For the Love of Liverpool

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I have my phone, so I’ll call a cab.’

  The inner door opened and Tim Dyson strolled out. Prince Charming and his Cinderella were still here. ‘No glass slippers, Alex?’ he joked before turning to Kate. ‘I suspected that your hero might have gone to fetch shoes, and I was right. If you’ve no car, I’m sure he’ll drive you home with those three boxes and your other bag.’

  ‘No need,’ Kate began, but Tim hadn’t finished.

  ‘You’d better hurry, you two, because Mrs Melia will be here shortly with the Mad Moppers. You mustn’t come between Mrs Melia and her disinfectant. She can be very fierce.’

  ‘And so can I,’ Kate promised.

  Tim chuckled as he descended the stairs. Perhaps the two sorely mismatched people in the waiting room might even be good for each other. Explosions sometimes cleared the air, and there was definitely an attraction between them. Predictably, Alex’s body language had been reminiscent of a tranquillized sloth, but Kate had appeared . . . hungry? Was that the right word? Bugger psychology, anyway; this was poker night.

  I am driving the Merc, but something is driving me, and I’m moving too fast. Must get a grip, because I don’t want to drown. Dad taught me to swim when I was about four, but he didn’t live long enough to advise me with regard to avoiding certain women. Yes, I’m afraid of them and yes, I know why. So does Tim.

  ‘Turn left before that level crossing,’ Kate Owen says as we pass the entrance to the West Lancashire Golf Club. She’s in the passenger seat with a large handbag on her knee and two shoeboxes in the footwell. The third ended up in a rubbish bin once she’d decided which pair to wear. Her broken stiletto and its intact partner are in the capacious bag that bears an insignia suspiciously like the Gucci logo.

  Merrilocks Road, the sign says. ‘Strange name,’ I remark.

  ‘I think it’s pretty,’ she replies. She’s probably one of those females who own an answer for everything. A slender finger points right. ‘That’s my house.’

  There are two pairs of old, drunken gates, one at each end of a semicircular driveway. I park near the front door of a three-storey house, once grand but now sad and dilapidated.

  ‘Come in and look at the “before” picture, Alex. I shall be turning it into apartments.’

  I shouldn’t go in. I know full bloody well that I should drive off back to Strawberry Mead, my safe place, the house I’ve had designed to please me and me alone. Well, me and the memory of Lennon, a hero of mine. She’s lovely. I like her. She makes me laugh, so I should get the hell out of here pronto. Very few people cause me to grin, but she’s one of those very few.

  She offers what she must believe is a sweetener to get me inside the house. ‘Come and meet Castor and Pollux. They’re guard dogs, but they won’t hurt you. Don’t be intimidated by their size.’

  I hesitate, though I’m used to dogs. ‘Why? Are they unusually big?’

  ‘Yes, but you’re more likely to have your ankle bitten by a terrier. I’m not a fan of small dogs.’

  Dogs are my weakness; I am currently the property of two Labradors and two huskies, all rescued. Now I’m out of the Merc while she opens her front door, and I’m faced by two of the hugest Alsatians I ever saw. They are gorgeous. When they notice me, they grind to a halt, sit, and stare their owner, clearly awaiting commands.

  ‘Friend,’ she tells them.

  They start doing what might be called a happy dance, though they wouldn’t get far on Strictly. Also, rather too large for such frivolous behaviour, they might cause a shift in tectonic plates or movement in the house’s foundations. My hands are licked until they are almost dripping wet. Next, I am led on a tour of the neglected and very large property. It seems to go on forever; she says she’ll be turning it into three luxury apartments. Then she comes to life, telling me about her job as a theatre set designer.

  ‘Lucky, no licky,’ she commands, and I laugh. She explains that shouting the dog’s name on Crosby beach is not a good idea. ‘He got reduced to Lucky. Pollux sounds like male reproductive equipment. Mind, they still show me up by peeing all over Gormley’s statues.’

  Why do I ache? This isn’t the first beautiful woman I’ve encountered. My mother was stunning. There’s something else, isn’t there? This evening, in the presence of a female stranger, I almost feel the water closing over my head, and I’ve forgotten how to swim and when to breathe. I feel. She makes me feel. And I don’t like it. It’s unsafe.

  She breaks my train of thought. ‘And this is my safe place, humble but my own.’ She’s chosen to live in three of eighteen rooms.

  Her area, her curl-up-and-be-myself spot, is vast and on the ground floor. She’s gone minimalist when it comes to decor, and I guess she’s one of those rare people who could stick a second class stamp in a huge, gilded frame, call it art, and get away with it. The bed’s a king size – is she expecting company? Her gaze accompanies mine. ‘I tend to sleep diagonally,’ she explains. Yes, she’s very tall.

  The dogs’ beds are on the floor near the sofa.

  ‘My bathroom’s through that door, kitchen through the other.’ There’s the sleeping area with drawers and wardrobes, then a living area with a dining set in light oak, a very plain L-shaped sofa with scatter cushions, and a flat screen TV over a magnificent fireplace. In a recess next to the chimney breast sits a desk with a computer and a tidy pile of papers. Everything is super-organized, super-clean.

  Like a third guard dog, I follow her into the kitchen. It’s pristine, with everything in its proper place, no clutter, no sign of human life. It looks as if it’s never been used.

  She reads my thoughts. ‘I have OCD,’ she explains. ‘I’m told it happens when fight-or-flight doesn’t work, when life gets too complicated to control. We freeze. A thaw sets in, and we sometimes get OCD. That’s when this starts, the need to be in charge of small things, like salt, pepper, sugar, coffee and tea.’ She sighs. ‘I do hope I’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘May I sit?’

  ‘Sorry – of course.’

  I place myself at the kitchen table.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’ she asks.

  ‘No, thanks. I can’t stay long. Mrs Boswell will be champing at the bit. She’s my housekeeper, and her hours are variable, but she likes to go to the pub on a Friday night. She and her husband have an annexe attached to my house, though they’ll be dog-sitting.’

  ‘You have dogs? Wonderful.’

  ‘No, no – dogs have me. Churchill and Mac are black Labradors, Laurel and Hardy blue-eyed huskies. The Labs are placid, but the others cling to their wolf ancestors – just a wee bit on the wild side.’

  ‘You’re not married?’

  ‘No. You?’

  She lowers her eyelids for a second. ‘He died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Those bluest of blue eyes fix on me again. ‘I’m not.’

  I’m lost for words. She isn’t. She’s rattling on again about her work, about being an assistant something or other on The Mousetrap – isn’t that the one that’s been running forever? I suppose they’ll have to keep renewing bits and pieces on the stage. The Donmar Warehouse is mentioned, as is the Adelphi – even the Palladium. The subject has changed completely since the mention of her dead husband. Why is she in Liverpool?

  ‘Why are you in Liverpool?’ she asks. Does this woman have satnav attached to my brain?

  ‘I like Liverpool, always have. I’ve been here since I was at uni.’

  ‘And Tim?’

  ‘The same. He studied medicine.’

  ‘What about you?’

  God, she’s nosy. ‘English literature. I dropped out.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bloody hell. ‘I inherited a sum of money from my paternal grandparents, went into property, bought some shops and houses, opened various sorts of clubs in the city. Tim stayed, too.’

  She sits opposite me. ‘You’re both from further inland,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, cotton and coal country. Bolton. He’s a year or
two older than I am.’ And he was there for me all those years ago, has been with me ever since. I have many acquaintances, dozens of business connections but few friends. I trust my dogs, my housekeeper, her husband and Tim. Beyond them, I’m not sure I trust many people, especially those of the female persuasion.

  ‘Do you have friends?’

  Here we go again. She’s invading my very personal space. ‘Just a few. My business is time-consuming.’

  ‘So how do you relax?’

  Is this the bloody Spanish Inquisition? Speak up for yourself, Alex. ‘Why do I feel as if I’m being interviewed for a job?’ I ask her.

  Kate frowns. ‘Sorry. I don’t get out much these days, so you’re probably my first real victim. My car’s having surgery, and I’ve been shut in for days.’

  I give her a small, apologetic smile. ‘I don’t get out much, either. I do play squash very badly in one of the clubs I own. I walk my dogs. Sometimes, I do a round of the clubs, like a spot check – I even serve behind a bar from time to time. You?’

  She shrugs. ‘I’ve been here for just a few weeks. I’ve spoken to shopkeepers, three plumbers, the mechanic who’s mending my car, a couple of electricians, Tim and you. Blundellsands keeps itself to itself, I think. That suits me, because I do the same.’

  I wait before speaking. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you in hiding?’

  ‘Aren’t we all? We wouldn’t need counselling otherwise. Yes, I’m keeping a low profile. But you might be able to cheer me up.’

  I’m panicking. The way she’s looking at me, as if I’m some kind of saviour, a lifeline. I could get lost in those eyes. Kate Owen is special. For me, she’s dangerous. The idea of what some call true love scares the hell out of me. True love means giving someone the ability to hurt you. I can’t go there; will not go there.

  She’s grinning mischievously.

  ‘How do I cheer you up?’ I ask finally.

  ‘A dog picnic,’ she replies. ‘If teddy bears can have a picnic in the woods, Castor and Lucky, Laurel and Hardy, Churchill and Mac can enjoy a party on Crosby beach. Sunday morning, eleven o’clock. Bring treats, poo bags and leads.’

  She remembers the names of my dogs. And I know I’m already dangerously close to losing myself in her, though I mustn’t let it show.

  ‘Do I get an answer?’ she’s asking now. ‘Because you’re hardly the most communicative of people.’

  I tell her I’m thinking through my weekend schedule. And the snare tightens when she asks for my mobile number. She taps it into her Samsung, and mine rings. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘done and dusted – we each have the other’s number.’

  Oh well, that’s me sorted out for the rest of my flaming life. This isn’t about Sunday and six dogs on a beach; it’s about forever. She thinks I haven’t noticed her eyes wandering over me, but I’ve had my rogue female alert system fine-tuned for years. I’m not bragging when I describe myself as handsome – it’s a clinical fact. Yes, I am responding at animal level, but that’s something I can cope with. What bothers me is that I don’t know how to deal with feelings, since I built a wall round me years ago.

  Why her, why now? Why not one of what Tim calls my Stepfords, or the manager at Charm, a barmaid at Cheers, one of the many members at Check Mate, my club for singles? There are women a-plenty at Chillex, my newly acquired health centre, but nobody stands out as The One. And after spending a couple of hours in the company of Kate Owen . . . Oh, bugger it. I’d better go and face Mrs Boswell’s music.

  The Boswells were Alex’s two Bees – Brenda and Brian. Brian looked after the grounds and did minor repairs and decorating in the house, but the place was 100 per cent Brenda’s. It mattered not that an architect had designed it, that craftsmen had built it, that Alex had paid for it; this was her baby. She employed a couple of ‘scrubbers’ during the week, tough and brawny women who attacked floors and windows, but Brenda was definitely ringmaster. No one touched ‘her’ silver, ‘her’ china, ‘her’ kitchen cabinets. Alex sometimes wondered whether he’d be missed if he disappeared.

  He’d been missed tonight. The diminutive figure of Mrs Bee was standing in the entrance hall with her arms folded across her second best coat, and a foot tapping on the parquet. She didn’t tap frequently, using the habit only when extremely agitated. ‘You’re late,’ she accused.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  She inhaled deeply. ‘You smell of perfume, expensive perfume. I think it’s that Channel Five.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ The foot continued to tap.

  He hung his coat in the cloaks cupboard. She was dying to ask, but he played along for a while. ‘We ran late at the office, then I went to see Tim. He was in let’s-make-Alex-laugh mode. He failed.’

  Brenda straightened in a vain attempt to look taller.

  ‘Are the dogs all right?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Fine. They’re in the paddock with Brian. Has Tim Dyson joined Champs aux Fraises?’ Her French accent left a lot to be desired.

  Champs aux Fraises was Alex’s gay club in Liverpool. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Try the English version, Brenda. Champs aux Fraises means Strawberry Fields. And very few men wear women’s perfumes, though some of the lesbians might.’

  Brenda shook her head. He had to have been close to a woman tonight. She spent her days vacillating between worrying about his remaining single and wondering whether a wife might get rid of housekeeper and handyman. But now wasn’t the occasion for imagining; this was bull-by-the-horns time. ‘Who is she?’

  He chuckled. ‘Kate Owen. She broke her shoe, and I drove her home. She lives in Blundellsands.’

  But Brenda Boswell hadn’t been on the planet for over sixty years without learning about undercurrents, tensions in the air, and expressions on the face and in the voice of a man she’d worked for for over five of those years. ‘You like her,’ she stated.

  ‘And?’

  She was flustered. ‘I’m just saying.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Are you seeing her again?’

  ‘Yes. You’ll be late for the pub. Brian will have been replaced on the darts team, and your friends will have started the dominoes marathon. Think of all the gossip you’ll be missing.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now – this very minute. You are late.’

  ‘I know we’re late. We’re late because you’re late.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Her mouth tightened. She knew he was playing her like an old fiddle, and she knew that he knew that she knew. ‘I didn’t mean that when. I meant when will you be seeing—’

  ‘Brenda, leave me alone, love.’

  She didn’t move, though Alex did. Within seconds, he was on the floor under four dogs, each animal vying for attention. Brian stood over the tangle of limbs and tails. ‘We’ll be off, then,’ he called.

  Alex waited until he heard the front door close. ‘Peace, perfect peace,’ he murmured while extricating himself from four wet tongues, four happy tails and sixteen feet. They sniffed. Chanel No. 5 didn’t bother them, though they needed to assimilate the aroma of Kate’s dogs.

  He knew how to distract them. ‘Food,’ he yelled, and four dogs disappeared through the kitchen and into the utility room. He followed. Unless he was away on business, the dogs were his. He fed them, walked them and, when he could catch them before they fled, he showered them. The canny creatures knew when their master planned to attack with water, so containing them on shower days was not easy.

  The Labradors, furry vacuum cleaners, inhaled their dinner, while their lupine companions ate more delicately. Alex let Churchill and Mac into the dog run outside before sitting on a stool to watch the beautiful huskies. Labradors were very attached to humans, but the winning over of Laurel and Hardy, whose mother had died, had been hard work. Alex had been their new mother; he was the one who’d taken over a month off work to get them feeding from bottles. They were beautiful dogs, with thick coats and blue eyes. She had blue eyes . . .

  As a pict
ure of Kate Owen filled his imagination, his mobile phone belted out the tune from Match of the Day. It was her. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you for helping me.’

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ He could sense her smile.

  ‘Just returning the favour, making sure you got home safely.’ She laughed.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Feeding the hungry. Churchill and Mac have finished. Laurel and Hardy have better manners.’

  There was a pause of several seconds. ‘Will you come on Sunday, Alex?’

  ‘Yes. Have you checked the tides?’

  She had. Of course she had. ‘Let’s go to the part near the lifeguard station,’ she suggested.

  ‘OK, boss.’

  She laughed again. ‘See you Sunday.’

  ‘Yes, see you then.’

  The connection died. Alex turned to Laurel. ‘And here’s another fine mess you’re getting me into.’ He let the huskies out into the run for ten minutes. Experiencing a strange mixture of trepidation and excitement, he found his supper and went to seek his DVD of Turner & Hooch; it was Churchill’s favourite. It would soon be Sunday.

  Two

  It was a warm day for mid-April. A couple of light showers had washed the world clean just after dawn, and the air was freshened by a light breeze. As the sun neared its zenith, rays played on the water like excited children, while shadows of statues depicting Gormley’s Another Place began to shrink on the sands of Crosby.

  Alex Price sat on the erosion steps, two Labradors to his left, two huskies to his right. As keeper of several dogs, he had to make sure they knew the rules, the first of which was Thou shalt not bother strangers, while the second, Sit still until I tell you to move, had all members of the tribe quivering expectantly. Well, Alex wasn’t exactly quivering, though his heart and mind were both busy.

  She was here. He knew that, because several males stopped on the sand and stared over his head through the rails that separated the steps from a tarmac-covered parking and walking area. And he was feeling again, because he didn’t like other people looking at her. She wasn’t his; she was just a woman who’d broken a shoe and asked a lot of questions. Was this jealousy? Whatever its name, it was new and confusing, and he hoped it would disappear soon.