The Liverpool Trilogy (43 page)

Lucy decided yet again that Carol was an unusual woman. She talked like an overgrown street urchin, yet she had read just about every classic on library shelves. Heathcliff in a mac? That was a very accurate description of Dr Richard Turner, who had stopped being a doctor, had stopped being a father – had stopped being.

‘Shall I go after him?’ David asked. ‘After all, he could be leading my dog astray.’

Paul laughed, though the sound contained little merriment. ‘That dog knows nothing about astray. The trouble with Labradors is they’re too good.’

Carol turned on him. ‘Oh yes? Ho flaming ho and a happy Christmas all round? You should see my rug. Well, you shouldn’t, because it’s in the bin. Pigs in blankets?’ She turned to Lucy. ‘Our Dee done best pork sausages in bacon. Lovely, they were, but the flaming dog made away with half of them. The birds down Bootle is having a lovely Christmas. Don’t talk to me about bloody Labradors. I don’t care if I never see one again in—’

Samson chose this unfortunate moment to enter the house and run to Carol. He loved Carol. She was a foodie, and she often gave him illegal scraps when David wasn’t looking. ‘Hello, pet,’ she said, thereby making herself a total liar. ‘Who’s my lovely boy, then?’

Richard came in. Carol blinked, because she could scarcely bear to look at him. He appeared not to have enjoyed a good wash in twelve months, while his beard was nearly thick enough to accommodate a family of house sparrows. ‘Where’ve you been?’ She was one of the few people he heeded, so she made sure she addressed him loudly and clearly.

‘Beach,’ he said.

‘Sit,’ she ordered. Dog and man sat, the former waiting for food, the latter waiting for nothing.

‘Stay,’ she added before leaving the room.

The dog looked at his borrowed master, and the man looked at the dog.

David smiled to himself. Sometimes, canines went where humanity feared to tread. He grasped his wife’s hand and looked at her twin sons. They sat as still as a pair of statues, because like everyone else they didn’t know quite what to expect from the next few minutes.

Simon and Lizzie slipped into the room. They stood behind Richard’s chair and shared the pregnant pause.

Carol entered bearing a box. She was clearly unamused, as she was cursing under her breath about something or other, but that was not unusual for her. She dumped the box in Richard’s lap. ‘Happy flaming Christmas,’ she spat. ‘I only had it two nights, and that was enough. It’s a bastard.’

Richard opened the box, and everyone’s breath was held. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Did you eat a rug? Where are the sausages?’

Lucy allowed a long sigh of near-relief to escape. David had spoken of traumatized teenagers who communicated through Samson, whose bruised minds healed through Samson. She watched while Richard lifted a miniature Samson from the box. ‘A bastard, eh?’ he said.

David waved the paperwork. ‘He’s a close relative of my dog, and he’s good stock. The Queen’s gun dogs share ancestry with these two. But even good stock chews its way to new teeth, I’m afraid. He’s nine weeks, and he needs one more shot from the vet. Apart from that, he’s good to go.’

Richard lifted the small dog and allowed it to nuzzle his neck. He stroked a satin ear before handing the puppy to Samson. ‘There you are, lad. Train him.’

Carol dashed a few tears from her third chin. Watching the doc deteriorating hadn’t been easy. She’d caught Dee crying her eyes out, and Dee was tough. It had been heartbreaking, mostly because he’d never really mourned. After the funeral, other doctors had taken over the practice, while he’d taken to sitting around doing nothing. The two girls had come down, with permission from their university, to look after Dad, but they’d got nowhere with him. And he was such a good-looking bloke – it was a damned shame. ‘Doc?’ she said, her voice cracking slightly.

‘Yes?’

‘Look after that hound. She would have liked it. Moira would have loved a dog like Samson.’

The room was still and silent. ‘She would,’ he said. ‘You’re right.’

‘And if you look after the dog, it’ll look after you.’

‘Yes.’ He examined the puppy. ‘It’s a boy. I’ll call him Henry. Come along, Henry. You must meet the cat.’

It was as if the world had stopped. Steph and Alice arrived from next door, since everyone was to eat in number 32 Mersey View today. ‘Where is he?’ Alice whispered.

‘Outside with two dogs and a cat,’ replied Lucy.

They all filed into the dining room and stared through the window. The inevitable had happened, and poor little Henry was learning the hard way that cats didn’t negotiate, they dictated. ‘That won’t last,’ said Lucy. ‘Smokey loves dogs.’

And it happened. Richard sat on an old swing and cradled his puppy. Although he was facing away from the house, all inside could tell that he was sobbing, because his back shook.

‘That’s the start,’ David announced. ‘Like Churchill said, God bless him, this isn’t the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.’ He placed an arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘Is Alan definitely coming?’

‘Yes. So is Trish. Tomorrow. That’s step two. But the pup broke the ice.’

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. The dinner went on hold, and even her majesty could wait if necessary, because everyone here had lived through Richard Turner’s hell. The trouble was, most of the populace expected a doctor to be on top of things all the time, but David knew better. He had lived in a dark place himself, and he didn’t want to see Richard enduring a decade of nothingness. David had organized the Harley Street clinic and the dog; he had decided to talk to Alan and to invite him and Trish for Boxing Day. ‘Who’s a clever boy, then?’ Lucy whispered in his ear.

‘Early days, my darling. I’ll go and carve that massive bird before Samson sets his sights on it.’

Lucy went to stand at the back door. She smiled to herself. Richard was drying his tears on a nine-week-old puppy, and that, too, was a very good thing. If a man had no tissues, using a little dog as a handkerchief was thinking outside the box. An inch at a time, he would be dragged kicking and screaming from the container into which he had locked himself. ‘I won’t give up on him, Moira,’ she whispered as a single flake of snow landed at her feet. ‘None of us will.’

Boxing Day was sharper, clearer. The sun put in an appearance, its rays bouncing from a thin coating of hoar frost that had descended in the night. It was cold. Lucy slipped from the embrace of her husband, pulled on a dressing gown and went to the window. ‘We now have Heathcliff and Henry in a mac,’ she said. ‘Richard’s got his pup peeping out of the collar. Henry can’t be allowed on pavements till he’s had another injection.’ She sighed. ‘And another busy day. Come on, lazybones.’

‘No Chopin this morning?’ he groaned.

‘Not even chopsticks. Did he write that? Shut up and get up, David Vincent.’ She went to have a shower, her mind running through today’s menu and things that still needed to be done. Most of it was ready, but she prided herself on a good table, even when it offered just a buffet. Shirley and Hal had gone to their retirement home, so Ian, the new gardener, was to bring his family, while Carol and Dee were accompanying the formidable Beryl. Dee had refused to fetch her children, had muttered darkly about some things being unfit for human consumption, so Lucy had left it at that.

David joined her. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m just in the queue, no Chopining about, and definitely no Tchaikovsky. But don’t turn round, or I might get carried away.’

She turned round with deliberate slowness. ‘Bog off,’ she said. ‘I’ve salmon to poach.’

‘I married a poacher? Can’t you buy your salmon from a supermarket like everyone else? Do you have to go out with fishing tackle and—’ A wet sponge hit him in the face.

Lucy left him where he was and pulled on a robe. She fought the urge to laugh, because he was capable of going from sublime to ridiculous and back in a split second. This was what happened when women married spindly little lads who turned out to be the spit of John Lennon, but taller. If he ever stopped being a nuisance, she would be very sad.

It was even colder than yesterday, but it was certainly brighter. Richard walked on sand while delivering a monologue to his new friend. The creature was warm, soft and pretty. He could not remember contact with any other being since . . . since September. It was the heat of one little body that had finally threatened to melt him. It was the trust in brown eyes that made him talk.

He told Henry about the world, the water, the sky. He showed him the steps, flags that forbade swimming, the coastguard station. ‘They rescue human idiots. I shall have to rescue you from Carol, because she’ll take your little deposits a lot more seriously than I do. And that, Henry, is the longest speech I’ve produced since . . . since Moira died.’

No drop of booze had passed his lips today. Last night, in his cups again, he had neglected this little chap and had been forced to pick up several tiny piles of dog dirt. Lucy and David were wise. So was Henry. Intelligence had been inherited from superior Canadian wolves, while prescience, too, appeared to be present. Henry was a wolf. Every dog, no matter what its size or shape, was ninety-nine per cent wolf. This one was a godsend.

‘The drink stopped me feeling. Now, I have to feel. Because people are waiting for me, you see. Friends are caring for my patients, the girls have lost a whole term and, when I was in London, I refused to see my only son. I saw him eventually, but he must have been hurt. They lost their mum. Technically speaking, Henry, a wife is replaceable, but a mum isn’t. I’ve been selfish.’

She wasn’t replaceable. He had no desire for women, no need for anyone. Lucy was still beautiful, but she wasn’t what he wanted. Without Moira . . . ‘Moira’s gone,’ he said.

The puppy bit his chin, which was already fragile after the first shave in days or weeks – Richard couldn’t remember. ‘No biting,’ he said before lowering himself on to a step. The Mersey was happier today. It looked cleaner. This was how life was meant to be – a series of changes, a different backdrop every hour, every moment. And he had to tackle it. He had to deal with it himself, because he knew only too well what drink could do.

The pup was like a mobile hot water bottle. He tried to wriggle out of prison, but the master held him back. ‘Soon,’ he promised. ‘For now, it’s just gardens, Samson – we have to trust to luck there – and that terrible cat. We’ve puppy food at home. Let’s get back. We have to start living.’

All six offspring from the two houses had been sent out for the day. After phoning several people, Simon had found an all-festive-season-come-as-you-are-but-with-bottles party in the digs of one of his ex-colleagues, so they went off happily with cans of lager and bottles of wine. They would be back in a day or two, they assured Lucy and David.

Staff and their families had been and gone, and enough food had been saved to entertain Trish and Alan when they arrived.

Exhausted, Lucy and David cuddled up on the big sofa to watch the recording of yesterday’s Queen’s speech. ‘I’d hate her job,’ said Lucy when the programme ended. ‘Having to be nice to people all the time, never expressing a true opinion, dancing to the tune of a nation, no politics allowed, dress up every day, no privacy.’

‘The Queen Mum had politics.’ David laughed. ‘She was a grand old girl, wasn’t she? She said the best parliament to have was Conservative, but with a very large Labour opposition. Yes, she knew her onions. And her horses.’ They were filling in time, talking just to kill the silence.

The doorbell sounded, and Lucy jumped to her feet. ‘Do I look all right?’

‘You’ve two buttons undone. Anyone would think I’d been interfering with you,’

‘You have been interfering.’

‘Yes, but there’s no need to advertise. And you’d better not tell QE Two. It’s probably high treason or something.’

Lucy opened the door. For the first time in many years, she was pleased to see her first husband.

The front door was ajar, so Alan walked in. Through another door on the right, he saw a man sitting on a chair, a puppy chewing his shoelaces. ‘Richard?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Alan. Lucy’s first husband. My second wife’s next door, and they’re talking legs off donkeys, so I thought I’d come and introduce myself.’

Richard stared blankly for a few seconds. ‘Sit down. Sorry about the pup. He seems to like you.’

Alan picked up the wriggling mass of black fur. ‘We keep donkeys, Trish and I. Rescued, they are. And Damien – we kept him. He’s my llama. He was supposed to go to Yorkshire, but I thought no, why should we do that to a defenceless animal?’

Richard almost smiled. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Alan shook his head. ‘Teetotal. Have to be. I’m a recovering alky.’

‘Ah. I meant tea or coffee.’

‘No, ta. I’m drowning in the stuff as it is. Two bloody wives in one room? The kettle’s never been off since we arrived.’

Another silence followed, then Alan cut to the chase. He took paperwork from a pocket, showed Richard the state his health had been in. ‘I had this good, quiet wife, and I never appreciated her. And I must have drunk thousands of pounds in whisky.’

For the first time, Richard allowed himself to laugh. He told Alan about Lexi, about the way that quiet, good wife had knocked seven shades out of her. ‘I’ve been quiet myself, so they think I hear nothing. I hear. And Lucy all but killed her. She can be quite fierce, actually. Fortunately, it all stopped short of police, otherwise our quiet Lucy might have got herself a record.’

Alan thought about that before expressing the view that Lucy hadn’t cared enough to be nasty about him and his girlfriends. ‘But she took her money back. Then she kept me out of jail, you know.’

‘They’ve sent you to stop me drinking, haven’t they?’

‘Yup.’

Richard explained that he’d been on a binge, but it was over. He was one of the lucky ones. He could go back to his nightly dose of Scotch intended to help guard against atheroma. ‘My wife died,’ he said. ‘I blacked it all out deliberately, and I used spirits rather than drugs. Inform the Mothers’ Union next door that they don’t need to be concerned.’