They dried off and went to bed. Richard picked up his book.
Once again, his wife was reduced to helpless laughter. Because of the new bath, her beloved’s reading material was Deep-Sea Diving for Beginners. Kate picked up She’s Getting Away with Murder, and then they were both laughing. She was the first to stop. Why couldn’t Helen have this? ‘If my marriage became sane, I’d need locking up, Rich.’
‘Don’t worry, pet lamb. I’ve got your name down for a lovely private home. The first wrinkle, and you’re out of here. We’ve some stunning girls working at Liverpool Crown Court. A young solicitor brought her briefs to me the other day, and I put her name on the waiting list.’
‘Did you give her back the briefs?’
‘No. I’ll wear them at work. Secretly, under my silly stuff.’
With the lights out, they drifted towards sleep.
‘Richard?’
‘What now?’
‘Daniel. Is he going to come good? Does the marriage stand a chance?’
‘People never cease to surprise me, Kate. Strangely, I do believe he’s serious. And I know she needs him. All we must do is stay out of it unless someone needs us. Your brother’s done a tremendous amount while managing to remain away from Daniel for the most part.’
‘Biggest surprise of all. My brother acting human? Incredible. Turn on your other side, because I don’t want you snoring in my ear. I never expected Ian to come here, though. He laughed once.’
‘Twice. You were grinding coffee beans in the kitchen. But he is right, Kate. He provided the materials, but the only direct contribution he made was the sky-diving. A very wise man, your brother.’
She tried to imagine her grim-faced brother sky-diving, potholing or making love. ‘I suppose the world needs people like Ian.’
Richard snored. Oh well. Perhaps if she gave him her briefs . . .
Emily Sanderson had never expected such joy and satisfaction. It was as if the whole world had been handed to her on a golden platter, since she had her son, her lover and the man who had become her best friend all in the one place. Her one regret continued to reside in the fact that she had wed in haste to escape the prospect of marrying for land. Joseph had been her victim just as she had been a victim. None of it had been his fault. He was an excellent man.
Having made her peace with Thora Caldwell, she and Joseph had placed the Mornington Road house in her hands. Thora would let it, take a small fee, make sure the place was looked after, and deposit the remaining money in Joe’s account. Aunt Celia’s legacy had bought both Rodney Street houses, leaving Joseph free to plough everything into Sanderson’s Intelligent Kitchens and its older brother, Sanderson’s Bespoke Furniture. Andrew was settled, so everything was well in Emily’s little world.
Until now, Liverpool had been no more than a city on the Mersey, while Rodney Street had been the place where Stuart Abbot, Andrew’s friend, had come to have his teeth straightened. Beyond that, Emily had known nothing about the place. After a few weeks, she knew plenty. There was a quality to life here that was almost indescribable, and it had to reside in its populace, since they had created and developed the city. It was cosmopolitan to a degree, because people from all over the world came and went in ships, while there was a sizeable Irish community. It was, she supposed, fun.
Toodles loved it, so that was another hurdle cleared. She made a friend of next door’s kitty, and was settled within days. The butter applied to her paws had not been needed, and she had simply distributed it throughout the house, but Geoff had cleaned it up. He was a treasure. His chaos room on the first floor was reinstated, so he was content, as was Joseph.
Emily went to work for her husband. She took charge of orders, the books, the design and printing of brochures, postal advertising, newspaper advertising, and dealing with customers. She enjoyed every minute, especially her time spent front of house, because workers had a habit of coming out of the workshops for ‘smokos’, the term they used for a cigarette break. Wood was a material that burned easily, so they were not allowed to light up in the back.
It was here that she got her first closer encounters with the indigenous. ‘Right. Soft Lad’s your first husband then, queen?’ ‘Soft Lad’ was the boss.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve got a new one what works down the children’s ozzy?’
Ozzy was hospital. ‘That’s right.’
‘And you work for your first old feller and he’s your best mate, like?’
‘Indeed.’
A head was scratched. ‘You Woollies are weird. Split-ups round here mean fights in the streets, windows broke, chairs wellied all over the place, black eyes, priests running for their lives, her mother and his mother rolling about in the middle of the road with handfuls of each other’s hair.’ The same head was shaken. ‘World War Three in these parts, divorce.’
‘We’re not divorced.’ Strangely, she didn’t care any more. These folk seemed to accept just about everything. ‘Geoff and I live over the brush.’
‘And across the road from Soft Lad.’
‘Why do you call Joseph Soft Lad?’
The man shrugged. ‘He’s the boss. I’ve heard bosses called worse.’
‘But you like him, all of you.’
‘We do. He’s as bad. Sent an apprentice out for a bucket of elbow grease and a tin of yellow and green striped paint.’
‘No!’
‘Oh, yes. Then he went in our back room one day and pinched all our dinners what we’d brought from home. Sawdust sarnies, he put there in our boxes. He buggered off and brought us all fish and chips, but we were looking for him, and we carry dangerous tools, missus.’
Missus burst out laughing. The ‘war’ between management and shop floor had to be maintained, no matter how good the relationship. It was historical, rooted in the days when men had queued for dock work, when the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board had been blamed for everything from scarlet fever to world war and late-running buses.
Joseph’s head entered the room. ‘Oi, Juster,’ he shouted. ‘Get back in here.’
Juster saluted and went to do Soft Lad’s bidding.
The latter joined Emily.
‘Juster?’
Joseph nodded. ‘It’s always “just a minute” or “just a sec”, so we call him Juster.’
‘Then you have Neely.’
‘Yes, Neely finished, Neely home time. Ghost’s the moaner – red-haired chap – Harpic’s clean round the bend, Jigsaw falls to bits when something’s wrong, Rattler’s teeth don’t fit, and Donor’s very pale, as if he gives blood every other day.’
‘And you’re Soft Lad.’
He grinned broadly and nodded. ‘In Liverpool, soft is daft. And I must be daft for hiring this shower.’
‘Well, I think they’re wonderful.’
‘So do I, Em. I’ve always enjoyed work, as well you know, but there’s fun here. And in spite of the larking about, they’re meticulous. Mad dogs, though, the bloody lot of them are. Now. We have to have a meeting, me, you and Rattler. Orders are coming in at a rate of knots. We need more transport, more fitters, bigger premises again. And some of the lads will have to move on. We are going nationwide, Emily. I want training premises and thirty hours in every day.’
So Joseph was on his way. All Emily wanted was for the three men in her life to be fulfilled and happy. She wished Joseph could meet some nice, gentle woman, but she realized that his confidence in that area of life was seriously corroded. Now that she understood the true joy of physical love, she had difficulty in hiding her pity for Joseph, but he was a proud man, and she mustn’t let her feelings show.
She drove homeward, deliberately avoiding the shops. If she went anywhere near George Henry Lee’s again, she’d spend a week’s wages in five minutes. She’d spotted some lovely linens and towels . . . ‘Oh stop it, Emily. You’ve the life of Riley as it is.’
Andrew was in when she got home. ‘How did it go?’ she asked. On his second day at college, he had me
t his first corpse.
‘Fine,’ he answered. ‘Well, I was fine, but some poor devils hit the floor, while a couple vomited. Not the girls, though. One had to go out for a bit of air, but she dragged herself back in and got down to it. It’s rather like carving a giant Sunday joint.’
‘Andrew!’
‘Well, you asked.’
‘Was your body male or female?’
‘Female.’
‘Ah.’
‘Mother, I’m no innocent. I’ve seen the female form, though in a warmer state, I’m glad to say. And you can kill that blush, because there are no innocents in this house.’
The front door opened. ‘Coo-ee.’
‘Saved by the grandparents,’ Andrew muttered before going to greet them.
Irene was in a state of excitement that approached hysteria. ‘Oh, what a wonderful house. Georgian, isn’t it? But wait till you see what we’ve got you, Andrew. It was the best we could find. Emily? You there, love?’ She walked up the large hall to greet her rediscovered daughter.
Alan entered with a massive box. ‘Your skeleton,’ he said. ‘We got you a good one.’ He lowered his tone. ‘Park it somewhere visible. And you have to name it. Apparently, naming your skeleton is part and parcel of being a medical student. Then watch your mother’s face when she claps eyes on it.’
In the morning room, Andrew placed George carefully on his stand. He was a fine figure of a man, though somewhat lacking in the flesh and skin department. ‘A Georgian house, so you’re George. Let me get you something to wear, poor chap.’ When a coat was draped across shoulders and a hat topped the skull, a hyper-innocent Andrew entered the kitchen. ‘Shall we have tea through here?’ he asked.
Mother’s face defied description when she entered the morning room. Morning rooms were meant to be small, but this one was big enough for ballroom dancing. She clasped her chest. ‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘Just what we need to go with our tea and scones.’
‘I tried,’ said her son, his voice trimmed with sadness. ‘But he wouldn’t stop dieting. George, meet my mother.’
‘If you were younger,’ Emily said.
‘I know. Smacked bottom and up to bed with no supper.’ He picked up a plate. ‘Cake, anyone? Whatever you leave, George can have. He needs the calories.’
Emily sank into a chair. Because of this precious boy, she had her parents back. Andrew owned a country house and a skeleton named George. Geoff would be home soon. Joseph was doing what he did best, and was contented with his life. All was bliss in her hemisphere. She crossed the room and shook George’s hand gently and with great seriousness. ‘Welcome home, George. We’ll get you better, so not to worry.’
Daniel Pope knew he was a changed man, though he was still discovering himself. He was enjoying the teenage years that had been denied to him, he supposed. It was rather like peeling off wallpaper in a neglected house where there was always another layer underneath. Somewhere behind all the Anaglypta and woodchip and layers of emulsion paint, a hormonal teenager waited to be found, released and allowed to grow.
He spent a fair amount of time talking to himself in a mirror. What he saw was a handsome man who was two-dimensional, as flat as the surface that reflected him. He also saw someone whose self-interest was constructive, because he needed to find out exactly who he was. Everyone had been right – his mother had done damage. Although unprepared to lay all the blame at the feet of Beatrice Pope, he was tracing many of his problems back to their source, and he was finding Ma in every picture, sometimes at the edge or in the background, but always there. Always there, always right, always interfering, questioning, probing.
It was almost time to face her. She had never liked Helen, but Helen’s quiet strength had precluded open warfare. Ma was jealous. Ma wanted to be the only woman in Daniel’s life. She continued to play an active part in the business, and these weeks he had taken away from work had given Daniel time to think. And what he thought wasn’t pretty.
Yet he didn’t want to hurt her. ‘You have to tell her, old fruit,’ he advised the figure in the mirror. ‘Because you damaged Helen, and Ma was at the back of all of it.’ And Ma couldn’t conceal her joy about Helen’s desertion of him. ‘Come home, son. I’ll look after you.’ She was to blame.
Or was she? Surely, when a person grew to adulthood, he should accept responsibility for all choices and misdeeds? But regression, a process of which he had been unaware, had borne fruit, and the harvest was audible on discs. Under hypnosis, he had let it all out. Strapped to another man, he had screamed it out on his way back to earth. Oh, that had been brilliant, and he could scarcely wait for his first solo jump. Fastened to a trainer was exciting, but he needed to be alone – that would be symbolic of his final break from Ma.
‘I won’t stop talking to Ma,’ he advised his reflection, ‘but she will know her place in the scheme of things.’ Then, he would have to face Helen. Helen, like many even-tempered and controlled people, had limited patience. It took a lot to shift her but, once moved, she was a virago. He grinned, though the smile didn’t light up his eyes. The photographs on top of his ruined clothes had needed no accompanying note, as they still screamed Look what you lost, you damned fool.
But he hadn’t lost, not quite, not yet. Staying away from her had been part of the plan, and he saw his children when Andrew drove them across. Andrew, Ian and even Richard had been his backbone during the time it had taken for him to form vertebrae of his own. As for those who had listened, the professionals – they could not be faulted. ‘Do you think of me, Helen? Do you?’
She, her sister and her brother had not been restricted throughout development, though Eva wasn’t an easy vehicle to pass. If anything, they had suffered a degree of genteel neglect, since their parents had been so tied up in each other. But Kate, the fiery one, the gentle-till-pushed-too-far Helen, and Ian, the studious boy, had all come through relatively unscathed, while he had been so badly affected by a doting mother that he had been emotionally crippled. He could never keep company with ‘rough’ boys, was forbidden to go swimming without an adult family member, was not allowed to enjoy camping, fishing, roller-skating, cycling. He’d been imprisoned by his own mother.
So, he had to shape a distance between himself and his parents. If Helen came back, the statutory trips to Chester, where his parents lived, would be cut down. Visits to Neston by Ma and Pa must also be limited. Helen needed space, as did he, yet grandparents deserved to see grandchildren, and vice versa. Many lines must be drawn, then. And this time, the pen would be in Daniel’s hand.
He was getting stronger. Everyone knew that he and Helen were having a trial separation. What they said behind his back no longer mattered.
While living in her father’s house, Helen changed. She adopted and adapted her older sister’s method with men, which was to swat them like flies by going for their vulnerable spot, otherwise known as the ego. Thus freed, she dressed as she liked, went where she wanted to go, and developed a range of dirty looks to be delivered to roofers, builders, painters and any other wolf-whistlers. She was a free woman, and they could bog off.
Her sister joined her once a week for lunch, and they went round all the bars in turn, giving marks out of ten for a subject entitled the Most Imaginative Use of the Baked Potato in North Liverpool. So far, Barry’s Bar was winning, while Louie’s Tavern trailed behind with limp lettuce and some terribly depressed tomatoes with a rancid blue-cheese sauce.
‘We shall send the league table in to the local press,’ Kate said after their escape from Louie’s. ‘And I’m posting this to a laboratory for testing.’ She unfolded a paper napkin inside which a cherry tomato did its best to look normal. ‘Naw,’ she said. ‘Can’t be bothered.’ She dumped her parcel in a bin.
‘Kate?’
‘Yes, Helen?’
‘I think Anya’s fallen for Dad.’
Kate shrugged. ‘He’s gorgeous. OK, he’s our father, and we don’t notice, but he is very handsome. And, I think, very aware o
f Anya. She’s different, she’s vulnerable, and she’s pleasant.’
‘I may be getting in the way, though.’
‘Rubbish. What will be will be, Helen-babe. Now, let’s get you back to Dad’s, because I need to be elsewhere. Richard’s training for deep-sea diving.’
‘You serious?’
‘Oh yes. Everybody seems to be taking up hobbies. Your fellow, if he is yours, is jumping out of aeroplanes, while mine’s leaping into water. Strangely, it started in the en suite with some goggles and a green plastic snorkel. Yes, he’s a worry. I don’t know whether to get a psychiatrist or a vet. I watch him doing his job, and I wonder whether people know he’s not fit to be out on his own.’
‘Oh, Kate, you’re so lucky.’
Kate put an arm across her sister’s back. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to rub salt in. I’ve told you I love you and I want you happy—’
A wolf whistle from a window cleaner stopped Kate in her tracks. She knew she was pretty; she also knew that the whistle had been for her sister, who was film star-ish.
‘Listen, Mr Soap and Water, you couldn’t afford her. And you’ve missed a bit. Get in the corners, you lazy sod.’
In North Liverpool, this was not the behaviour expected by residents, and some passers-by stopped and stared.
‘She’s married to a millionaire, so why would she look at you?’
Helen dragged Kate away. ‘Stop showing me up. I can deal with this myself.’ She looked at the whistler. ‘Sorry about that, sir. Oh, pull your jeans up. These people can see the crack of your arse.’ The words, delivered in clipped, educated tones, caused a ripple of laughter among spectators, but Helen took her sister’s arm and walked on. ‘Can you imagine the old me doing that?’
‘Oh, God. I’ve turned my little sister into a delinquent.’
They continued a constitutional designed to walk off a baked potato. ‘How would you feel if Dad married again?’ Helen asked.
‘Not sure. I want him happy. This grieving for our mother bit has gone on too long for my liking. He doesn’t talk to the grave still, does he?’
A Liverpool Song Page 25
