had needs . . .

He tried and failed to read the newspaper. Apart from his half-blindness, he was worried sick about Betsy, and he was shaking. Would the ugly, fat sod kill her? God knew he was big enough and
angry enough. According to Betsy, Martin Liptrott was still ‘like a little boy down there’, and it had never been a real marriage. Well, Joe certainly knew how that felt, because Em was
a cold fish, though it wasn’t all her fault, was it? Joe couldn’t stay the course. Even preparing a woman was difficult, as he got over-stimulated and . . . well, it was called
premature ejaculation, and though the doc had tried to help, nothing worked.

Fortunately, neither of his women knew that he, too, was different. Emily had never expected much, so the little he had to offer had suited, as she was glad when the business was over. Betsy, a
true virgin, was happy as long as he helped her attain some pleasure when he had finished. They’d been lucky so far, as no pregnancy had ensued. Most of the time, he used that thick rubber
thing, but sometimes . . . He wiped his brow, flinched when he hit a sore spot. If she had a child, Marty would know for certain that any issue was a bastard.

Right. That was it; his mind was made up. The business was doing well, so he could pay cash, no mortgage necessary. The Sandersons could be living almost opposite Bolton School within weeks.
Emily would be on top of her new job, as the infirmary was not far away, school would be on the doorstep, while Joe’s drive to his workshop would be no more difficult than it was now. This
house was about to go on the market, because he could no longer expect Emily or Betsy to accept the status quo. Hmm. The wife wasn’t the only one to know a bit of Latin.

It was an end of terrace on Mornington Road, a large enough pile of Victoriana, with a back yard instead of a garden. Due to an extended kitchen, the plot at the rear was rather small, but a
smart bathroom, a downstairs lavatory and a Sanderson kitchen in mint condition should appeal to Her Royal Highness.

Hidden in the wilds, Emily had married late and her family had cast her out. As they all stank of pigs, cows and horses, God alone knew how they managed to feel superior to a qualified and
experienced master carpenter, though he suspected it was something to do with land. They had land to spare, acreage enough for four or five farms. It stretched in a relatively narrow swathe right
across Lancashire and almost into the mountains. Relatively narrow meant several miles, of course.

They were a tough lot who had dedicated their lives to the improvement of stock, so they knew all about hard work, he had to allow them that. But they were greedy, and they had drummed into
their children the concept that land should marry land. Because of Emily’s undeniable beauty, they had expected a climb-up of a marriage, since she spoke well, carried herself nicely and
attracted attention. However, shyness had held her back until she’d met the Sanderson chap, and it had all run downhill from there.

Educated privately, Emily was his superior in many ways, but he was the one who funded their current lifestyle, who paid for uniform, school meals, piano lessons, toys, bicycles, improvements to
the house, groceries, household bills, his wife’s clothing. He knew that she missed open spaces, her horses, her siblings. And in spite of everything, he loved her to bits, while she
respected him to a degree.

Oh God, what a mess, and all of his own making. In a way, he couldn’t blame Marty Liptrott, because impotence must be a horrible thing. But.

But a man had needs, and he had needed Betsy. She was uneducated, not always clean, while her conversational skills were minimal, but she welcomed him physically, and that fact allowed him
release and relief. He had never loved poor Betsy. She was a good laugh, and she made excellent chip butties, yet apart from the sex they were just good friends.

His tongue found a loose incisor in his lower jaw. Oh, wonderful. Another visit to the dentist might well result in a plate with one tooth on it. Actually, the tooth next to it wasn’t
exactly standing to attention. What about Betsy, though? Would she have run away to her mother’s house on Ainsworth Lane? Oh, he hoped somebody was protecting her. She had brothers . . .

At last, he fell asleep. In dreams, he watched helplessly as his wife was trampled to death under the hooves of a wild horse, while Betsy was pulverized by her husband. It was all his fault;
even the horse was his fault. He woke convinced that life had to change. Had it not been for the school, he would have engineered a move to Liverpool here and now, because Liverpool was recovering
from a crippling war, and factory units were cheap to rent. ‘All in good time,’ he breathed. ‘All in good time.’

Emily Sanderson was also deep in thought. Unbeknown to the rest of her kin, she had money. The maiden great-aunt who had always supported her, who had railed against the rest
of the family, had bequeathed more than a piano to her favourite girl. The account, in Emily’s name only, was supervised by an excellent adviser with the Midland Bank. She saw him quarterly,
and was pleased to note that her original investment had more than doubled.

But although she had this running-away fund, she would never separate Andrew from his father unless life became unsupportable. Joseph was not a bad man. He was an excellent provider, and he took
care to spend time with his son, although lately a distance had appeared to exist between the two. She and Joseph still talked, real conversations about the state of the world, politics, furniture
design. Had they not been married, they might have been the very best of friends.

‘Are you awake, Mother?’

‘Yes, I am. You may use the bathroom first. When we’re both ready, we’ll go home.’

‘Right.’ He got out of bed.

‘Andrew?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ll never leave him as long as he treats you well. And the move to Liverpool won’t happen until you’ve finished school. He’ll have calmed down by now, I expect.
He’s like a rocket – a whoosh and a bit of flame, and anger’s all done. Don’t worry. Life will improve, I promise you.’

On his way to the bathroom, he stopped and turned. He simply asked, ‘Where are you from originally, Mother?’

She awarded him the broadest of her many smiles. ‘Over the hills and far away, my darling.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, very far away.’

Katherine Rutherford threw herself with typical carelessness on to her sister’s sofa. She kicked off her shoes and reached up to accept a glass of red wine. ‘Helen,
I am so far beyond merely tired. Even my hair’s too exhausted to do as it’s told. Why weren’t we warned about the fact that children are parasitic by nature? They’re eating
me up, and I’m already too short. Daddy should have told us; he’s a doctor, so he should know about these things. He never says nothing about nothing, does he?’ Kate owned perfect
English, and came across for much of the time as an educated woman, yet she slipped in and out of local vernacular with no warning. It was part of her charm, and Helen loved her for it.

‘A sawbones, darling. He knows little or nothing about humanity, and he hasn’t spoken in joined-up writing since Mummy died. Anyway, I’m the one with the newborn. Your
Philip’s at school, and Rosie’s in nursery. I know you’ve had parents’ evening tonight, but come on. You’re not stuck with the
definitely-not-intellectually-stimulating day in and day out. The most exciting part of my life is Cassie’s weigh-in. Till she pukes on my clothes or spits at those very fierce
nurses.’

They sat next to each other in a short but stony silence, wondering and worrying about the generations above and below them. Each had two children, plus a father named Andrew Sanderson, an
ex-surgeon so celebrated that he had been honoured by the palace. ‘OBE?’ Kate took an unladylike slurp of one of her brother-in-law’s precious vintage reds. ‘Old Bloody
Egotist. Ian visited him last week, and he was more interested in some dog than in conversation with his only son. Mind, Ian can be a bit too earnest.’

Helen smiled ruefully. Her sister’s behaviour was typically amusing. ‘I’d better not drink any more. I don’t want to make Cassie ill.’

Kate snorted. ‘Get her on the bottle and take a walk on the wild side, our kid. I couldn’t have managed with a succubus hanging from one of my tits for twelve hours a day. The woman
next door to me has great flappy things drooping down to her waist. She’s only thirty-seven, but five kids have left her looking like several hundredweight of King Edward spuds. No.
I’ve done my bit, one of each – sorted.’ She studied her elegant younger sister. Helen had inherited their father’s height, while Kate, the elder by a couple of years, was
tiny as their mother had been. ‘You’re perfect,’ she grumbled.

‘And you’re a very pretty little doll, so shut up.’ Helen sighed deeply. ‘Daniel wants a son. Well, his mother does, so he does.’

Kate remained undaunted. ‘Look, you have two girls, Ian has twin boys. So do a straight swap, goods returnable within twenty-eight days if customer not satisfied. If, once the warranty
runs out, you find yourself lumbered with a kid you don’t like, mark it up and sell it on to some Hollywood tart who wants children, but no stretch marks. Not a problem.’

Helen collapsed in a weepy heap of laughter. Kate had been impossible forever. ‘Stop it, you. I’m still postnatal.’ She sniffed and smiled bravely. ‘They were so in love,
though, weren’t they?’

‘Who were?’

‘Mummy and Daddy.’

‘They were. And we were sometimes relegated to the bottom of the division, so poor Eva looked after us while her spinster sister raised her kids. Madness all round.’

‘Will you stop making me laugh, Kate? I’ve told you, I’m postnatal, forever near to either tears or laughter, no middle ground. And our parents always gave us good holidays.
Oh, I’m so hormonal.’

Kate shrugged. ‘I’m the same. I’ve every intention of remaining so until my kids are at least twenty. That aside, the contraceptive pill is my lifeline. I won’t let
Richard near me till I’ve done at least five re-counts of the packet, by which time he’s asleep anyway. Management skills, you see. Mine are so honed that I’ve never had to plead
a headache.’ She delivered the lie slickly. Richard and she were blissfully happy.