A Liverpool Song Read online

  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.’

  Three

  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 m
y 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.

  Helen dried her eyes. Daniel’s disappointment on learning that a second girl was on the way had cut her to the quick. Sarah and Cassandra were perfect little girls; why did men set so much store by reproducing creatures of their own gender? Being female hadn’t held her back; she and her sister were both successful. Kate, who described herself as a go-getter running out of go and getting tired, owned an employment agency. Fortunately, she had an excellent manager, and was no longer full-time. Helen, a lecturer in modern languages, was currently on maternity leave. ‘Kate?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We do what Mummy and Daddy did. We have part-time nannies.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we do.’

  ‘Then why . . . why do we blame them?’

  ‘Because they were occasionally too wrapped up in lurve to spend time with us. Rosie can read, you know. I made damned sure they could both read by the age of three. And I play with them, make cakes with them, talk to them whenever I’m with them. What did we get? A vague good night at bedtime, an occasional story from that tedious fairy-tale book, meals in the nursery and just each other and Eva for company. Living with an ageing Romeo and Juliet was tiresome. I’m quite determined to fall out of love with Richard for the sake of my children. It’s my maternal duty.’

  Helen leaned back and closed her eyes. Kate had always been strong, opinionated and amusing, while she, younger by a relatively short time, was quieter and more thoughtful. She appreciated her sister, but Kate could be rather tiring for a new mum who was breastfeeding, exhausted and unhappy because her husband needed a son. ‘Kate, he wants me to have another child as soon as possible. I don’t want to be pregnant again. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Bloody selfish bloody men.’ The older sister drained her glass. ‘Look, he can’t make you do anything. The law changed yonks ago. He doesn’t own you – you aren’t a serf. You committed the sins of giving him a beautiful daughter and a sweet new baby girl. If he wants a son, let him rut elsewhere.’

  Helen shuddered. ‘I adore Daniel, as you know very well, Kate. I can’t share him. I couldn’t bear the idea of him having special moments with another woman. That would kill me.’

  Kate held her tongue for once. Daniel Pope was not all he seemed, but she wasn’t prepared to break her tall little sister’s heart. While in his cups, he’d tried his luck with Kate, two of her friends and even with the caterer at one event. A jeweller, he travelled in Europe and South Africa. Much of his time was spent in Amsterdam, where matchless diamonds were outnumbered only by women very happy to entertain a man, especially a wealthy one. ‘Helen, get your strength back, then tell him to piss off. Two children are enough. We should replace just ourselves, because the world’s already crammed and polluted.’

  ‘I don’t want to lose him, Kate.’

  In Kate’s opinion, the sooner Daniel buggered off, the better. Helen was stunning, even now with some of the baby-weight still lingering. She was tall, full-breasted and owned a waist that would be tiny again within weeks. Her legs were perfect, and a flawless waterfall of dark, shiny hair flowed halfway down her back. Both girls had the startling, bright blue eyes inherited from their parents, but Helen’s were huge, with lashes that touched her cheeks when her eyes were closed. If Helen would just put herself back on the market, she’d be snapped up faster than goods in Harrods’ New Year sale.

  Kate had no illusions about herself. She was shorter, less curvaceous and nowhere near as pretty, yet she attracted men like flies round an open jam pot. Kate was a challenge, and it showed. Men liked a challenge, while she enjoyed swatting flies, so her life was fuller and easier than Helen’s.

  While half the male students were in love with her, Helen’s head and heart were full of Daniel. She needed a new man, but she didn’t even know it. ‘Show him a yellow card, sweetie. Deliver a lecture on fair play, and red card him if he still refuses to be grateful for what he has. Your husband is an arrogant twit. Look at Richard. He’s babysitting so that I can spend the night here. In the morning, he’ll wash Philip and Rosie, feed them, dress them and take them to school and nursery. He’s a bloody godsend. I really don’t know how I’d manage without him.’

  ‘I know, I know. But Daniel works so hard, always on the go, travelling, buying, looking for the best at lower prices, negotiating deals—’

  ‘Yes, we all know how difficult life is for a millionaire, Helen. It must be terrible; up in the air in triple-A class, champagne, pretty hostesses serving his meals. Awful. Especially for a man with no son to inherit his empire. Pope the Jeweller must go on, you see.’

  ‘You hate him.’ Helen’s voice was a mere whisper.

  ‘I didn’t say that. I’m just glad I married a boring defence lawyer.’ She loved her Richard wholeheartedly, but he, like everyone else including herself, was the butt of many of her jokes. ‘Actually, he’s not boring. He’s defending a murder suspect next week. She’s a very elegant woman of fifty who’d had enough of her husband’s philandering. Cutting bread for toast, she was. Big house, seven acres and a lovely orchard – a wonderful life if you just glanced at her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She cut an extra slice. His throat.’

  ‘Hell’s bells.’

  ‘Quite.
So she washed the knife, washed her hands, picked up the phone and told the police what she’d done. “I made sure he was dead before I phoned you,” she said. Apparently, he’d fathered several children, none with her. She couldn’t have babies. Perhaps you can’t carry boys? But stay away from the bread knife, sweetie.’

  Helen swallowed. ‘Will Richard win the case?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. He has so many witnesses, they’ll have to take a number out of a machine like they do in the haematology clinic. The judge will fall asleep due to boredom. Actually, it’s a female judge, so that’s a help, because she’ll probably listen. Two women say they were drugged and raped, and one poor girl gave birth to a disabled child. By the time Richard’s done his turn, everybody in the court will be congratulating the widow. Oh, and she’s got post-traumatic stress disorder, so she’s lost her sheen. She twitches a lot. Richard reckons the twitch alone will get her off.’

  ‘Who’s speaking up for the dead man?’

  ‘Nobody. Even his family couldn’t stand him. There were seven people at the funeral, and one of them was in a box. Four carried him, one was the undertaker who led the coffin in, while a vicar of some sort stood at the front. When the deceased went through the curtains into the furnace, everybody sighed with relief and went for a quick dip in beer at a nearby pub. Even the vicar took a paddle on the wild side and had half a shandy. I’d love to have been there, but I would have swelled the numbers. Anyway, I’d have applauded when he went into the fire. I wouldn’t have been able to help myself.’

  Cassie began to wail on the baby intercom. It was a hungry cry. Immediately, Helen jumped to her feet.

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ Kate said. ‘Do you have your milk in bottles?’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘Then leave her to me.’

  ‘She won’t accept the rubber teat yet, Kate.’

  ‘You wanna bet? You’re the adult, and she learns your rules. Start early.’ She left the room and walked upstairs. After lifting the baby from her crib, she placed her on the plastic mat and changed her nappy. ‘Right, kiddo. I’m in charge this time. Let’s show Mummy how good we both are. Don’t let me down, or I shan’t let you forget it for the rest of my life.’