Authors: Ruth Hamilton
Mary looked straight into his eyes. ‘I did want to see you again,’ she admitted. ‘But in circumstances of my choosing. Sanderson’s Kitchens advertised your concert, and I
plan to attend.’
‘Right. I suppose that must suffice. As long as you wait for me at the end of the concert. Oh, one more thing. The orchestra will not be playing for you and only for you, but the soloist
will. Music was my alternative subject. I’m good at it. I’m good at several things.’ He winked, just about managing not to be crude.
‘So am I. I sing.’
‘You see?’ He stood up. ‘A perfect match.’
Mary rose to her feet and walked to the door, but he caught her up in his arms, just as he had at the Cavern. But this time, he kissed her gently, tenderly. When he pulled away, his eyes
questioned hers and seemed satisfied with the answer, as he repeated the action, this time with urgency.
And that was that. When their mouths were finally separated, each did a brief but fair imitation of a hyperventilating patient during a panic attack.
‘Oh, my God,’ Mary whispered.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Just Andrew, but Drew will suffice – I am not quite a deity. Drew’s the abbreviation I saved for my wife.’ He put her down and left.
Pam found her friend on the brink of collapse and on the edge of an unreliable kitchen chair. ‘What the bloody hell happened, Mary?’
Mary shook her head. He seemed to have sucked all the words out of her.
‘Mary?’
‘Shut up a minute.’
Pam busied herself with roses and a vase. She found a card among the blooms.
This is it. You know it and I know it. Semper Fidelis. Drew.
‘He’s left his phone number,
Mary.’
‘Shut up.’
Pam closed her mouth in a grim line and shoved Andrew’s note under her friend’s clenched fist. ‘
Semper fidelis
,’ she muttered between gritted teeth. Then she
stopped gritting her teeth. ‘Please your bloody self, Mary, but like I said before, he’s gorgeous. And that
semper fidelis
bit translates to always faithful, which means
he’s slowed down, cos he’s had a few nurses according to Joan. That would be part of his training, I suppose, part of getting ready for the real thing. You.’ She left the room,
vase of roses held at arm’s length.
Mary blinked stupidly. These things didn’t happen except in films, daft books or women’s magazines. Nobody real met somebody real for the second time and declared undying love with
an implicit proposal of marriage mixed in with other unstable ingredients like foolhardiness and hot-headedness. Her mouth felt bruised and lonely. Well, the lips had each other, so they’d
have to be satisfied. He was a brilliant kisser, not invasive, not yet.
She jumped up. Not yet? Not yet implied a future, and there couldn’t be a future. She felt dizzy. Postural hypotension, shock, idiocy? Or a mixture of all the above? Fresh air. She let
herself out via the back door and strolled up the side of the house. Hell’s bells and buckets of blood, there he sat in his car, head resting on the upper curve of the steering wheel. She
stepped back into shade, peering through a balding part of the privet hedge. The man was one hundred per cent incredible. He was mad, absolutely crackers.
Was he intending to spend the night here? Oh, heck. Was he preparing to become a liability? She strode out to the pavement and knocked on his windscreen. His hair was tousled. He looked like a
gigantic five-year-old who’d just tumbled out of bed.
He opened the passenger door. ‘Sit,’ he said.
‘Woof,’ she replied before climbing in beside him. ‘You must go,’ she advised him. ‘A few ladies of the night have started to pick up trade along here, and you
might be mistaken for a kerb-crawler.’
‘And you might be mistaken for one of those ladies.’
They sat in silence for a few beats of time. Then he picked up her hand and began to kiss it. Mary tried to ignore the shivers that crept up her arm. ‘Please try to behave yourself,
Andrew. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘Stop acting like a teenager.’
‘And a half.’
‘What?’
‘Twenty-two and a half. So I’m almost grown up. I’ll go home now so that Mummy can put me to bed. I live in Rodney Street, by the way. And I want you to have my babies. Off you
go, sweetest girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She climbed out of the car and watched him drive away. He was funny, intelligent, mercurial, as mad as a hatter and absolutely adorable. He was also in reverse. ‘Come home with me,’
he begged after slewing to a halt. ‘My kitchen’s better than yours.’
‘So it should be, Mr Sanderson.’
‘I have dolly mixtures.’
‘Tempting.’
‘Custard creams? Oh, and a friend named George. Rather thin, and not much to say, but he knows his place. We won’t be disturbed.’
‘Go home, Andrew.’
‘Or he can join in if you’d prefer.’
‘Bugger off, you mad clown.’
‘Can I press you to a jelly? With custard?’
It was in this, the silliest of instants, that she felt truly alive. She had met her other half, and she would never escape him. What was more, she didn’t want to escape, because he was
her heart’s home.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Emily asked. Her son with a cylinder vacuum cleaner made an unusual picture.
‘I’m cleaning my flat,’ he answered. ‘I’ve done the one in Dad’s house.’
She was stunned. For years, he’d changed his address every time his rooms got out of order, since he had no time for cleaning. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I’m bringing a visitor. Her name’s Mary Collins, and I have plans for her.’
Emily folded her arms. ‘You’re about to seduce a young woman under my roof?’
He put down his burden. ‘Something like that, though my intentions in the long term are honourable. She’s the most beautiful girl ever, so you have been shifted,
sine
prejudice, to second place.’
She blinked. ‘Isn’t all this rather sudden, darling?’
‘Compared to what?’
Emily shook her head. ‘Don’t nitpick, Andrew. When is she coming?’
He sat on the stairs. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t told her yet that she’s coming.’
‘Shouldn’t that be asked, or invited?’
‘No. I’m training her to do as she’s told. I believe in starting the way I mean to go on. She’ll walk in my shadow, have too many children, make excellent meals, and be
decorative at all times.’ He glared at his mother. She was doubled over in laughter. No one took him seriously. Ever.
‘But first,’ he continued determinedly, ‘I have to strip her of one dark sapphire and two diamonds.’
‘She’s engaged?’
‘A detail,’ he said. ‘It’s like . . . well, I think it’s a bit like you and Geoff. It overrides every sensible cell in my skull, Mother. You and he should
understand what I mean.’
Emily sat next to her son on the wide staircase. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘I warn you, this is my best subject pro tem. She’s tiny, probably a couple of inches over five feet in height, shapely, with dark hair and eyes the colour of mine. Good skin,
perfect bone structure, excellent legs, amazing ankles, straight teeth, full lips, beautiful smile and a—’
‘Tell me about the contents, not the box.’
‘Ah. Well I picked her up – literally – outside the Cavern to prevent her death by stampede. We went for coffee and stared at each other while pretending not to. And we just
knew. She’s a nurse at the Women’s, where she’s much appreciated. Top marks in all her exams, cheeky, opinionated and has a tendency to tell me to bugger off.’
‘I like her already,’ Emily said.
‘Thought you might. Where are you going?’
‘To clean your rooms. I can’t have my daughter-in-law seeing the flat in its current state. Oh, and one more thing.’
‘Yes, Mother?’
‘When you clean a room, it’s not just about the floor.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Are you mocking me, Andrew?’
‘Ye— I mean no, Mother.’ He went off to practise the Grieg in A Minor, a particularly difficult piece for piano. He was to be backed by music students, plus several members of
the Liverpool Philharmonic, one of the oldest orchestras on earth. But that didn’t account for his nerves. She did. Little Miss Bugger-off with her cheeky grin and lustrous hair.
The day flew, as is the way when a person is nervous about evening. He hoped he could cover his mistakes, hoped she wouldn’t laugh at him in his black tie and tails,
hoped she would come, wished she wasn’t coming. As the final performer, he took advantage and left his silly suit in the dressing room. After placing his three parents in the front row, he
slammed a Reserved sign between Dad and Mother. ‘I’ll bring her to you,’ he said.
‘Bring who?’ Joe asked, but his son had disappeared, so Joe got the story from Emily.
Andrew stood outside the door of the Philharmonic Hall. The charitable arrived in their droves, and he decided that everyone was far too tall. She could be lost somewhere in the middle, and he
might have to do another Mathew Street job so that she wouldn’t get trampled.
But no. Here she came, taller in high-heeled shoes and more beautiful than ever. Under a brown jacket, she wore a simple linen dress in a warm, creamy shade. He went to meet her. ‘Come
with me, miss. I’ve reserved your place.’ And he led her by the hand to the front, where he reclaimed his sign before introducing her to his three parents and leaving Mother to
explain.
His nightmare began. He heard laughter, cheering and applause, and began to doubt his ability because he didn’t practise regularly. Was he good enough to provide a decent finale? Why
hadn’t he chosen something simpler? Why hadn’t Grieg made the piece easier to play?
The orchestra clattered into place before beginning their tune-up. They needn’t have bothered, because he felt completely out of tune with himself. The MC delivered his two
penn’orth, introducing a young man who had refused a place at the Royal School in order to attend Liverpool University’s Faculty of Medicine.
Then some evil swine pushed him, and he was on stage, black tie and tails, with a monstrous full grand staring at him. Ebony and ivory; he felt sick. He sat, flicking out the appendages on his
coat, trying to look professional, since he had no chance of sounding in the least way adept.
The conductor raised his baton. When Andrew struck those early, dramatic chords, Mary grabbed Emily’s hand. This beautiful, clever creature at the piano was hers for the taking. The music
hurt, but she didn’t know she was weeping, didn’t realize that she was squeezing the life out of his mother’s fingers.
Emily looked down at the tiny, powerful left hand. The ring had gone, though a line of white flesh betrayed its existence. Of course, Mary had arrived not knowing that this splendid boy could
have been a concert pianist rather than a doctor. She noticed that during his pauses when the orchestra played, Andrew was gazing in Mary’s direction. The auditorium was dark, and he was
spotlit, so his chances of noticing details like tears were few, thank goodness.
Edvard Grieg’s final triumph poured its majesty into the hall. As one man, the audience rose to its feet, applause threatening to shatter the whole place. The small orchestra took a bow,
Andrew took another and another before urging his colleagues to stand once more.
The wags were in from medical school. ‘Go, Andy,’ and ‘Encore, encore.’
So he sat and played for
her
the most beautiful piece he knew, one he had played since childhood. The orchestra sat back, as they were not needed. His delivery of ‘Für
Elise’ was faultless and moving. Again, they rose and shouted for more, but he bowed, left the stage, and returned with two bunches of red roses. ‘For the two women in my
life.’
The lights went up. Emily collected the flowers, as Mary was now in floods. ‘You made her cry,’ she told her son, mouthing the words over yet more applause.
The auditorium began to empty. Small groups of friends and relatives waited for performers to appear, but the majority of the audience left. Andrew dashed in, still dressed à la penguin,
as he described his attire. He picked Mary up and carried her to the outer door. ‘I must break this habit,’ he told her. ‘If you gain weight, I shall get a hernia. Tears now. From
how many more situations must I rescue you? Where are your roses?’
‘Your mother has them.’
‘Good. That’s a bit less weight for me to carry.’
He was lovely. She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Right.’ He placed her in the passenger seat of his car. ‘We’re going for a light supper. At my mother’s house. And I didn’t mean to make you cry. As a matter
of fact, Grieg and Beethoven did it. I was just their carrier pigeon.’
‘You’re good.’
‘I know.’ He winked. She remembered the wink. It meant he wanted sex. Well, she thought it might mean he wanted sex. She didn’t know him, but if he was as good at sex as he was
at the piano . . .
He climbed in and started the car.
‘Andrew?’
‘What?’
‘You should be a concert pianist.’
‘Are you saying I’ll be a poor doctor?’
‘No.’
He explained that concert pianists travelled all over the world, and he didn’t want that. He wanted a wife, children, a nice house and a good job. ‘I like bones,’ he explained.
‘The human skeleton beats the Sistine Chapel as a work of art. I shall probably be a sawbones because of my history in carpentry.’
‘Is there anything you can’t do?’
He thought about that one. ‘Fly,’ he said. ‘I can’t fly.’
Mary laughed. Where had he been all her life? And she was so happy to have missed seeing the Beatles. John Lennon, Paul McCartney – who the hell were they? She should write and thank them
for having fans insane enough to perform in a rodeo without wild animals. ‘Have you always played the piano?’
‘Well, never while asleep. But I think I played every day until I left school. These days, I don’t practise enough.’
‘You were wonderful.’
‘Thank you. I must give you a sample of my other talents. But I was terrified, mostly because you would be there. I wanted you to come, and wanted you to stay away in case I made a mess of
the music.’
‘You didn’t.’