She had forgotten how beautiful it was up here on the moors. Gentler than Yorkshire, Lancashire’s land was pleated decorously, stitched together by hedge and stone wall. Here and there, farmhouses and cottages stained the air with threads of smoke rising from chimneys. Cows grazed, while two horses held a conversation in their paddock. ‘Magic,’ she whispered. She could breathe here. In her heart, the country girl would abide forever.
Emily parked her favourite possession, a little Austin with what she termed a happy face. She stood in the lane and gazed at a scene Constable would have loved. She remembered being taught to milk a cow, to drive a tractor, to help at the birthing of a calf. Raised to be a gentleman farmer’s wife, Emily had also been trained in gentler arts like the piano, cooking, embroidery and dressmaking. Her parents had invested in her, but she had failed to comply with their wishes. Running to Joe had been wrong, but if she hadn’t run she would never have had her wonderful son, would never have met Geoff.
Back in the car, Emily drove towards Heathfield. All the trees she remembered were bigger, a lot older. Wild blackberry bushes thrived in hedgerows, and there were seven or eight rescued donkeys in Mrs Dean’s large paddock. One of Father’s famous bulls gave her a lugubrious glance as she drove past him. Father’s bulls were famous all over the country. He had a way with male cattle, a method of keeping them calm until breeding times.
A large but rather garish house stood where the farmhouse had existed since 1832. That beautiful, century-plus place with its crooked chimneys and sash windows had been replaced by a monstrosity that would not have been out of place in Hollywood. This was the Beauchamps showing the world how wealthy and successful they were; here sat their daughter thinking how stupid they had become.
She paused just fractionally before marching up the drive and knocking on the door. There was no room for fear; her main emotion was cold fury because they had chased her son through town. Andrew came first, just as he always had and always would.
Irene pulled wide the door. Her face seemed to drain of blood, and she clutched the handle, her mouth opening but refusing to deliver words. Emily pushed past her mother into the octagonal hall. Eight walls, eight doors, eight rooms. No. One wall held a fireplace. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.
Irene cleared her throat. ‘He’s . . . er . . . he’s through there, in the kitchen.’
It was a reasonable facsimile of a proper farmhouse kitchen, huge central table, pine dressers against walls, copper pans hanging from a rack. ‘No need to get up,’ Emily said. ‘We already know each other only too well.’
‘Emily,’ he breathed. ‘How are you?’
‘Not quite as well as I was before I knew you’d been hounding my son all over the place. Of course, I must apologize for his behaviour, because he shouldn’t have tricked you.’
‘He’s a clever young man,’ Alan replied. His wife placed herself in the seat next to his. Both seemed smaller than they had been. ‘Going to be a doctor,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Emily stared hard at her parents. ‘He won’t need to marry land, because he’ll make his own way in the world, as did I. It wasn’t easy, and I didn’t always get it right, but an adult should have the privilege of learning through his or her own mistakes. I’m here to advise you to leave us alone.’
‘But we only wanted to—’
‘To interfere?’ Emily cut sharply through her father’s words.
‘To give you this.’ He opened a drawer in the table. ‘It’s a parcel of land.’
‘Is it?’ She felt deflated, almost disadvantaged. They were being nice. Emily had not expected nice.
Irene chipped in. ‘One of the earliest ones. We renamed it New Moon, because you loved that book, Emily of New Moon, didn’t you? And we had the old house rebuilt there, because we knew you all loved it. Not quite the same, but nearly the same.’
Emily’s heart lurched. ‘What do I want with a farm? We won’t be living anywhere near here.’ Confusion governed her. Gratitude was something she hadn’t catered for and didn’t want to feel.
Alan shrugged. ‘Cottagers will take care of the house when you’re not there. It’ll always be kept nice, and your parcel will be tended. This is the deeds. Use it for holidays. Or give it to your lad, let him have it.’
Emily felt flummoxed. She should take it and sell it on, thereby creating a gap in the flow of their land, but such behaviour would be petty. And she noticed how old they were and how frail her mother looked. Underneath the weather-coloured surface, there was pallor, and she had lost a considerable amount of weight. Her jawline was loose, while the neck was stringy. They had built the old house again. For her. She felt terrible.
‘Take it, Emily,’ Irene begged. ‘Put tenants in, or use it for peace and quiet at weekends. All we ask is to see our grandson, and I don’t mean every week. A couple of times a year would be grand.’
Emily nodded, walked the length of the table and picked up the envelope. It was sealed with wax. ‘Thank you,’ she said rather stiffly.
‘We are sorry, you know,’ Alan said.
‘Yes, I’m sure you are. But I’m not sorry I held out against you. No adult in her late twenties should be expected to do her parents’ bidding. Andrew knows what happened, which is why he did that terrible thing. I knew nothing of his behaviour until a few days ago when he warned me that you were looking for me. So.’ She placed a piece of paper on the table and scribbled with a pencil. ‘There’s my current address and telephone number. You know where I am now.’
‘Andrew’s a lovely name,’ Irene said. ‘Do you have a photograph?’
‘I’ll send you some. I promise.’
‘Thank you.’
She left them sitting there, but felt guilty immediately. After a few seconds of consideration, she went back and opened the kitchen door. ‘Tea on Sunday? Four o’clock – the address is there. I’ll give you the photos then. I’m sorry I was rude.’
‘All right. Thank you.’ This from her father, because her mother was sobbing heavily.
As she drove homeward, Emily thought about justifiable anger and retribution. Neglect of the elderly was always a crime; she saw it often enough in the course of her work as assistant almoner. Other family members were nearby, but that was no excuse for her behaviour. Old people needed variety and new company. They could take a look at Joseph’s kitchen.
And she would see the old farmhouse again.
‘How was she?’ Joe Sanderson sat by the window in his Southport nursing home. As ever, his first question was about his disabled daughter.
‘Just the same,’ Andrew replied. ‘It’s all soft toys and cartoons on TV.’ He always visited Daisy in St Helens before coming to see Dad. Now forty-seven, Andrew’s half-sister had not been expected to reach maturity. ‘And how are you?’
‘Still old, still here, still missing Emily.’
Andrew sat opposite his father. ‘You’re dafter than I am.’ Mother’s ashes sat on a shelf in a splendid pot. The most amazing thing about Dad was that he’d mixed Geoff ’s ashes with Emily’s. Andrew’s instructions were to buy a bigger pot and put Joe in with the other two when the time came.
‘How did you do it, Dad? How did you manage to stay in love with Mother while she was living with Geoff?’
‘We looked after each other, lad. And when poor Geoff died, we clung together like brother and sister. I know it all seemed mad, but it worked. If it works, don’t knock it.’
Andrew nodded. ‘Our houses are both consulting rooms now,’ he said. ‘But you can bet your bottom dollar that they’ve kept the kitchens.’ Sanderson’s products managed to be timeless, always in vogue.
‘Nay, some folk are having unfitted kitchens now, Andrew.’ He closed his eyes. ‘There’s something you don’t know, son. I might as well tell you now, because I’ve nowt left to lose except my life. I couldn’t satisfy a woman. There. I’ve managed to tell my son at last.’
Andrew paused for several seconds. ‘Oh Dad, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right.
Remember how your mam kept Geoff ’s ashes in that big trinket box I made for her? She couldn’t let go. So when she died, God love her, I kept them together. He was a good lad, you know.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know what to do with me?’
Andrew shivered. ‘Listen. You’re hanging about till you get your telegram.’
‘I’m tired.’ As if to prove the statement, he fell asleep. He was always doing that. It was almost as if death claimed a little more of Joe’s time every day. Hands that had worked hard for well over half a century rested on his stomach. Near-transparent skin allowed veinous maps to show, while fingers whose dexterity and accuracy had been famous were now twisted, their joints swollen and deformed.
‘Oh, Dad.’ Andrew blinked back the tears. He, too, closed his eyes. And he saw those two splendid houses on Rodney Street, both near the Mount Pleasant end, one diagonally opposite the other. He’d had a top floor flat in each house, and his parents used to joke about him dirtying one, then moving into the other until that, too, became disordered and unclean.
Dad had blamed Geoff. ‘It’s you, you great lummox, you with your Do Not Tidy room.’ The two men had often gone for a pint together, painted and decorated together, eaten in each other’s houses. Although Mother and Geoff could not have existed apart, Joe had become part of the recipe. Andrew had never been deprived of a father, while Geoff had become a great friend who helped during exams and in various areas of study. Having two dads had been great.
And Joseph Sanderson had outlived both his wife and her lover.
‘Wake up, Andrew.’
He opened his eyes. ‘I wasn’t asleep. I was just thinking about our Rodney Street days.’
‘Grand times, we had. Remember going to see Ken Dodd? I was in pain through laughing.’
‘Oh yes, I remember. You got loud hiccups and Ken Dodd made you stand up, told you you should never have swallowed that hand grenade. Then he pretended to ask management whether the theatre should be cleared.’
‘Nearest I ever came to causing a riot, that was. Eeh, we had some times. New Moon, eh? You and me fishing and helping with rescued donkeys – I remember all of that. But not yesterday or this morning. I never know whether it’s Tuesday or breakfast time.’
‘Normal at your age, Dad.’
They stared hard at each other. ‘But it wasn’t normal for poor Geoff, eh, Andrew?’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘We looked after him, though.’
‘Yes, we did our best, Dad.’
‘Your poor mother.’
‘I know.’
‘Fine man, fine brain. Come here, son. Hold my hand.’
So Andrew Sanderson was awarded the rare privilege of being there when his father died. Weary eyelids fluttered, breaths rasped over worn airways, while the old man smiled. ‘Hello, Em,’ were his last happy words. Then life left him on a soft, easy sigh, and the hand Andrew held was suddenly heavy.
Staff found him there half an hour later when they brought Joe’s pills. Until then, Andrew hadn’t realized that he was weeping. Very gently, they separated him from the cooling corpse and sat him in an easy chair. They said the usual things like, ‘It was his time’ and ‘He didn’t suffer’.
Andrew dried his eyes. He picked up the remains of Mother and Geoff. ‘Thank you for looking after him,’ he said. Outside, a warm breeze fanned in from the sea. Everything looked washed and bright from recent rain. And Dad was dead. How could birds sing at a time like this? There was a poem about a similar moment, W. H. Auden, he believed.
Life has to go on. That was another saying. Well, of course bloody life had to bloody go on. He packed Mother and Geoff in a car rug before fastening their seatbelt. The lid was taped on, anyway, so there’d be no spillage. Outside the home, he sat in his car and looked up at Dad’s window. The curtains were closed. They would be washing him now, tying closed his mouth, preparing him for the next step. ‘I’ll get Grey’s,’ he said, referring to the company that had taken care of Mary.
But before phoning the funeral director, he rang Stuart Abbot, his friend of fifty-seven years. ‘Joe’s dead, Stu. My dad. He just died. I’m outside the nursing home now.’
‘You going back to your house?’ Stuart asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there soon. I’m sorry, Andy.’
‘So am I, Stuart.’
He was a sixty-year-old orphan. After driving home, he did everything in order. He called Grey’s, Dad’s doctor, Daisy’s nursing home, Kate and Ian. When the children were upstairs with Sofia, he told Helen. Then he sat in a window and watched the water and the sky on this day, the last Dad had ever seen.
And when he’d gone through a thousand memories and dozens of emotions, a thought finally struck. He was a multi-millionaire, and he would give away every penny if he could just have them all back. Yes, all of them. Mother, Dad, Geoff, the Beauchamps. And Mary.
But life had to go on. And the phone was ringing again.
Ten
Every single day started with a discussion . . . well, a heated exchange, or even a row, between Eva and Andrew. Like morning prayers in better-organized households, this was the rule, the law at Rosewood. A small complication like a funeral did little to encourage Eva to hang fire, and she was in fine form today, as she was dealing with frozen flaky pastry shells. ‘How many of these volley venties do we want?’ she asked. ‘And Anya’s arrived just now with a load of Polish sausages. Oh, that dog of yours has gone and ate some of the skirting board in the lav. And me feather duster’s gone missing, too. I’m sick of buying towels. Bloody animal’s not right in the head.’
Andrew eyed his friend/enemy. ‘Eva, none of that is important, especially today. Just throw the food in the function room and let them all fight among themselves. By the way, they’re vols au vent. And the dog’s name is Storm, and he is not negotiable. He’s a family member.’
‘Oo-er.’ She folded her arms. Eva with folded arms bore a strong resemblance to a miniature Sherman tank. ‘Your dad was a very well thought of bloke all over this country, so he deserves a good send-off. Half the bloody kitchens round these posh parts are Sanderson jobs. He done a butcher’s block for a woman down Burbo Bank, and it’s going strong after thirty years or more. It’s a bit dented, like, but—’
‘Eva?’
‘What?’
‘Shut up. This is my poor old father’s funeral, so I want no chewed skirting boards or ruined feather dusters in the mix. And if you leave your books on the piano, I’ll get Stuart to sign them later, I promise. Now, go away and try to behave yourself for a change. Any change would be greatly appreciated.’ She needed surgery to sew her mouth closed for a few hours, yet her heart was in the right place. She probably thought she was taking his mind off the loss of his dad.
Her body disappeared, but the voice didn’t. ‘Stuart Abbot’s coming,’ she screamed at poor Anya in the kitchen. Eva was clearly of the opinion that the deaf and the foreign needed shouting at. ‘He writes them wonderful mystery stories what have been on the telly. Supposed to be for young folk, but I’ve always stayed young. My favourite’s Fingal’s Folly. He’s going to sign books for me later. I’ve got every one of them.’
Anya joined Andrew. ‘She shouts at me,’ she said, her head shaking sadly. ‘As if I am child who will not listen. Sometimes, she is make me anger.’
‘I know. It’s because you’re Polish.’
‘Polish is not being deaf or daft,’ Anya said. She was picking up English very quickly. ‘How you feeling today, Andrew?’
‘Better, thank you. Not wonderful, but glad I was with him at the end. He knew he was going, because he asked me to hold his hand. Oh, I did want him to get to his century, though. But he was tired. I think he made up his mind that the time was right. He seemed happy enough. Almost smiling, he was, like a child preparing to go on holiday.’
‘And he saw his wife as he went?’
Andrew shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know.
I don’t know what I believe, Anya. But his last words were a greeting for Mother, and he spoke quite clearly. Hey, hey, don’t cry. Don’t set me off. I have to talk about him at the crematorium.’ She was lovely. She looked beautiful in black, neat little figure, pretty face, beautiful smile. When she wasn’t weeping, that was.
‘Daniel is coming today?’ She dried her eyes.
‘Yes. Dad was great-grandfather to the children. Not to worry. Daniel’s treatment, whatever it is, seems to have calmed him down considerably. We must be grateful for small mercies and just do our best with things as they are.’
But Eva wasn’t calm. She rushed in, her face like the thunder she feared so much. ‘He’s had it away with one of Anya’s sausages. I was slicing it for topping pizzas – kiddies and your daughters and Sofia love pizza – and I’m cutting one end while he’s eating the other. I let go, and he buggered off with it. By the way, he’s chewed the toothbrush I use for cleaning round the taps. And he hates me.’
Andrew coughed.
Anya shook her head sadly. ‘He is naughty, Eva.’
‘He’s a dog with discerning taste,’ Andrew told his disgruntled housekeeper. ‘Just for once, can we have a day without your moaning? It’s like living with an audio version of the News of the World.’
Eva left in a hurry. There were times when Doc’s face wore a look fit to freeze a woman on the spot, and it was best to make a swift exit rather than hanging about like Lot’s wife. No, he wouldn’t sack her. She was Mary’s choice, and he still kept Mary close in his heart. And in the back garden.
‘Do not mind her,’ Anya advised. She slipped her right hand into his left.
He inhaled sharply. This small, friendly touch travelled up his arm like an electric shock. Oh, Mary, Mary. The little Polish woman sought only to comfort him, yet for the first time in ten years, he wanted more than comfort. And on this day, too. Are you here, Dad? Are you making this happen? Did he really want this woman? Did he want any woman after all these years of drought?
A flurry of arrivals put the brakes on Andrew’s train of thought. He switched to automatic for the greetings, and his hand forgot to tingle as soon as it made contact with ordinary mortals. Daniel was here. Without a word to his wife, or a glance in her direction, he picked up his daughters and carried them away into the dining room. All the children were to stay here with Sofia and a friend, as they were judged too young for funerals.
A Liverpool Song Page 21
