The Anagram

by Russell French

  My favourite Liverpool joke involves an Australian, an Irishman and a Scouser having a drink in a pub. A stranger at another table sends them a drink over, Fosters for the Aussie, Guinness for Mick and John Smiths for the Scally. They wave their thanks and, after studying their benefactor carefully, come to the conclusion that it is none other than Jesus Christ himself. They go over to thank him. Bruce says: “Aw, look, mate, thanks for the drink” and shakes him by the hand. “Strewth! He’s cured my lumbago!” The Paddy follows suit then calls out “Bejasus! My sciatica! It’s gone!” They look round expectantly but our Scouse friend is legging it through the door as fast as his legs will carry him. “Come back and thank Jesus for your drink!” they call but he replies over his shoulder: “You must be bloody joking. I’m on Incapacity benefit!”

  Of course, Liverpool has a long list of famous names to its credit. William Ewart Gladstone, arguably our greatest-ever Prime Minister, hails from these parts, so too the great animal artist George Stubbs. Writers such as Beryl Bainbridge Anthony Shaffer, Alan Bleasdale and Willy Russell are from Liverpool. But it is perhaps for its contribution to the more visual arts that Liverpool is most famous—a long, almost endless list of actors and actresses gives us such luminaries as Kim Cattrall. Jennifer Ellison, Alison Steadman and Rita Tushingham (not to mention Halle Berry’s mother!); a trio of Toms, Baker, Bell and Georgeson, and the McGann brothers; David Morrissey, Derek Nimmo, Leonard Rossiter and Michael Williams. Singers and musicians are well represented, of course: that great showman George Melly, fifties crooner and heartthrob Frankie Vaughan, who did so much good work for charity later on in his life, ex-Mersey ferryman Billy Fury, he of the matinee idol good looks and, naturally, the Beatles, of whom more than enough has already been written, to name but a few. Then there are the comedians, in the true sense of the word, such as Arthur “I thank you!” Askey, the inexhaustibly irrepressible Ken Dodd, whose mellifluous tones also secured him a number of Top Twenty hits, and the gently sardonic John Bishop, with his tales of struggles with his teenage sons, “You were shit, Dad!” And probably the greatest conductor of his generation is a Liverpudlian, Sir Simon Rattle, (whose uncontrollable curly mane is now similarly featured by the next generation’s pop-idol conductor, Gustavo Dudamel), as is that finest of Beethoven exponents, the pianist Paul Lewis, whose father was a Liverpool docker

  In Liverpool FC and Everton FC, the city boasts two of the five most successful football Clubs in the land, with 27 League titles between them. Which Liverpool follower has not dreamed of being the next Billy Liddell, Roger Hunt or Michael Owen? Which Everton fan has not yearned for anyone to be the new Dixie Dean? What a difference sixty goals in a season would make, to their or anybody else’s team! Aintree racecourse, home to the greatest steeplechase in the world, is in Liverpool. And what other city can boast a street called Hope Street with a cathedral at either end? You should visit these two buildings, if you have not already done so: the Anglican cathedral is the greatest Gothic revival cathedral in the world and took a hundred years to finish—it is home to the biggest organ in England (the third biggest is in St. George’s Hall). The Catholic cathedral is different from most others of its ilk. I find that many Catholic cathedrals, even Westminster, Notre-Dame and St. Peter’s, have a rather cold atmosphere to them, but this one is not the same. Its crown-shaped building and beautiful stained-glass windows make it stand out from the norm—the locals know it as Paddy’s Wigwam or The Mersey Funnel!

  Throw in wonderful architecture (much of it built with income from the slave trade), a veritable plethora of museums and art galleries, the famous Mersey ferries and the brilliant Liverpool Phil and you can see why Liverpool has so much to offer. Jealous Southerners are sometimes heard to remark “If it’s so good, why do so many move away from it?” Sour grapes, if you ask me. They’ve just got nothing like it!

  No wonder Beth felt so much at home here. She was glad to see the familiar landmarks and hear the comforting accents once again. Gareth was much less au fait with the territory. His few visits to the city had all had sporting connections. He had played cricket against Lancashire at Aigburth. He had been with friends to the Grand National in 2004, the year local favourite Amberleigh House won. One of his rare away trips with Arsenal had been to Goodison Park. It was actually the game in which Wayne Rooney scored that goal, which blasted him into the public consciousness forever. But Gareth could not claim to have any intimate knowledge of the place, although he was somewhat surprised to feel, as a Southerner in upbringing, immediately comfortable with his new surroundings.

  Had the young couple realised it, Liverpool was actually a Gnome stronghold. Theeth had spoken of the North-west having strong gnomic connections and a study of the local area would reveal four potential locations for their kind: Croxteth, Toxteth, Culcheth and Penketh. In fact, they felt comfortable anywhere in the city. By and large, the goblin fraternity gave this part of the country a wide berth. Liverpool was a home from home for Gareth, if he did but know it.

  They were lucky, the two of them, in getting a bus out to Crosby almost immediately, despite it being a Sunday night. Beth took great pride in showing places of interest to her travelling companion and he responded with equal enthusiasm. All too soon, they reached their stop and braved the Arctic weather conditions once more. They came to their destination almost straight away, a large Victorian terraced house, which looked from the outside, to use EstateAgentspeak, “in need of some modernisation.” Beth explained that her great-aunt had lived there for all of her adult life, close on some sixty-five years in total and, as she was a great traveller, had not felt the need to spend much money on the upkeep of her residence, because she was hardly ever there. “The only attempt she made to do anything about it was when she first bought it, during the war. It was suffering from bomb-damage, which was why she was able to get it cheap. It’s hardly been touched since, apart from the odd coat of paint. Inside it’s the same.”

  Beth’s description was spot-on. She and her family had, you will recall, only just taken up residence in the dwelling, and it still bore traces of the kind of odours inevitably left behind after an occupation of some length. Much of the furniture was functional and heavy Victorian and Edwardian, not graceful in any way but clumpy and practical. “I think we’ll probably have to burn most of this,” Beth commented sadly. “It’s not worth taking to auction. Who’d want all this chunky stuff in a modern house?” Gareth could only concur. With the notable exception of his grandfather’s desk, he had had similar problems in his own house.

  As expected, Gwyneth was the only person at home when they arrived, and she was just on her way out. A slightly smaller, skinnier version of Beth, she had the same dark eyes and radiating smile. Her hair was artificially black and several studs adorned her face, including one on the tongue, which Gareth thought must be extremely uncomfortable. He was surprised to feel an immediate attraction towards her, not, he was relieved to notice, in a physical way but more a bond of fellowship, kinship, almost, as though they had known each other for a long time and had been through hard times together. It was very similar to the feeling he and Beth had both experienced on meeting the two little girls in the Chat de Vin. He knew Gwyneth felt it too and that Beth had also noticed something.

  “Gareth! Why do I feel as if I’ve known you all my life? I’ve only just met you!”

  “Well, I don’t know how much your sister has told you but I feel you may be part of a very small and select band of people,” Gareth replied cautiously. He looked at Beth, who nodded, so he continued: “Beth and I think you might be a Custodian.”

  “What? Gnomes and goblins and all that kind of nonsense? Get away!” Gwyneth had obviously given her sister’s explanations short shrift.

  “Yes, exactly the reaction I had when I first got involved. But things have happened to me, to us, in the last few days that have pretty well convinced me otherwise. Beth has always believed but I was rather re
luctant to take it all seriously. Now I am all too ready to accept it as well.”

  “We’re pretty certain now that you’re one of us. Even Theeth didn’t know about you until I mentioned it, but the way you’ve reacted to Gareth confirms it.” Beth couldn’t keep a note of pride out of her voice. “Looks as though you’ll be fighting the good fight with us soon, little Sis.”

  “Huh!” Gwyneth almost snorted her derision. “That’s if I want to get involved. It’ll take a lot more than a few sweet words from you two to win me over! Theeth, indeed. What a name!”

  “Have foxes ever played a part in your life, Gwyneth?” Gareth wasn’t sure if this would help at all but it was worth a try.

  “Foxes? Well, the old people’s home where I work is called Reynard House. Does that count?”

  “I think that’s too much of a coincidence to be ignored. Anything else?”

  “There was this Music teacher at school, Mrs Methven. Do you remember her, Beth?”

  “No, the great “Lofty” Short was my Music teacher. Wonderful old boy, he was. He retired the year I left. What about her?”

  “She had a thing about foxes. I thought she was just anti-hunting—which she probably was! She wore a little fox badge on her lapel.”

  “Sent there to protect you after I’d left. It’s surprising Theeth didn’t know that. I wonder if there’s some greater force even than he at work here.”

  “You’re losing me now”, Gwyneth rejoined. “She did once mention having been in touch with a Mr. Gregg or Graham, or something. Seemed rather taken aback to have heard from him, rather worried.”

  “Graham. Couldn’t have been Graham Nate, could it?” Gareth dragged the name from the deep recesses of his memory.

  “Graham Nate. Yes, that rings a bell. Who is he?”

  “Oh, it’s a pen-name used by a friend of ours—the very Theeth you were so scathing about. We’ll explain about him when we have more time.”

  “If I choose to listen. All this claptrap, it’s just coincidence.” With the arrogance of youth, Gwyneth would not be easily thrown off course. But who could blame her?

  “Maybe things will happen to help you change your mind, although not unpleasant ones, I hope.” Beth’s expression of anxiety made her sister sit up and take notice.

  “Beth? You’re not involved in some kind of trouble, are you? What’s going on? Has this crazy Welshman dragged you into something unsavoury?”

  “It’s nothing we can’t handle, Gwyn. Don’t worry. I can’t tell you much more because Theeth doesn’t want people to know. It’s all under control.”

  “Theeth this, Theeth that. You’re all loopy, if you ask me. Anyway, I’m off to work. I’ll see you both in the morning. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

  “That leaves us plenty of scope, then.” Beth hugged her sibling affectionately, then kissed her on the forehead. “Have a good night. And don’t worry about us.”

  After Gwyneth had gone, Gareth said: “What’s she doing working nights in an old people’s home? Not that there’s anything wrong in that, but surely she’s destined for greater things?”

  “She finished her degree in Business Studies at Sheffield Hallam in the summer and decided she wanted a bit of a break. Rather than go travelling, she opted to earn some money and live at home for a year and hope that the jobs market would pick up. They let her help with the admin at the home, so she’s getting useful experience.”

  “Her life may take a different turn if she ends up joining forces with us,” Gareth said rather grimly. “That’s if we come through this little lot unscathed.”

  “We’ll worry about that if and when,” said Beth, with more conviction than she actually felt. “Now let’s get something to eat.”

  They rustled up some food from the kitchen. After their meal, and with some persuasion, Beth agreed to play the piano, and tackle a Schubert Impromptu. “It’s the one in B flat minor, from the second set of four. You’ll have to forgive the fluffs. You’re making me nervous.”

  Gareth listened entranced as she twinkled and twirled her way through the enchanting work. “Well done!” he said, when she’d finished. “I wish I could play like that, but I’ve got no musical skill at all. Maybe you’d feel the same if you came to watch me play cricket. I’d probably get out first ball, mind.”

  “That means nothing to me, I’m afraid. You liked it though.”

  “Oh yes. I’ve got the Mitsuko Uchida recording at home and it sounded just as good as that.”

  “Oh come on. I’ve got that recording as well and I’m not in the same league. I think you’re probably just a bit biased, Mr. Crazy Welshman!”

  “I’ll give you crazy. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  Their love-making that night reached new heights of passion, less frenzied but just as intense. They were able to take their time and get to know each other’s bodies even more intimately. They lay wrapped together in blissful silence for a while afterwards until Gareth, like so many of his kind, fell into a deep sleep. Beth, in common with the vast majority of women, would have preferred her lover to stay awake longer and enjoy the moment, but it was not to be. It was some time before she went to sleep herself. Where was her life going? From what Gareth had said about joining forces, it was pretty obvious that he expected himself and Beth to stay together as a partnership. Did he love her? Yes, she thought he almost certainly did. He certainly doted on her. Probably thought all his Christmases had come at once: intelligent and beautiful girl, good, and willing, in bed. What more could a bloke want? He obviously would expect her to up sticks and follow him to wherever the world took them. That’s what men did.

  Did she love him or was it all wrapped up in the excitement of the adventure? She knew all about relationships formed in times of crisis, begun in adrenalin-fuelled drama. What happened when normality was restored? Was the flame extinguished or, even worse, gradually snuffed out? They had very little in common. Ok, there was the shared love of music but what else? He had no skill at all in that line. He wouldn’t even be able to sing, let alone play, a duet with her. There would be no point in joining a choir or a drama group. Reading was a minor diversion for him—thrillers were as far as he got, by his own admission. For her, on the other hand, reading was a total passion, especially the great 19th—century novelists, not just Hardy but Dickens, Trollope, Thackeray, not to mention biographies and poetry. Poetry—yes, perhaps that was a common thread, if she could get him to talk about his mother’s writing, maybe even help edit a collection for publication… . But then there was his love of sport. She knew very little about cricket and cared even less. She had once been told that a game could last five days and even then not have a positive result. Where was the fun in that? No wonder Americans, with their fast-paced lifestyle, had never taken to the game. And then there was her career. She loved working for the Echo and was beginning to make a name for herself. One or two nationals had even started making noises but she did not feel she was ready yet to abandon home and family to head for the capital city, in spite of her sister’s presence there. Would Gareth give up his career and his flat to come and work in Liverpool? Come on, that’s not what would be expected! So why should she have to… . ? Sleep eventually took hold and she drifted into uneasy slumber. The perils of the day still remained and she had no answers as yet to all the questions that were troubling her.

  26

  When they went downstairs the next morning, they found Gwyneth, freshly returned from work, in a great state of excitement. “This was lying on the doormat when I got in, “she said, waving a brown envelope under their noses in anticipation. “Look at the back. It says “NATE! Isn’t that the chap you mentioned yesterday?” Then she stopped suddenly and gazed suspiciously at them. “Unless you put it there to convince me your fairy stories were true.”

  “Don’t be silly Gwyneth. Don’t you think we have bet
ter things to do?” Gareth’s abrupt tone pulled her up sharply. “Would you mind passing it over, please?”

  “Yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir.” Gwyneth looked distinctly miffed but did as she was requested.

  “What does it say?” Beth could hardly contain her impatience as he ripped open the envelope. A sheet of paper inside was covered in quaint but distinctive writing. Gareth cleared his throat and read:

  “Gareth and Beth. Thank you for following new instructions. It should be safe for you to travel to London today. Stay in a hotel in central London tonight and tomorrow evening (Tuesday 11th) take tube to Victoria and walk to Tachbrook Street. Look up in A-Z. Arrive at 8pm I’ll be looking out for you. Re PP, in spite of great age, he had a child (only his second) about fifteen years ago. Is it important? Let me know tomorrow.

  You are doing wonderfully well.

  Yours in love and faith

  Graham.”

  The elegant spidery writing degenerated into a scrawled signature at the bottom of the note.

  “Well, that’s ok, then,” said Gareth. “We’ll get a bus back into Liverpool and catch a train for Euston.”

  “I’ll have to do some ironing first,” said the ever-practical Beth. “And perhaps we could pop into Marks and buy a few more things on the way.”