The two women also enjoyed the closest of friendships, as both had treasured Emily, both had mourned her, and they found comfort in each other. With one speaking cotton territory Lancashire and the other galloping along in Scouse, some hilarious misunderstandings occurred, and they laughed at and with each other. For these occasions, they both thanked Emily, who had instigated their relationship.
There was just one major change on this stretch of the Mersey’s coastal road. Thora Caldwell, taking her cue from Emily, ignored convention and moved in with Joe Sanderson. She had her eye straightened by surgery, while her hair altered of its own accord. Although it remained coarse, the colour changed over time until it managed a reasonable shade that was close to platinum, and the owner of the new look began to take care of her person. To see a woman rebirth herself in her sixties was wonderful. Her skin was good, and her features looked less sharp without the glasses on which she had always depended to pull the lazy eye into its rightful position.
Joe enjoyed her company greatly, because Thora was enormous fun. As with Emily, he kept to his own bedroom while Thora stayed in hers. But they were content during shared meals or TV programmes, happy at weekends when they repaired to Bolton so that Thora could check that her son and his family were taking care of her house. The couple visited the rest of her family, and Joe dropped in at the factory where most of his furniture was made. Now situated on the road to St Helens, it was housed in a massive mill in which cotton had been spun, and it employed over two hundred people. Thora was proud of him; somewhere among the stars, Emily would also be pleased.
On the way home, they invariably went to see Daisy who, having survived childhood against all odds, showed every sign of outliving most people. She had her own pretty room filled with soft toys and brightly coloured pictures. The first teddy, now almost bald, remained her favourite, with the first toy rabbit coming a close second. Somewhere behind a silence punctuated only by grunts, she was capable of making a choice, usually First Ted or First Bun, as Betsy had named the popular pair. Daisy, now in her twenty-eighth year, stared at cartoons for hours, walked about with her toys, never spoke, and seemed as happy as she was capable of being. To an observer, this was no life at all; to Daisy, it was safety and routine.
For Joe, the saddest thing about his beautiful blonde baby daughter was that she’d turned into an overweight and shapeless young woman with lank brown hair and a face whose expression betrayed her condition immediately. But he loved her. She hadn’t deserved any of this, and neither had her long-suffering mother. Daisy was the unfortunate personification of Joe’s weakness, stupidity and guilt.
‘Come on, Joe,’ Thora would urge. ‘You’ve seen her, but I doubt that she’s seen us, God love her.’
‘Poor Betsy,’ he sometimes said. She’d turned out to be a good woman, one of the best, but she’d had no life beyond her bit of bingo. The burden weighed heavily; he could have, should have done so much more for Betsy and Daisy.
At seventy-three, Joe Sanderson retained the energy of a man half his age. He didn’t believe in retirement. Retirement was for cowards, weaklings and lazy people who took no pride in their work. ‘Numbers don’t mean a thing,’ he told his son as they reclined in the sun-bathed rear garden of Rosewood. ‘We should work for as long as we like. What’s the point of saying it’s over when it’s not? It’s like throwing the towel into the ring before the fight’s properly under way, isn’t it? What do you think?’
No reply was delivered.
‘Andrew?’
‘No idea,’ Andrew replied, his voice muffled by The Times, which he was using to cover his face while he dozed. He was supposed to be relaxing under the apple tree, but Joe clearly didn’t believe in relaxation, either.
‘If a man wants to work, he should work.’
‘Quite.’
‘And if he wants to stop, he should stop, stay out of the road of gradely folk, pick up his pension and go crown green bowling.’
‘Yes.’
‘Might as well talk to meself,’ Joe grumbled. ‘At least I get an audience and a bit of feedback with Thora. She’s gone shopping for a new frock, going to wear it at the opening of your events suite. That must have cost a pretty penny, what with the bar, toilets and what have you.’
‘It did. I nearly had to sell the wife.’
Joe laughed. ‘What’s it for again, Andrew?’
The younger man gave up and pulled the newspaper off his face. ‘It’s for cancer. Mary’s working with some terminally ill women under forty, and it’s got her back up. You know what she’s like, Dad. Once she gets her teeth into something, she’s like a bulldog with a bone. She’s beyond my control.’
‘So her back’s up and her gob’s full. At least she’ll be quiet. Once she gets on her high horse . . .’
‘We’re mixing enough metaphors to make a cake here, Father. My lovely wife is watching little kids’ mothers dying of cancer and leaving orphans behind. She wants to help all she can. So the suite’s my contribution. It’s going to take millions for all the research that’s needed. God alone knows whether or when the monster will be defeated, but it won’t be for lack of trying in this house.’
‘Oh, right. OK, son, my contribution will be ten grand. First prize in your raffle after your inaugural ball will be a Sanderson kitchen, real wood, none of your plastic.’
‘As well as the ten thousand?’
‘Aye.’
Andrew kissed his dad on the cheek and went in to look for Mary. He found her fighting again, this time with the decorator. So far, she had alienated two lots of plumbers, one electrician, a builder and a whole wallpaper company. She went through workmen the way other women went through nylon tights. ‘Mary? What the hell’s wrong now? Can you not leave well alone for a change?’
She swung round. ‘I don’t like that colour, do you? Look at it. It’s insipid.’
Andrew folded his arms and tried to glare at her, which was almost impossible because she was funny. When riled, she allowed carefully honed vowels to broaden; she became a little guttersnipe once more. ‘Mary, you didn’t like the apple green, the primrose yellow, the Wedgwood or the lilac. About the lilac, I agree completely. So buttermilk will have to do. Any more paint and I might as well buy shares in the company.’ He turned to the beleaguered tradesman. ‘Carry on, Charlie. Very good of you to give up a weekend for charity.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Mary repeated. ‘It looks like something heaved up by a week-old baby.’
‘Mathew Street,’ Andrew threatened quietly. ‘You are ten seconds from Mathew Street, madam.’
‘You wouldn’t dare, Drew. Not in front of . . . people.’
He folded his arms. ‘After all these years, small angry person, you above all should realize that I make no empty threats. If you don’t start behaving yourself, it’s Mathew Street. Just be glad we don’t live in my home town, else it might very well be Vernon Street.’
Mary raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Vernon Street was where they put animals down.’
Charlie was up a ladder, and his back was shaking with laughter. Andrew worried for the man’s safety until Mary stalked past both men into the hall. He followed her, picked her up and ‘Mathew Streeted’ her into the drawing room where he dumped her on a chair. ‘Stay,’ he ordered, a finger wagging dangerously close to her face.
‘But I have to—’
‘Stay. And no biting. You have to stay, otherwise I’ll tan your bum till it glows, and you know where that always leads.’
‘You should be so lucky.’
‘I am quite ready to pick you up again and carry you upstairs.’
Little daggers glinted in her eyes. ‘You are a bully, Drew Sanderson. I’m going to run away and live with Mam and Dad out in the wilds, and you will never see me again. I shall grow my own tomatoes and have a go at orchids in the greenhouse.’
‘Right. Don’t forget your broomstick and the book of spells. But you’ll lose ten grand and a Sanderson kitchen.
Dad’s donating the money, and the kitchen will be first prize in one of your raffles. Where are you—’ She’d gone. She would be in the garden jumping all over a man in his eighth decade. Andrew grinned. The magic remained. He had friends and colleagues whose marriages were stale, but he and Mary continued to shine. Successful wedlock required work, dedication, fun, communication and sex.
A hesitant bit of Mozart floated through from the breakfast room. He stood in the hall and listened carefully in order to identify the executioner. It was Helen. Helen was the most stunning and brilliant ten-year-old for miles, and she was assassinating his beloved Wolfgang Amadeus. Her true gift lay in the area of languages, and the prep school had the sense to start early. She was ripping her way through Katie’s French homework, and it was becoming clear that Helen’s future lay in words, not in music.
Katie was another kettle of kippers. She was a people person. School was the place in which she pursued her hobbies – maths and science. Her natural naughtiness had gained an edge; at twelve, she was sassy, determined, secretive underneath all the chat, and bright as a button. She had a list of possible careers that included acting, politics, writing, medicine, law and teaching. Her more immediate ambition was to become a deliverer of newspapers, since she wanted to earn her own money. A determined character, she had declared her independence at a very early age. With Katie around, men would need to fight to gain liberation, as she was a bossy little besom.
The playing stopped abruptly. After a few minutes, Andrew returned to the drawing room and saw all three of his children walking past the front of the house. They had a wheelbarrow filled with unidentifiable objects, and they were up to something. The something to which they were up would be Katie’s idea, and Katie’s ideas were capable of starting a war in an empty telephone box.
He went to warn Mary. She was in the kitchen preparing a light Sunday tea. At weekends, they had a brunch at about ten o’clock, tea mid-afternoon, and a supper in the evening. ‘They’ve gone,’ he told her.
‘Who or what have gone?’
‘The children.’
‘Well, they’ve had their sandwiches and fruit, so they’ll be fine until supper unless they’ve got tapeworms.’
‘What they do have is a wheelbarrow.’
Mary stopped slicing cucumber. ‘Have they left home? Is my catering substandard? What was in the barrow?’
‘How the hell would I know? It wasn’t Dad – he’s still out at the back, so they’re not guilty of grandfathercide. Ian looked serious.’
‘When does he look anything else? You’d better go and follow them.’
‘Only if you promise to leave Charlie alone. The buttermilk stays. OK?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He found them on the erosion where many people had brought their children to play in the sunshine. Ian was doing what he did best; he stood solemn-faced holding a placard. ‘Cancer research’ was inscribed on its surface. Katie was doing what she did best; she was showing off her little sister, the little sister who would probably be the taller of the two girls quite soon. And they were selling their toys to families on the beach.
He swallowed his emotions and left them to it. They had no permission, no licence, and they were disturbing the peace, he supposed. But something in his throat made him gulp suddenly. How many kids would part with treasured playthings in order to help mothers to survive? They were special; they had a special mother.
He told Mary. ‘I wouldn’t swap them for the Crown Jewels.’
‘Katie will be at the back of it,’ Mary said. ‘Helen could charm fledglings out of nests, and Ian likes to do good deeds, but Katie’s the ideas man. God, don’t they make you want to weep when they do something like this? They’re wonderful. So different from each other, too.’
He agreed. ‘Katie’s you all over again, and Helen’s my mother. Ian’s studious, serious and determined. There’s a bit of Dad in him.’
‘They’re themselves, Drew. They don’t seem to need us, do they?’
Andrew sighed. ‘Could be our fault. Perhaps marriage is designed to cool off after a few years. Maybe those who keep a distance from each other are doing right by living for their children. I know several marriages where the kids are the glue. We’re pretty selfish, aren’t we?’
‘Our closeness makes them secure,’ Mary insisted. ‘They don’t fall asleep worrying about us getting a divorce, don’t fail at school because there’s trouble at home. Ian bothers me a bit. But I’ve heard him laughing when he’s reading the Beano. He’s just a private person with a high IQ, I hope.’
‘He’s not unhappy, Mary. He’s just Ian.’
‘Quite. I still don’t like that paint.’
‘Oh shut up and butter your bread.’
She shut up and buttered her bread.
‘You can’t keep on with that, Helen.’ Kate dropped her books onto a huge desk they shared in the spare bedroom. ‘You might be doing yourself damage. Apart from that, you’ll be needing a psychologist if this carries on. You’re not handling life properly. I’m going to talk to Mum about it, and this time I mean it. Because I’ve had enough, and I’m damned sure you have, too.’
‘Please don’t,’ Helen begged. ‘I’ll take it off now and put a bra on.’
Kate studied her ‘little’ sister. Helen was inches taller than Kate, and she had a figure most grown women would kill for. ‘Look at me,’ Kate moaned. ‘Two years older and a thirty-four B on a good day. You’re like a film star.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Your hair’s beautiful, your skin’s perfect, your waist’s tiny, your legs are wolf-whistle gorgeous – it would be easy to hate you, Helen.’
‘Don’t say that. I get enough of the evil eye from girls in my class.’
‘I’ll say this. You can’t keep binding yourself flat with crêpe bandage. For games and PE, you have to unwind yourself anyway and wear a bra. Across in the boys’, their eyes are out on stalks every time you leap for the ball. It’s something you have to live with, I’m afraid.’
Helen burst into tears and sank into a chair.
‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘I’m going for help. You sit there and howl while I do the talking, as per bloody usual.’
Mary was in the kitchen. She had done enough extra shifts to gain a day off in lieu, and was using the opportunity to do some cooking and baking for the freezer. ‘Ah, Kate,’ she said. ‘I can tell by your face that something’s going on. Is it school?’
‘Sort of.’ Kate perched on a stool. ‘My sister, who as you know looks twenty-five and gorgeous, is winding half a mile of crêpe bandage round her bust to flatten it. She’s in pain, Mum. When it’s PE or games, she goes in the toilet and unwinds, puts a cotton bra on, then tries not to look at the boys’ windows because they’re all staring at her and drooling like hungry dogs. She can’t keep the bandage on through sport, because it shows through those horrible perforated or aerated or whatever stupid tops we have to wear.’
Mary sat. ‘Poor kid. Where is she?’
‘In our study crying and hiding her assets. Even lads in Ian’s class are asking will she go on a date – thirteen, they are. Some in the sixth are running a book on who will get to second base first with Helen Sanderson.’
‘Second base?’
‘Breasts. First base is kissing, second is bust, third is girl touching boy, fourth is God help us.’
‘Oh dear.’ Mary swallowed a chuckle. She remembered similar trouble, though she had never been as wonderfully statuesque as her younger daughter.
‘Then there are men in the street, grown men who practically knock themselves out on lamp posts staring at her.’ She paused. ‘Mum, I don’t want to frighten anyone, but I worry about her getting attacked.’
‘Rape?’
Kate nodded. ‘I never let her walk home alone. Ian’s started to come with us, because he hears smutty talk in the boys’ school. Her name’s written all over walls in the showers and loos. Like Helen, Ian’s tall, so he’s quite a good bodygua
rd. Mum, why are boys so gross?’
Mary sighed. ‘It’s a phase.’
Kate blew a raspberry. ‘A phase? Then why do adult men lose all sense of direction when they see her? We can’t do anything any more, can’t go anywhere. Do men ever grow up? Do they?’
‘Well, your father didn’t, thank goodness, but he’s not predatory. And men always look at women, sweetheart. Even the best of them will stop and stare when they see someone as beautiful as Helen. I’ll go and speak to her, and your father will have a word with your headteacher. Don’t tell her about your father going to the school. But I won’t have Helen upset just because she’s a stunner.’
‘Stay cool, Mum. She’s fragile.’
Mary washed and dried her hands. ‘Trust me. I’m a nurse.’
Upstairs, Helen’s mother stood on the galleried landing and listened while her baby girl wept. The baby girl was fifteen, Ian was thirteen, and the senior daughter was seventeen going on forty. Kate was as pretty as a picture, but she was tiny, gamine and lively. Helen possessed the stillness that men loved, the gentleness, the softness of body into which a male longed to immerse himself, the placid facial features seen in many a valuable oil painting. She seemed biddable, innocent and perfect. She was what most stupid men wanted, so she was vulnerable.
A man of character would choose Kate. No. That was wrong, because the reverse was more likely to be the truth; Kate would do the choosing and would achieve partnership, whereas Helen was likely to become a decorative item picked out and adorned to illustrate a man’s success. Yet she was an academic, a linguist, and a very capable student.
Mary knocked and opened the door. ‘Helen?’
‘Mum.’
‘Kate told me. Now, look at me. Look at me, sweetheart.’
Helen looked.
‘I want the roundness to disappear from your shoulders before you develop a hump on your back. I want you tall and straight in a well-fitted bra that shows off your figure. You are what you are, so embrace it with pride.’
A Liverpool Song Page 38
