Free A Liverpool Song by Ruth Hamilton Page A

grandmother.
    He came downstairs, lifted the carrycot and carried the baby up to her room. On the landing, he stood for a while. Sarah was only two. She probably still needed a cot. Where was it? Ah yes.
He’d put it in the used-to-be airing cupboard. With his new combination boiler, he didn’t need an airing cupboard to hold a tank. But he did need a cot.
    Minutes later, two daughters found their father on the landing. Pieces of wood lay round him. ‘Little Sarah might tumble out of bed, so . . .’ He waved a hand over the dismantled
cot. ‘I made this, you know,’ he said. ‘When Mary was expecting you, Katherine, I built this little number from scratch. Every spindle, I carved and smoothed. Dad did some of it.
He was still agile back then.’
    They helped him carry it into Sarah’s room. As quietly as possible, they built the frame, put in the base and mattress, then folded single bed covers until they fitted. Sarah was lifted
from the single bed and placed in safety. ‘Thanks, Daddy,’ Kate said. ‘Very thoughtful of you. Cassie will manage in her carrycot for now.’
    He reached out for his younger daughter. ‘Come downstairs, Helen. Kate might begin unpacking while you talk to me.’
    After ten minutes, his clothing was wet with her tears. The really sad thing was that he couldn’t remember when he had last comforted either of his daughters. Ian had come to him for
advice, but Ian was now a doctor, so their conversations had been . . . well . . . rather clinical. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ he urged. ‘Are you breastfeeding?’
    Still sobbing, she nodded.
    ‘Well it’ll be curdled at this rate, Helen. It’ll probably come out pasteurized, too.’ He kissed the top of her head, wondered when he’d last done that, and what
kind of a father was he, anyway? This beautiful child had inherited his height and Mary’s face, Mary’s body, so she was an elegant specimen, about five feet nine or ten inches tall,
curvaceous, a stunning sight. Daniel Pope needed knee-capping, and Andrew would not be on hand to mend such damage, as he had resigned.
    ‘Kate knew, Daddy,’ she managed.
    ‘She loves you, child. Kate may seem tough, but she has a big heart, and she adored you right from the beginning of your life. Don’t blame her. She’ll have lived for some time
in a terrible quandary.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You’ll be all right here. I’ll look after you, I promise.’
    ‘Oh, Daddy.’
    ‘I know, I know.’ Poor Kate, too. Kate’s beauty was in her smile, in her attitude. Four or five inches shorter than her sister, Kate projected warmth, superior intellect,
generosity, and the promise of fun. Had Helen not been born, the older girl would have been judged beautiful, but she had stood for almost a whole lifetime in the shadow of utter perfection. The
children had been twenty-two, twenty and eighteen when Mary had died. Had he been there for them? Had he buggery. So consumed by his own grief, so devastated, selfish, stupid, arrogant . . .
    She calmed down gradually. ‘I loved him so much, Daddy. Is it possible to love too much?’
    ‘Yes. Your mother and I were guilty of that. We never really learned to communicate properly with our own children when you were little. I remember feeling terrible when I gave you both
away at your weddings. The most wonderful sight until then was your mother when we married, but you outshone even her. I am so sorry.’
    Helen raised her head. ‘Don’t worry, we got through. But you see, Daddy, had Mummy ever betrayed you, you would have hated her big-style. Daniel now has no clothes, no wine, no stash
of money or jewels of dubious origin.’
    ‘That wasn’t hatred, baby. That was temper. Temper’s flame is white-hot and soon burns out. Hatred comes later. It’s a cold place.’ He paused. ‘Hey, what do
you mean about the wine? I would have liked it, you wastrel.’
    At last, she smiled through the tears.
    ‘A rainbow,’ he said. ‘The sun shining on cloud.