‘I hate it.’
‘Tough. I hated being small, but I didn’t buy stilts. I got on with it, love. Let them look, but don’t let them touch. Walk tall. Show off your figure and let them see what they can’t have. I have a police whistle downstairs, and don’t be afraid to use it. If anyone gets too close, you can perforate his eardrum with one blast.’
‘Mum!’
‘You need to borrow a bit of your sister’s cheek and a lot of your brother’s nonchalance. To hell with them, Helen. Listen, now. There’s a very good corsetiere in Knotty Ash. She could make you some bras. We’ll get a couple of strong cotton ones that stop your breasts leaping about, and some pretty ones, too. You have to learn to celebrate what you are and who you are.’
‘Like Uncle Stuart?’
‘Exactly like that. Accept yourself and love yourself. No two people are the same. He was a bit older than you are now when he told your dad about his difference. Details, Helen, mere details and happenstance. You could have been born with an enormous birthmark on your face or with one leg shorter than the other. Your details happen to be a beautiful body and a perfect face. Women will be jealous and men will be roughly of two types – those who would set you on a pedestal and those who will want to get into your knickers—’
‘Mum!’
‘Helen! There’s nothing wrong with plain speaking, and do remember my origins. Where I come from, a spade’s an effing shovel. Your dad’s from a cotton town where toughness is bred in the bone, and I survived Scotland Road.’ She paused. ‘That’s not true. I survived it and I loved every minute of it. And they destroyed it, bloody government.’
Helen dried her eyes. ‘I’ll be good.’
‘You’re always good, too good. Start biting back, Helen. There’s nothing wrong with finishing a war, though there’s plenty wrong with starting one.’
‘I’ll try. I promise I’ll try. We’ll do the bras in the long holidays, Mum. You’re right; I should be grateful. Thank you.’
This was the day on which Helen Andrea Sanderson learned how to cope. She practised putting her hair up. It suited her, but was less enticing than the free-flowing dark silk that usually hung down halfway between head and waist. A slackened belt made her less shapely, and she found some clumpy shoes in the bottom of her wardrobe.
She found something else, too. Deep down in her core, she discovered a place she had never sought before now. Helen Sanderson was a strong girl. Because of archery, an option chosen for its lack of quick movement, she had muscles. But beyond the muscles, there was something easily as useful; there was self-respect and a deeply buried and furious resistance. If any man touched her, she would break his neck. ‘You can do it,’ she told her reflection. If ever a male stepped one inch too far, she would deal with him. Kate, like Mum, had a quick temper that dispersed within minutes. Helen was more calculating than that. And these horrible shoes might inflict a lot of damage . . .
What neither girl realized was that each was already under surveillance.
Richard Rutherford met his Waterloo when a ball flew over the wire fence between boys’ and girls’ playing fields. A tiny, dark-haired female approached the divide. ‘Oi,’ she shouted. ‘You with the hair; can we have our ball back?’
He sauntered towards her. ‘Are you talking to me, Shorthouse?’
Dark blue eyes glistened. ‘No, I’m talking to myself; I’ve already been locked up for it three times, padded cell, back-to-front coat and all that. But I have failed so far to meet a conversationalist as accomplished as I am.’ She looked him up and down. The up and the down were well separated by a substantial body. ‘What happened to your head, long person?’
‘Cricket,’ he answered.
‘Then leave insects alone, because I think it’s made a nest in your thatch.’
He grinned. Even in the horrible chocolate-brown divided skirt and yellow top, she had style. ‘You’re Kate Sanderson.’
‘Thanks. To remember who I am, I usually have to look inside my PE kit to read the name tapes. Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Tennis ball. We’re playing rounders, and I slogged it.’
He thought about that. ‘In cricket, that would be a six.’
‘Ah, but look what cricket does to your hair. Ball, please.’
‘Helen’s sister?’
Oh, heck, another one. ‘Yes, and she’s not for sale. We’ve decided we’re keeping her because she matches the drawing-room curtains.’
He wasn’t interested in Helen, though he said nothing on the subject. This one was another matter altogether. She answered back. Kate had what Helen lacked – chutzpah. Fighting with this little minx would be fun, he decided.
‘Ball,’ she repeated, eyes glaring, foot tapping.
‘How much is it worth?’
Kate shrugged. ‘Not much. We have a spare.’ And she ran away.
Richard remained where he was, watching her. She had a Leslie Caron haircut with irregular spiky bits framing her face. Her little body was perfectly proportioned, her wit was quick and clever, and he wanted to know her. Yes, Helen was beautiful, but this cheeky monkey was his cup of tea or arsenic or whatever else she wanted to give him.
He was a late scholar, because a long fight with glandular fever followed by meningitis had stolen a huge chunk of childhood, so Richard was a man in a boys’ world. Tomorrow, his schooldays would finally end and, if he got good grades, he would be reading law at Oxford. Rumour had it that Helen was aiming for modern languages, while her older little sister intended to read something like politics. ‘Come to Oxford with me, Kate,’ he whispered.
She was having an argument with a girl twice her size.
‘You’re out,’ she screamed.
She would win. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would always win. What a waste; she would have made a brilliant lawyer.
There’d been a long lecture after a recent assembly. Boys were forbidden to leer at, salivate over, follow or make lewd comments to or about their counterparts in the girls’ school. Anybody touching a female pupil would be summarily expelled from this fee-paying school for young gentlemen. Richard guessed that the real subject was Helen Sanderson, a girl who was probably at the core of many damp and untidy dreams. She was lovely, almost perfect, but her sister was probably the golden girl in that household.
He retrieved the tennis ball and pocketed it. The three Sandersons always walked home together, probably because the younger girl needed guarding. Since he lived fairly close to them, he would return the ball after school and accompany them. If Kate would allow it, that was.
In the school library, he thumbed his way through a precedent set during the Crown versus Edwin Taylor, a case of suspected fraud. Even her hair seemed alive. Edwin Taylor was a prat, but his case had been compromised by a sergeant from CID. Entrapment. He’d like to entrap little madam in a nice, soft bed. She would be feisty. The law was an ass, indeed. Three grand, Taylor had filched from a deaf old lady.
He gave up. Edwin bloody Taylor should have got seven years, but bad handling of evidence had set him free.
She’s not for sale. We’re keeping her because she matches the curtains. It was possible that Kate was unused to being admired. Everybody wanted Helen; few noticed the little firecracker by her side. It seemed that Ian and Kate acted as minders for the family’s treasure, an item that was most people’s idol. He found himself hoping that his newly discovered prize really had no more admirers. But he might be wrong. Why on earth should he be the only one who’d noticed and desired little Katie? ‘And why would she look at me?’
The tennis ball remained in his pocket for the rest of the day. He would travel homeward in her company. Tomorrow, a barrier would come down for the sixth form summer ball. Lowers and uppers from both schools attended, and he could only hope that she would come. Teachers’ corporate vigilance would not be aimed at Helen and her flock of admirers, since she was too young to attend. Kate would be free of her sister. But she wouldn’t
be free of him. Richard intended to fill Kate’s dance card for many moons to come. If she would allow it, that was.
Daniel Pope opened Pope’s of Waterloo in 1984. The shop was the first of the chain to be established in Liverpool North, and Mother was pleased with him. It was best to stay on the right side of Beatrice Pope, as she could be toxic when displeased. His father, obviously under the thumb of old Beatie, as she was known to all who hated her, was Victorian by nature, though he did not rule the roost. Their son wondered how they’d managed to create him, since he had never met people colder than his parents.
Daniel lived two lives. There was the obedient, lovable and grateful son; then there was the alter ego. The latter had been manufactured due to necessity, as without it he would have had no life at all while still at home. Secrecy became paramount when he was a child, and he honed his skills as he reached maturity. A handsome man, he navigated his way through dozens of women, bought second-hand jewellery about which his family knew nothing, kept two sets of books and opened a very private and increasingly healthy bank account.
Then Helen Sanderson drifted into his life. She came into the shop to buy a locket as a birthday gift for her sister. She was the most stunning girl he’d ever seen, so he allowed her a decent discount on an antique piece acquired from the estate of a recently deceased woman. He told Helen nothing of its provenance, though he emphasized its age and the embedded hallmark. Her uniform he recognized immediately. ‘I see you attend my alma mater,’ he said.
Helen made no reply. She had discovered that reply led to conversation, which in turn led to a request to which she had to reply in the negative. Yes, fifteen was old enough for a girl to have a boyfriend, but this was a man of the world, a good-looking jeweller with the usual hunger in his eyes.
‘Shall I gift-wrap it?’
‘I’ll do that myself, but thank you.’
‘Would you like her name engraved on the back?’
She thought about that. ‘Her birthday’s next week.’
‘Plenty of time.’
‘All right. Sister Kate, please.’
‘Older than you?’
‘Lower sixth.’
‘And you are?’
‘Helen Sanderson.’
Daniel asked for her telephone number.
‘No need,’ was her answer. ‘My father’s a doctor, so we must keep the line as clear as possible.’ There was a second number for the family, but she wasn’t about to give him that one, either. ‘I’ll come back in a few days,’ she added.
‘I’m sure Kate will love your gift. See you soon.’
As she closed the shop door, a thought struck him. Next month, the school would close for the summer. His parents were school governors, and they had received invitations to the sixth form ball. They wouldn’t use the tickets. A ball was not their scene, so he would go in their place. He would go alone, too. Kate. The sister must be found. ‘Cherchez la femme,’ he whispered. The loss he’d sustained on the silver locket was of no significance, because Kate’s sister was worth every penny and more.
He stood in the window and watched Helen crossing the road. She was clearly aware of herself, ugly shoes, slackened belt, hair scraped away from a classically perfect face. Well, she didn’t fool him, not for one minute. The girl was jail bait, far too young for tampering with.
Helen could feel his eyes burning into her back. He was a very handsome man, and he knew it. Dad had explained this kind of stuff. ‘Chemistry,’ he had told her, ‘is a word used for the basic attraction between male and female. It starts in the brain. Without being aware of it, we search for a match, someone to have or to father our babies. Almost invariably, the chemistry happens between two people who would measure as equals if looks were quantifiable. A beautiful woman picks a handsome man and vice versa. The moderately attractive mate with each other, as do pairs considered ugly. It’s an animal thing.’
Had it just happened? Why was she tightening her belt? She was too young for this type of thing, and he was . . . older. And he was gorgeous.
Dad had also explained that teenage years were difficult. ‘As with all animals, we reproduce best when young. A girl who menstruates is ready, in the physical sense, to breed. Her body is supple, yet not fixed, not hardened by time. A teenage birth can be as easy as shelling peas. But civilization has altered our code. Caveman bred early and died early. So remember that any feelings you have for a boy must be put aside until your education is over.’
It all made sense. The education of women was of prime importance, because there might be widowhood, abandonment, divorce, and many women these days were responsible for fatherless children. But none of these thoughts rendered the jeweller less attractive. This was probably just the first of many such encounters she would experience before reaching the magical age of twenty-one. She glanced across the road. He waved. She waved back. But he was surely a man who wanted to get into her knickers. At his age, he wouldn’t want to put anybody on a pedestal.
She couldn’t have been more wrong. He already had her on hoardings rather than on a plinth. In something diaphanous, diamonds on her earlobes, diamonds and a sapphire at her throat, a sapphire chosen to agree with those dark blue eyes, three carats on the engagement finger, hair severe, hair free and flowing, a very slight smile, a pout, a profile, full face, looking over her shoulder, taut buttocks pushing against pale voile . . . oh hell, he would need a woman tonight.
Mary and Andrew Sanderson, also governors of Grange College, attended the end-of-year ball. For half the young people here, this evening marked the completion of their schooldays. Kate, with a year to go, was with Lower Sixth pupils. She looked amazing in a plain silver shift, silver shoes, silver bangle, and the locket bought by her younger sister. ‘She has wonderful skin,’ Mary whispered to her husband. ‘And her hair’s glorious among all that metallic garb. When she stands away from Helen, she’s a real corker.’
Andrew smiled. ‘And Helen’s not here, so Kate can position herself in her own limelight.’
Governors and teachers were here as chaperons. People could dance together, of course, but kissing and wandering hands were strictly out of bounds.
‘That tall fellow keeps staring at her,’ Mary said.
‘Oh, it’s young Rutherford. We saved his legs and his life years ago, and there’s not a mark on him. Meningitis, a bad dose of it. He was away from school for more than a year what with one thing and another, so he’s older than his classmates.’
‘How did you save him? Was it blood poisoning?’
‘Yes. And never tell him, but we used maggots and leeches. Building him up again took the longest time once he left hospital. Three nights, I sat with him. He was talking some of the finest rubbish I ever heard. Yes, he’s fixed on our girl, all right. But so is that other one, older still, I think.’
‘Jeweller from St Johns Road,’ Mary pronounced. ‘He’ll be here because his parents are governors – you know them. Popes. He’s got a face like a busted gusset, and she has a bloodhound’s jowls. So much for your idea of ugly people having ugly children – look at him. Anyway, he’s too old for Kate.’
He was talking to Kate. He was touching her locket. ‘Helen must have bought that from him,’ Mary said. ‘I can’t see his parents, so he’s probably here in their place, like a deputy governor. They wouldn’t fit in here. Joy’s a word missing from their dictionary.’
Andrew noticed that the Rutherford boy was scowling at Pope. A part of him wished they would fight over Kate, give her a sense of her worth, but fights were not listed on the curriculum at the Grange. Pope walked away and was intercepted by Richard Rutherford.
‘I wish I could hear what they’re saying, Drew.’
She would have been disappointed.
‘What’s that girl’s name?’ Richard asked, just to open the conversation.
‘Oh, it’s Kate. Kate Sanderson. I sold that locket to her sister, Helen. It was for Kate’s birthday last month. Have you seen Helen?’
‘Not here; she’s in the fifth come September, so she’s too young.’
‘I didn’t mean tonight. Have you seen her?’
‘Yes, I sometimes walk them home. Helen’s continually persecuted by men and boys.’
‘Oh, right.’
The light dawned. ‘If you’re interested in Helen, there’s a very long queue.’
Daniel straightened his tie. ‘I don’t mind competition.’
‘She’s fifteen.’
‘She won’t stay fifteen, though, will she?’ He walked away.
Richard Rutherford inhaled deeply, crossed the room and invited Kate to dance. ‘May I have the pleasure?’ he asked.
She pulled him away from her group. For a reason she failed to understand, no badinage could take place within the hearing of others. ‘What pleasure would that be? I mean, do what you like for your own amusement, but not in a public place.’
‘The pleasure of dancing with you, of course.’
She scarcely knew what to say. ‘Listen, Rich. Thanks for walking us home and all that, but she’s not interested.’
He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Neither am I.’ It was a modern waltz, and he was holding her. She proved light on her feet and a good dancer. ‘Helen’s not my type. You are.’
Kate stumbled slightly.
‘If we were elsewhere, your head would tuck nicely under my chin. You smell wonderful. And you shine like a little silver star in that outfit.’
She stopped moving so suddenly that he, too, was forced to stand still. ‘Are you on tablets?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Well get some, then. Because you’re talking twaddle. Mind, your hair’s in better shape than it was. Did you get rid of the cricket?’
‘Yes. Very sad. It croaked.’
‘Was it a cricket or a frog?’
‘Both. The frog ate the cricket.’
‘So they both croaked?’
He nodded. ‘It was a terrible day. As a nature lover, I was forced to wear a black armband. You’ve no idea how beautiful you are, have you? May I ask for a date?’
A Liverpool Song Page 39
