For the Love of Liverpool

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I don’t always know who or what I am, Alex.’

  ‘Even Tim, the expert, could not have managed in two years what you’ve achieved in weeks. Your courage, your defiance, your affection and humour have seeped into my brickwork and formed a bond ten times stronger than any mortar. This dead boy in Cheers has rattled the slates on my roof. The shock was a force ten gale, Kate. Stay with me. I need you.’

  ‘And I need you,’ she whispered. ‘It works both ways.’

  ‘Do you find it scary?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. It’s always a matter of chance, luck and management – I loved Jim until I learnt he was a criminal. Once he realized that I knew what he was, the beatings started. But this is different, as if I’ve always known you.’

  Alex managed a cheeky grin. ‘Remembering from the future. How very poetic.’

  ‘Marriage is not poetic; it’s like a small business,’ she said. ‘It needs to be kept in good order. Yes, there’s love in the mix, but there has to be sense, too. Good sense and good times are the glue.’ She stared at him to make sure he understood what she meant. ‘Let’s go home,’ she suggested.

  They went home.

  When the remote controlled gates opened, Alex and Kate noticed Mrs Bee in the front doorway, arms folded tightly across her chest, face like thunder, a foot tapping on the step. ‘Oh, God,’ Alex breathed, ‘she’s on one.’

  Kate studied the housekeeper as they neared the door. ‘Home is where the heart is – that’s the theory,’ she commented. ‘But we get a gargoyle in a temper. Great. I’ll deal with her while you put the car away.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m always sure; get used to it.’

  As soon as the car stopped, Kate jumped out. ‘Hello, Brenda. You look as if you swallowed a wasp. What’s going on?’

  Mrs Bee huffed. ‘My husband is down below in his underpants in the swimming pool.’

  Kate shrugged. ‘We all need a hobby, and swimming’s good exercise.’

  A second huff fought its way through Brenda’s tightly clenched teeth. ‘He’s not swimming.’

  ‘I’m sorry. He isn’t drowning, is he?’

  ‘No. Well, I hope not, because he needs to trim his topiary and it’s my sister’s birthday down the Legion tonight. We’ve bought her a spa weekend down Chester way and a nice lace tablecloth.’

  Kate fought to swallow an explosion of laughter. Scousers were brilliant. They answered all questions except for the important one, placing special emphasis on enquiries that remained unasked. ‘What’s going on, Brenda?’

  ‘Dogs. Dogs is what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She didn’t, but knew there was more to come.

  ‘Probably my fault, Kate. I must have left the door open a bit.’

  ‘Which door?’

  ‘The door to the stairs going down to the gym and the pool. I’ve been doing a bit of cleaning down there, and I mustn’t have shut it proper, like. Then we noticed. We’d gone from six dogs to no dogs, and we were up and down this house like shoplifters fleeing out of Asda. Six dogs is a lot of dogs to lose.’

  ‘Yes, it would be.’

  Brenda relaxed slightly. ‘You tell him, love.’

  ‘Brian?’

  ‘No, he’s not fit to be seen. Tell Alex.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘That there’s six big dogs in his pool, his filters will be clogged with hair, and my Brian’s trying to catch the buggers. Every time he gets one out, it jumps back in again. It’s his death of cold he’ll be catching, my Brian, never mind dogs.’

  Brenda retreated while Kate made her way to the garages. By the time she reached her beloved, tears were coursing down her face.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, concern in his tone.

  After several moments, she gained enough composure to tell him, though further gales of laughter impeded proceedings. When in possession of the tale, Alex found himself reduced to a quivering mass of near-hysteria. ‘Jeez,’ he managed. ‘I can’t wait to see Brian in his knickers.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she begged. ‘Think about your filters all clogged up with hair.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. I’d better go down there now.’

  Abandoned, Kate sat in the Mercedes and chuckled. Life with Alex was full of surprises – and glee. ‘He’ll tell me soon,’ she whispered to herself when the giggling ceased. ‘He’ll let me in, allow me to know who he is.’

  Mrs Bee tapped on the window. She pointed to a workbench. ‘Cup of tea and a bit of ginger cake, love. Thanks for telling him.’

  Kate climbed out of the car. ‘The dogs?’ she asked.

  ‘One word from Alex and they were all out of the water. He found Brian a robe, and they’re both drying dogs in the utility. Alex says you’ve to come in soon and get one of the hairdryers out. Them hounds is saturdated.’

  ‘Saturated?’

  ‘Yes. Wet through.’

  Kate feasted on Mrs Bee’s very special ginger cake and a cup of hot tea. In this house with six dogs, a difficult housekeeper and a man who suffered flashbacks, she was happier than she’d ever been since her own childhood. Ah, here he came.

  ‘Get inside, and make with the hairdryer. Tour of the clubs tomorrow, see what you think.’

  ‘Finish your cake,’ Mrs Bee told Kate, and then looked Alex up and down. ‘I’ve got my eye on you, Alex Price.’

  ‘I know, Other Mother. Go away while I pinch half of that cake.’

  Kate grinned. Yes, she was finally at home.

  Six

  Kate’s special phone is ringing, and she’s outside playing with six dogs and one tennis ball. I can see twenty-six legs, six tails and one human head in the mix. Where’s the ball? It’s probably buried somewhere underneath that confused bundle of life. For the first time in my life, I’m with a beautiful, strong woman, and am unafraid.

  Thinking about that, I remember just one more beautiful woman, but I will not swim through blood today. The phone’s still ringing. Through her Zedge app, Kate has chosen the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly – a very apt app, considering the reason for this phone’s existence.

  Knowing that Scotland Yard is trying to contact her, I answer. ‘This is Kate’s phone; Alex Price speaking.’

  ‘My surname’s Allen,’ says the inspector, ‘and I must speak to Kate and only to Kate.’

  I tell him I understand and explain that I will need to go and rescue her, as she’s a bit tied up just now. ‘I’ll get her straight away,’ I promise.

  A shrill whistle from me brings the dogs to heel – well, most come to heel. Castor and Pollux remain with their mistress, because they are her guards. She stands. No wig. Those dark, shining curls cling to her head, and she’s dressed in torn jeans and one of my T-shirts, which looks like a two-man tent on her. Yet the woman takes my breath away . . .

  ‘What?’ she shouts, fists resting on hips buried beneath my filthy T-shirt.

  ‘Your phone – the Scotland Yard one.’

  I stay outside with my dogs; I know the call will be about her father-in-law’s grave and that she was very fond of the old man. Old man? He was in his sixties when he died, and I’d bet my boots that Latimer the elder was thoroughly ashamed of Latimer the younger.

  Here she comes, tears streaming down her face leaving in their wake two narrow routes of cleanliness. ‘I was right,’ she sobs.

  Of course she was right. ‘Have a shower,’ I advise, ‘and we’ll go to Crosby beach with the dogs. We can talk while sitting on the erosion steps.’

  She nods, but the tears continue to course down that wonderful, dirty face. ‘How could he do that to his father, Alex?’

  I tell her that Jim probably wasn’t an out-and-out sociopath, because he’d loved his mother. ‘How could he hurt his daughter?’ I ask. ‘He was a criminal. They’re usually made rather than born, sweetheart. Yes, he could have curbed his temper, but no doubt it became harder to control as he grew older. He fell in with a bad crowd when young, I exp
ect. Don’t cry. Let’s go and wear out the animals. By the way, you look like an overgrown four-year-old, black as a chimney that wants a sweep. I think we need the power hose.’

  ‘I need only you,’ she whispers, hiccuping against more sobs. Even when she cries, she’s beautiful.

  ‘Do the police have everything now?’

  She nods. ‘Even the pearls. The owner is donating them to Amelia. I’ll get them restrung when she’s old enough to appreciate such a valuable piece.’

  ‘Good. Now, go and clean up the act. We’ll have a look at the clubs later. Between us, the inspector, the dogs and I will keep you safe. Have the police picked up those two loose ends?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Are they searching for them?’

  She nods her head. ‘But they’re lying low; there’s no sign of them. Anyway, Scotland Yard will tell the press that the missing safety deposit boxes have been found, so I should be safer now.’

  I ask if Amelia might come home, but Kate’s not ready for that. Only when the loose ends are in jail will she consider bringing home her daughter and her parents. ‘In case the loose ends don’t believe press statements. They may continue to suspect that I have some of the haul, though they’ll know I’m not a thief. I wasn’t involved in any of Jim’s schemes. Let’s wait a while.’ She leaves me and goes to shower. My arms are empty and my heart is sore. I hate seeing her suffering. To distract myself, I make a promised phone call.

  There was a skittish breeze whistling its way across the beach in Liverpool North, acting as if it attempted to compete with crying gulls. Starlings, too, were in the mix; they had learnt that better spring weather brought picnics, a hot dog van and the ice cream man.

  Kate and Alex kept the dogs beside them on the steps; there were two children on the sands near the lifeguard station. Laurel and Hardy, who appreciated a little wildness in the weather, were anxious to be up and away, but Alex held them back until he heard the voice. It was Libby, the little princess in charge of paper flags and banana yogurt, and an older boy who seemed to be looking after her. Two mothers stood at the water’s edge and watched a tanker drifting its lazy way into the Port of Liverpool.

  ‘It’s the man,’ Libby screamed, ‘and he brought his dogs. He promised he would.’ She pulled the boy with her. ‘This is my cousin Matthew,’ she announced. ‘I told him about you and how you build the best sandcastles. Auntie Sue is with Mummy near the water. You phoned Mummy.’

  The children sat with Kate and Alex while the dogs were released. ‘I hope they don’t knock over those two mothers,’ Alex whispered to Kate. ‘They might sue for damages.’

  ‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ she replied. ‘This place seems to clear my head. So this is the young lady you told me about? Pleased to meet you, Libby – and you, Matthew.’ She turned to her adult companion. ‘Right, Alex. Go and make sandcastles and I’ll be the judge of your efforts.’

  He laughed. ‘Aren’t you always?’

  ‘It’s my job,’ was her answer to that.

  On this occasion, however, Alex’s skills were not required. ‘I’m doing Libby’s castle,’ Matthew insisted. ‘I am her cousin.’

  Alex, redundant, returned to Kate on the erosion barrier, watching while Matthew entertained his younger cousin. The boy was thorough. Using a small ruler and string, he made a drawbridge over the moat, created slits through which arrows might be fired in the event of intrusion, and finished with an item that was almost as tall as he was. All the time, he talked Libby through what he was doing.

  ‘A born teacher,’ Kate said to her companion.

  He agreed. ‘He’s a nurturer. Here come the mothers.’

  Southport Mother spoke to Alex. ‘Thank you for phoning to say you would bring your dogs. Libby loves animals. We have a cat, but no dog just yet.’

  Matthew’s mother was from the Wirral. She, too, was a dog person, though she seemed taken aback by the pack of six. ‘We have two, and I sometimes think that’s one too many.’ She was a pleasant woman, open-faced and natural.

  He introduced them to Kate before leaving the three women and making his way back to the children. Matthew had just turned eleven, and he jerked a thumb in Libby’s direction. ‘She’s only three, but she’s quite clever for a girl. Except she still says she wants to be a princess when she grows up.’

  Matthew’s favourite subjects were dinosaurs, Romans and Vikings, but not necessarily in that order. He liked boats, Tenerife, caravans, Kentucky Fried Chicken, history and maths. ‘She likes clothes with glitter on,’ he complained. ‘When I get home, I’m sometimes covered in it. My mum says Libby moults glitter and our dogs moult hair – she doesn’t know which is worst.’

  Kate watched the man she seemed to love more with each passing day. He was a natural, and Amelia would probably take to him. He picked up Libby and ran along with Matthew in pursuit of six fast dogs. Libby squealed, as did Matthew when soggy animals made contact with him. Alex was probably going to want more children, and that thought sat well with Kate. Amelia was lonely, and the solution to that was currently running himself daft round Gormley’s statues with two children and six hounds.

  When mothers and children had left, the couple watched the dogs until they slowed down and returned to the steps. ‘Not too wet this time,’ Kate remarked. She studied her man’s face. ‘Do you want children?’ she asked after a few moments.

  ‘Not yet,’ was his reply. ‘We’ll have to settle Amelia first. We need to give her time to adjust.’

  ‘Ah, the man has wisdom, so not just a pretty face. That was the right answer, Mr Price.’

  He grinned. ‘And I want you to be mother to my kids, too.’

  ‘How many?’

  He placed a possessive hand on her denim-clad knee. ‘We’ll see how we go, yes? If you have a hard time, it’ll be just one. But if you give birth as easily as Birds Eye pop peas from the pod, we might have several.’

  ‘Several? What about my figure?’

  The grin broadened. ‘Worry not; I’ll keep an eye on that.’ She wasn’t wearing her wig, and that pleased him, though he failed to understand why. ‘You look beautiful with real hair.’

  Kate covered his hand with hers. ‘And I grew it all by myself.’

  *

  Max loved Paris. In truth, he had enjoyed every bit of France he’d seen so far. The language barrier scarcely bothered him, since many people understood and even spoke some English, and sign language filled in the gaps. Villages were quiet and beautiful, while Paris was amazing. Trev hated it. He had no time for cathedrals, museums or walking. He was East End of London right through to the bone, and he wanted to go home, to escape all the ‘bleeding foreigners’.

  ‘Me legs ache.’ Trev stopped for a third time and rubbed the backs of his knees. ‘Can’t we just go? It’s only two hundred miles from Paris, and—’

  ‘Yes, I know. Once you’d learnt to hold the map the right way up, things got a whole lot better. Are you coming or what? It’s late.’

  ‘I have to go with you; this is a foreign country, and I’d get lost on me own. Anyway, we’ve seen everything except for that red windmill place full of naked girls. Now, if we were going there, I’d—’

  ‘You ain’t half getting on my tits, Trev—’

  ‘Well, it’s been bloody boring, walk, walk, look at this, look at that.’

  They perched on some steps leading up to a closed bank. ‘You showed me up in that museum,’ Max grumbled. ‘Top of your voice, asking who broke the arms off the Venus, and you bet he’d lost his job. Them Americans was crying with laughter. As for what you call the Moaning Lisa . . . Gawd.’

  ‘Well, she was ugly. No eyebrows and skin like wet tripe. Where’s the smile everybody talks about, eh? If I woke up with a face like that on the next pillow, I’d be out of there quicker than a ferret down a rabbit hole. She was worse-looking than Fat Arthur, and he’s got a physog like a smacked arse.’

  Max, who considered himself educated after gaining three
GCSEs, shook his head. Some people had no sense of art or history, no soul, no hunger for information. He pointed down the wide avenue. ‘This is the Champs Elysées.’

  ‘I know. Four quid for a thimble-size cup of coffee. Daylight robbery.’

  ‘Never mind that. Down the bottom there’s the Arch of Triumph built for that short-arse pillock called Napoleon. He was celebrating his victories over the wotsnames – aristocrats or summink. Well, he crowed too soon, because Russia done for his army good and proper and he got exiled. Underneath that arch is the tomb of the unknown soldier. Unless you want to join him underground, stop bloody going on about you don’t like this, you’re not eating horse, and why did we have to go in the room where Marie Antoinette spent her last night before they cut her head off. It’s history, so it’s important.’

  Trev answered back again. ‘I never bothered with history. They were all dead, so I didn’t see the point.’

  The bigger man owned a retort, of course. ‘A nation with no history is like a man with no memory.’

  ‘History is rubbish and me legs is sore.’

  ‘I feel sorry for you, because you’ve no brain and no imagination. And forget the Moulin Rouge – no chance.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I said so. We’ve a child to kidnap, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  Trev decided to stop complaining, because it wasn’t getting him anywhere. Max was a big reader, while Trev had a bit of trouble with the written word, though he enjoyed his children’s Beano comics. He was good at flogging drugs, but he’d no bits of paper saying he’d passed exams. Max had English, Art and Maths, and he made damned sure everybody knew it. ‘And it was small,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That painting of that ugly woman.’

  ‘You’re right there, Trev. Worth millions and no bigger than our kitchen calendar. Right. Latin quarter and the Sacré Coeur, and we’re done.’

  ‘What’s Latin, then?’

  ‘Where all the artists and writers live.’