A Liverpool Song (5 page)

‘Andrew?’

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘Do you feel better now?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Deceit was about to become a way of life.

‘Chopin must be spinning in his grave. I don’t know what happened to my fingers. They were everywhere except where I needed them to be.’

Andrew understood fully, though he offered no reply.

‘Do you feel ready for cocoa?’ she asked.

‘A glass of water would be better,’ he replied. All he could see was a house with dirty windows, a neglected garden, a front door that howled for a coat of paint. His father had
turned away from a fragrant, lovely wife, had found his own level with a slovenly person who couldn’t be bothered to live a clean life.

She returned with the water. ‘If anything is worrying you, talk to me.’

He shrugged lightly. ‘Too many sweets and a strong dislike for geometry,’ he said. ‘Pythagoras and I have to reach agreement before September.’ He even spoke the way she
did, had taken his voice from her. While Andrew’s speech was not exactly devoid of accent, it was nearer to hers than to his father’s. But the lies were born in the part of him that
came from Dad, because Dad was dishonest. There was no problem with Pythagoras, but he had to offer an explanation of some kind so, like his male parent, he took the easy route.

‘Just rest, then,’ Emily said.

She went into the kitchen and attacked tomorrow’s lamb with sprigs of rosemary. Joseph hated rosemary, so he could jolly well drown his portion in mint sauce yet again. She stabbed the
meat and inserted extra pieces of the herb.
Let her have him. Let him go and live in that tacky cul-de-sac with that tacky madam. And I hope her husband finds them
in flagrante
and
gives them both the hiding they deserve.

The marriage had not been a mistake; it had produced Andrew, who was a blessing. But something had happened to Andrew this evening, and the child was frighteningly close to boiling point.
O
God, please protect my boy from the truth.
He mustn’t know, must never find out. Perhaps when he’s older, but not yet. She shelled peas, scrubbed potatoes, put together a trifle
for tomorrow’s pudding. She used no jelly. Her Andrew didn’t care for jelly.

It looked as if rain might be on the way. Never mind. Let Joseph get soaked on his way home. Yet she couldn’t manage to hate him . . .

‘Mother?’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘The people next door to Stuart have some kittens. May I have one?’ The idea of something warm and furry suddenly appealed.

Emily stood in the doorway. ‘Your father hates cats.’

‘I know.’ He paused for a few seconds and studied her face. ‘Though he wouldn’t hurt an animal, would he?’

‘No. But get a queen if there is one, and I’ll have it neutered. They’re more sensible than toms.’
He’ll be in the pub now. Tonight, he will smell of her, all
cheap soap and Evening in Paris. I shall move into the small bedroom. For Andrew’s sake, I’ll blame Joseph’s snoring. For some reason I can’t fathom, today marks the end of
something. He has hurt my boy – I’m almost sure of it. No one hurts my boy.

‘You’ve had cats before, Mother?’

‘Yes, we had several on the farm.’ She pulled herself together and inhaled sharply. ‘When I was very young, we lived for a little while in a farmhouse.’

Farmhouse. Mother’s maiden name was Beauchamp, French for beautiful field, pronounced Beecham. ‘That must have been fun,’ he said. Then he skimmed over the whole thing by
talking about kittens while hoping that Mother would think he hadn’t noticed her faux pas with its accompanying gasp. More French. False step, this time. Well, Dad was the one who had stepped
out of line. Mother probably needed her family, but was, perhaps, too proud to approach them. Beauchamp spelt the French way was an unusual name . . .

While he drank his water, Andrew’s mother played another nocturne. This time, she took charge of her fingers and delivered a decent enough performance. Since learning about her
husband’s floozy, Emily had concentrated on control of herself. Sometimes she felt a little guilty, as she had never enjoyed the physical side of marriage. After a birth so difficult that it
had threatened the lives of both herself and her baby, the reason for sexual contact had been removed. Yes, she would have loved more children; no, she had no intention of leaving her son without a
mother. So any fumblings involved a layer of latex, and she hated all that preparation. Did she hate Joseph? No. He was a weak and needful man, but his son had come first so far.
Dear God, let
it continue thus.

In Andrew’s life since infancy, libraries had always been useful places. Inside the Central on Bolton’s famous crescent he had spent many busy hours, especially in
the reference section. Reading about carpentry had been as useful as his practical experience; reading about anatomy and physiology was fascinating, and many answers to homework questions were
available in this quiet, peaceful place. There were times when he felt he shouldn’t mind living here, because the whole world sat on shelves just waiting to be raided.

But the information he currently sought was not available within his normal spheres of exploration. In a reading room usually populated by older people, newspapers and periodicals were kept on
sloping tables with wooden lips on their edges to prevent printed matter from falling to the floor. And here he found a farming magazine.

A man and a woman were pictured leaning on a wide five-bar gate. Between them, a young, prize-winning bullock rested his head. The whole photograph was pleasant and comical. But Andrew’s
eyes were drawn to the article underneath.

In a further paragraph, Andrew learned that these possible relations of his were famous for breeding prize cows, sheep and pigs. ‘We lived for a little while in a farmhouse,’ Mother
had said. Days after that evening, the kitten had been installed in the household, and Andrew had begun his trawl through the telephone directory, though his search had been fruitless. Not everyone
had phones in those days, and lines had not yet been extended out into some areas of the countryside.

The people at the main desk in the library had grown used to Andrew. He was the sort of user they appreciated; even when he brought his friend, they conversed by passing notes on a writing pad,
thereby allowing other reference-seekers to continue their work in peace.

George looked up. ‘Hello, young man. What is it today, then?’

Andrew grinned. ‘Farming.’

The man laughed. ‘It’ll fill the time nicely when you’re not playing the piano or being a doctor or a carpenter. Well, let me tell you, young Andrew, farming is more than
full-time. You need thirty hours a day in that job. What have you got there?’

He held up the magazine. ‘Just this. Can you tell me where to buy it?’

George lowered his head and his tone. ‘I can do better than that, me laddo. You can have that one. The next’s due any day, and that issue’s safely archived, but don’t say
anything. Give it here – I’ve an old bag somewhere.’ He glanced sideways. ‘And I don’t mean Edith.’

Chuckling, Andrew offered his thanks, took the bag and left the building. Outside, he sat on the steps. Heathfield Farm. It wouldn’t be to the south, because the area between Bolton and
Manchester was mostly housing and business development. The answer lay in the building behind him, in the maps section, but he had to get home, as Mother would have the meal ready. What would she
say if she knew what her son was up to? Well, she certainly approved of brains and initiative, and he was using both.

Mother no longer slept in the same room as Dad. The official reason was Joe’s snoring, but Andrew wasn’t fooled for one moment. He needed to find the Beauchamps, befriend them and,
eventually, tell them who he was. If they were the right Beauchamps, that was. Should her marriage end, Mother might need support beyond anything her son could offer.

Now. Time to invent the next lie. He could pretend to be working on a holiday assignment on wildlife in the north-west. With his trusty steed, a bicycle bought for his birthday, together with
snacks and drinks, he would be able to take off daily once he had found the farm’s location. Mother would have no idea about his real intentions, and she wouldn’t worry about him.

A second lie was preparing itself. He would tell the Beauchamps that he was researching husbandry with particular reference to cattle. With luck and good management, he might inveigle himself
into the household. He would offer to work as a farmhand, with lunch as payment. How adept he was becoming at dishonesty. Perhaps he ought to become a journalist. They seemed to need the ability to
bend the truth to achieve a headline.

He reshaped the magazine so that it fitted into his saddlebag, and cycled home. After greeting Emily, he washed his hands at the kitchen sink and sat at the table.

‘We must wait for your father.’

‘Yes, of course. Where is he?’

She walked to the window and beckoned. ‘Look at him,’ she whispered. ‘He’s having the time of his life.’

Dad, who hated cats, was playing with the kitten. The animal was chasing a table-tennis ball all over the lawn, while Dad chased her. ‘He’s not supposed to like cats.’
Childishly angry, Andrew resented the idea of Joe’s taking over the care of Toodles. She was his cat, not his dad’s.

‘Your father’s a good man, Andrew. Not perfect, but good enough. For some odd reason, Toodles’ fur doesn’t make him sneeze.’ She paused. ‘You’ve been
missed at the workshop, by the way. The men have been asking after you.’

So the first of the next two lies was born. He’d been preparing the start of his wildlife project, he said; now, he needed to go into woods to find examples of the subject. ‘We have
to train ourselves in observation,’ he concluded.

‘Keep your distance from badgers if you see any,’ she warned. ‘They look sweet, but they aren’t, and their anger is born in sensible fear of humans. And remember that
foxes are shy, because we are their main enemy too. If they have babies, stay still and try not to let them see you.’

And there spoke a true daughter of the countryside, Andrew decided. A few months in a farmhouse? A whole childhood might be nearer the mark.

Joe brought in the cat and placed it on a fireside chair. ‘This thing should run with the greyhounds. Or Bolton Wanderers could use her as goalkeeper. Hello, lad.’ He went to wash
his hands.

When he returned, his wife and son were discussing the etymology of the word forest. ‘Some say it came from Viking invaders,’ Andrew was saying, ‘and it meant an area set aside
so that the nobility might hunt. All very feudal. We would have been chased off as commoners.’

But Emily clung fast to the belief that it was based in Latin.

The trouble with having an educated son and a clever wife was that Joe, or Joseph as Emily insisted on calling him, often felt left out. She was now going on about the forest canopy, the lower
canopy, shrub, moss and herb layers. Aye, she was betraying her origins all right.

Emily stopped. ‘I read all that somewhere,’ she said lamely. ‘In a magazine years ago.’

‘Your mother reads a lot and forgets none of it.’

Andrew munched his way through salad and ham. The magnitutde of the task he was about to undertake took the edge off his appetite and made swallowing slightly difficult. Within minutes, it
became almost impossible.

‘I have taken a job,’ Emily announced suddenly.

Joe’s cutlery clattered on his plate. ‘Oh aye. What job’s that, then?’

‘Assistant to the almoner at Bolton Royal. It’s mostly paperwork, but the almoner’s office makes sure that care systems are in place for vulnerable patients leaving hospital.
Just three or four days a week, I’ll be working at the start. Andrew’s old enough now to be left occasionally.’

Joe almost growled. ‘Are you after more housekeeping? Do I not give you enough? There’s plenty more if you’re in need.’

She maintained her dignity. ‘It isn’t about money, Joseph. It’s about involvement and being useful.’

‘I see.’ He picked up his implements. ‘Education should not be wasted. I’m quoting you there, Em. So we’re not enough for you, me and the boy?’

Emily, always the lady, placed her knife and fork side by side on the plate. ‘If you have a sensible objection, it will be taken under consideration. As far as I am aware, no one can force
me not to work. There’s no law against my taking employment, but I am open to rational suggestion.’

Andrew, seated between the two, felt like a minister without portfolio. Raised not to interrupt, he simply stayed where he was, incapable of ingesting more food. This was as near as his parents
had ever come to battle within his hearing. Too young to referee the bout, he had to sit through it in silent discomfort.

‘I like to be the breadwinner in my own house,’ Joe said, his face slightly flushed. ‘You don’t need a job. Anything you want, just ask and I’ll get it for
you.’

‘I want to work.’

‘So he becomes a latch-key kid?’

‘No. I shall work part-time only. I’ll be here when he gets in from school.’

‘You’ve made your mind up, then?’

Emily inclined her head.

Joe left the table, walked into the hall and slammed the front door after leaving the house.

‘Phew,’ Andrew breathed.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Storm in a teacup, dear. He’s always at his noisiest when in the wrong. Let him tell his . . . his friends about it.’