The Liverpool Trilogy (12 page)

There were books, TVs, radios, DVD and video players, bars at the windows of his room, and enough staff to preclude the possibility of escape. They kept telling him he was over the worst. What they really meant was that they were over the worst, because he was sedated to the gills, and no longer had the energy to fight his way out of here. There had been a few scenes. The most memorable involved a straitjacket and a needle in his backside, so he’d been forced to calm down. They had some bloody big bouncers here, men who would not have looked out of place in the doorway of one of those seedy clubs in central Manchester.

Time didn’t mean anything. He was given breakfast – fibre-intensive cushion-stuffing with skimmed milk, of course. Lunch was almost always fish with vegetables, while the evening meal was chicken or turkey with salad or more vegetables. He had no idea what day it was, and he was ceasing to care. They were killing him an inch at a time, and he seemed to have been here for ever. He remembered the other hospital, chest pains, machines, and people running about every time his heart monitor went off. There was another memory, but it was vague. Two policemen, a car, flashing lights, and some sort of siren, but it was all mixed up with impressions of Lizzie, Mags, power of attorney and bloody Lucy.

His pyjamas were loose. He could see his feet when he stood up, and that was all very good news for nurses and doctors, but he was being starved to death with malice aforethought. He wouldn’t need the operation, because he’d be long gone by the time his name came up on the list. How many days or weeks had he been in here? No bloody idea. He’d probably be leaving in a wooden overcoat, but who gave a fig? Sleep was his only escape, but even that wasn’t perfect. He had dreams. Most were nightmares, and the few good ones reminded him of what life might have been had he got away with his supposed misdeeds.

No visitors, either. That was, perhaps, a good thing, since even his daughter seemed to have turned against him. He hadn’t seen Lucy since the day on which she’d grabbed power of attorney, while his sons had always stood by their beloved Mums. She’d been so passive and non-confrontational, and her change into a higher gear was something he would never have expected. The most annoying thing was that he had failed to guard himself, because he’d always known that she was a clever bitch underneath all that calm. ‘Bloody women,’ he cursed yet again.

Mr Evans-Jones walked in. So damned full of themselves, flaming surgeons. ‘Go to hell,’ Alan muttered under his breath.

‘Mr Henshaw?’

‘I think so. It was the last time I looked in the mirror, though even I had a job to recognize me. I look like a bloody scarecrow. If you think of it another way, I’m escaping this dump a pound at a time, and you’re doing nothing about it. Don’t bother with a coffin – a plastic bag will do.’

The surgeon sat down. ‘I shall operate on your heart tomorrow, probably in the morning. You’ll be glad to have it over with.’

The item nominated missed a beat or two. ‘Right. So that means no breakfast. I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss the crap you serve in here. It’s a bit like trying to eat your way through a mattress or three. And the milk’s like white water.’

‘The anaesthetist is satisfied with your progress, though it is my duty to tell you that there are always risks. However, those short walks and the gentle exercises have done some good. You will need time to recover, of course, but we expect a good result.’

Did these bods ever listen to anybody? Were they all deaf and ignorant? Alan fixed his eyes on the enemy. ‘Does it never occur to you soft arses that some of us die in our own way? I’d sooner go as pissed as a newt and up to my eyes in fish and chips on the back of a drayman’s cart.’

The doctor answered after a short pause. ‘Then there’s your answer. Go home. I can’t force you to accept this operation.’

‘What?’

‘Withhold your consent for the procedure. Then go home and die. The choice is yours. You would be completely within your rights.’

‘I can’t go home, because I have no bloody home. And if I don’t do as she says, my last weeks on earth will be spent under the arches at Turner Brew. No money, you see. She has it all.’

The surgeon decided that Mrs Henshaw was a sensible woman, though he kept the thought to himself. ‘I shall need to know some time today. This may be a private facility, but I have a list to complete, and I shall have to—’

‘Give it here.’ Alan held out a hand. He opened a drawer and took out a monogrammed Cross fountain pen, signing the consent form with a flourish. ‘Cremate me when you fail to save me,’ he said. ‘No service, just throw my ashes to the winds. Because I don’t give a shit.’

Surgeons were not supposed to have opinions. They dealt in flesh and bone; they could not be expected to communicate with the inert, even when the inert was technically mobile. But sometimes, just sometimes . . . ‘Mr Henshaw, your wife is paying almost three thousand pounds a month for your residence here. A further nine thousand will just about cover the operation, the anaesthetist, theatre time and medications. She is a generous woman.’

‘Oh, bugger off and sharpen your cleaver. I’m past caring.’

‘And you must never, ever drink again,’ was the doctor’s parting remark a moment before he closed the door. Yes. Sometimes, just sometimes, there was a patient who didn’t actually deserve the chance to be saved.

Alan stood at his window. He’d been through one hell of a time, and it wasn’t over. There would be pain, and there would be danger. But yes, it was time to take stock. He had survived a terrible withdrawal. No delirium tremens, no creatures crawling up walls, but physical torture so acute that he had railed and ranted against his wife, his family, God, Davenport Plumbers’ Merchants who always overcharged, Mags for forsaking him, and the man in the next room, who cried most nights.

It was time to be sensible. Tomorrow, he would get the chance for a fresh start. If he survived the surgery, if he kept off the drink, he would go to live with Lucy in Liverpool. Once there, if he behaved himself, he might persuade her to start him up in business again. Nothing strenuous, of course, but something to keep him occupied. A shop, perhaps. No. There was no future for small retail businesses. But he would do something, and he would do it without the support of malt whisky. He had no choice. All his options had been removed, and tomorrow he might die.

Lucy loved to cook for her children. Preparing food for Alan had been no fun, because he would eat just about anything from tripe to caviar without noticing a difference. She could have served shop-bought meat pies at every meal, and he wouldn’t have noticed as long as there were chips. He slurped his drinks, ate with his mouth open and, just as her mother had foretold, behaved like a pig at a trough.

Today, Lucy was preparing a feast for her prodigal daughter. She chuckled. There was nothing of the prodigal about Elizabeth, but her temporary return to the fold after an absence of weeks was certainly worth celebrating. It was a cooler day, so roast beef with Yorkshires was on the menu. Lucy’s Yorkshires were reputedly so light that they needed weighing down with gravy to stop them floating up to the ceiling. Yes, it was lovely to be appreciated.

She sat down at the kitchen table for a few minutes. Not once had Alan complimented her on her culinary ability. If he survived, she would have to bring him here. She couldn’t allow him a room at Tallows, not if it was going to be used for sick children. Apart from anything else, he wasn’t safe when in drink. And she wanted him away from the place of her children’s birth, away from all previous contacts. The man should disappear, yet she could not find it in herself to wish him dead.

Lucy closed her eyes for a few moments and pictured a long-ago scene. Ma and Pa stood over her. They didn’t raise their voices, because that would have been ill-mannered to the point of indecency. They gave her all the reasons why she should not marry Alan Henshaw. He had not been educated. He was of poor stock, from a family who weren’t well nourished, and she should be seeking to make a better match from within their circle. Any children would be affected by their father’s paucity of learning. The man was a money-grabber, and she would suffer. He would ruin her, and she should heed their words.

Her eyes opened. How right they had been. Yet they had allowed her to marry, had given her a good wedding and a house in which she could live with her inappropriate husband. After their deaths, Lucy had inherited Tallows and a great deal of money. ‘How on earth did I manage to believe that I loved him?’ she asked the cruet set. ‘Because he took my virginity? Anyone might think I’d been born in the wrong century. Why did I do it? Was I afraid of being left on the pantry shelf?’

No answer came from salt, pepper and French mustard, but at that moment Liz burst into the room. She flung her arms round her mother. ‘You look wonderful! Sorry I’ve taken so long to get here, but we’ve been working some Sundays as well. And I am having the best time, playing a fourteen-year-old prostitute on heroin. What have you done to yourself? Isn’t this house just great? And the river, too. Do you like it here? What’s the news?’ She released Lucy and started to examine the kitchen, the garden, the road.

Lucy watched the whirlwind she had birthed twenty years ago. Elizabeth was magnificent. Like her mother, she would never be a coat hanger, because she was shaped like a real woman. This precious girl was possessed of a very infectious joy, a need to know, a thirst for life. She was so similar to the girl who would have been her aunt . . . Diane. Oh, Diane. ‘Have you visited your father yet, Lizzie?’

‘No. They didn’t allow visitors for the first few weeks, and I really have been tied up with the theatre thing. Sorry.’

‘It’s all right. You have to live your life, sweetheart.’

‘Where are my brothers?’

‘They’re with the girls next door.’

Liz stopped mid-stride. ‘Paul told me about that thing with the man. Are you OK? No wonder people are falling in love with you – you look about thirty. You’re an absolute stunner, Mother.’

Lucy grinned. ‘He isn’t people. He’s just a sex-starved GP with a sick wife, and because she’s unable to give him the closeness he needs she was interviewing me for the post. I hope we’ve engineered a stop to that. But the twins and her daughters have managed to put it all behind them. They’re nice girls, both studying to be doctors. Their brother’s a doctor already.’

‘Very grand.’ Liz flopped into an armchair.

‘Your dad has his heart op tomorrow, dear. He’s signed the consent form – Mr Evans-Jones phoned earlier to tell me. Once he’s in surgical recovery you’ll be able to see him.’

Liz sat upright suddenly. She didn’t like thinking about Daddy. Theatre in the Park had occupied her to the point where she’d managed not to consider him too frequently, but here, with her family in an unfamiliar setting, she realized how drastically life had changed. ‘Not sure I’ll want to,’ she said.

‘You love your father, Lizzie. Love doesn’t stop because he’s done something wrong. He’s still Daddy. A child’s love for a parent lasts for ever. And vice versa.’

‘And a wife’s love for a husband?’

‘Is not the same. It’s not unconditional – the divorce statistics confirm that. Now. Go next door and introduce yourself while I set the table.’

Liz stayed where she was. The world was changing, but it surely hadn’t descended to the point where wives sought partners for their own husbands?

‘You’ll understand when you see Moira, Lizzie.’

‘Do you read minds, Mother?’

‘Of course I do. All mothers do – it comes with the job. Just wait till you have three children very close in age, miles apart in needs. I had a daughter who played at killing people with a poker. She used my dustbin lid as a shield, and she wouldn’t wear dresses except for school. My sons were always studying something or other. They were hopeless at sports, brilliant at school. So, as a mother, you read minds and provide accordingly.’

‘Right. So you want me to go and meet a woman who wanted you to deliver for her husband.’

Lucy smiled. ‘Look, sweet child. Moira can hardly breathe some days. Her food is almost pureed, and she can’t walk more than a few steps. Yet all she thinks about is the man she loves. She wanted a lot more from me – she was planning to leave him to me in her will. A second husband for me, a second wife for him.’

‘So it wasn’t as disgusting as it sounded?’

‘No. I just had to make sure it stopped. Moira was playing a dangerous game, so we built a big firewall. I mean it, Lizzie – you will love her. She’s an endangered species – a true eccentric rather than a manufactured one. You’ll meet many would-be oddities in your game, but this lady’s for real. Go on – shoo.’

When Liz had left, Lucy began to contend with another of her specialities – a real sauce anglaise. No yellow powder from a packet for her – she was a true chef, though she tended to concentrate on English food. Perhaps she would go to night school, do a bit of Italian and French stuff? It was a thought.

She worked for about ten minutes, then Paul and Mike came in. ‘Mums, you’ll never guess,’ said the latter.

‘No, I won’t. Not without a clue, anyway. Go away while I thicken this sauce.’

But they weren’t going anywhere. ‘It happened. Just like that.’ Paul clicked his fingers. ‘I didn’t believe in it. Did you?’ he asked his brother.

‘No. Never. Not until today, anyway.’

Lucy wiped her forehead. ‘What?’

‘Oh, so you’re interested now, eh?’ Paul sat in a carver. ‘Head over heels,’ he said. ‘Hook, line, sinker, keep net and every fly in the box. Their eyes met across a crowded room—’

‘Birds sang,’ added Mike.

‘—and she blushed,’ Paul concluded, triumph in his tone.

Lucy gave up. ‘If this custard’s lumpy, I shall blame you pair. Start again. Paul, you’re too mischievous. Mike? Come on, out with it.’

‘It was like
Brief Encounter
,’ the quieter twin said. ‘Beautiful. But without the ashtrays and the teacups. Oh, and the trains.’

‘Or
Gone With the Wind
.’

Lucy glared at Paul. ‘I know you’re a few minutes older than Mike, but shut up.’ She turned to her other son. ‘You can forget the weepy films, just tell me what happened.’