Voices of Liverpool cover imageWhat's it all about?

Letting go of the past to grasp the future . . .

Andrew Sanderson, brilliant surgeon and renowned musician, is still grieving the death of his beloved wife Mary when his younger daughter turns up on the doorstep having left her wealthy and philandering husband.

It’s not long before the house is overrun with daughters, grandchildren, sons-in-law and a boisterous stray dog called Storm.

At Andrew's time of life, is this really what he needs? One thing is sure, home is a lot more interesting than it once was, and things have certainly changed from when he was a boy growing up in a town that nestled in the arms of inland Lancashire's lush moors.

As he reminisces about his past and the love he once shared with his wife Mary, Andrew starts to realize that there is indeed a new road to be travelled; he just has to let go of his grief and embrace tomorrow…

 

 

Extract from A Liverpool Song

A dangerously close crack of thunder erupted right over their heads.  At the same time, a rear door crashed inward, and something brown streaked through the drawing room, out into the hall and up the stairs.  ‘We seem to have been invaded,’ Andrew said.  ‘Not Vikings again, I hope.  They made enough of a mess last time, all that rape and pillage.’

Eva blinked and closed her gaping mouth.  She recalled her ma’s behaviour during thunder storms.  ‘Always keep the back door and the front door open,’ Eva’s mother had said.  ‘If you get a fireball off the lightning, it’ll go straight through instead of setting fire to the house.’  Were fireballs brown?  Did they make clacking noises as they crossed floors?  And was the house about to go up in flames?

‘That fast-moving article was a dog of some sort,’ Andrew said.

‘Was it?’

He nodded.  ‘I think so.  Might have been a greyhound.  If it was, we should back it – it shifted like . . . dare I say greased lightning?’

The look delivered by Eva at this point might have pinned a lesser man to the wall.  ‘Even your sense of humour is warped,’ she told him.  ‘Well.’  She folded her arms.  ‘You’d better try and catch it, eh?  I’ve enough on round here without bloody dogs.’

Andrew liked dogs.  He and Mary had appreciated most animals.  Her horse, kept at livery near Little Crosby, was long dead, but she’d always wanted a dog or two.  ‘When we retire, Drew, we might consider breeding retrievers,’ Mary had used to say.  Had she sent the dog?  If she had, she must have slapped a first class stamp on it, since it had certainly arrived at speed.  Air mail, perhaps?  Or had she ordered special delivery via a courier?  ‘I’ll get it,’ he advised Eva.  ‘You stay where you are and enjoy the storm.’

‘Don’t leave me, Doc.  The thunder might come back.’

So here he stood between a terrified woman and a frightened dog.  ‘Oh, behave yourself,’ he snapped before leaving the room.  What was she expecting?  The Day of Judgement?

This time, he noticed his house.  In recent years, it had been the place in which he had eaten and slept, but from now on, it would be his base.  Andrew and Joseph Sanderson, father and son, had made the curved banisters, monks’ benches, doors, hardwood window frames.  The four-poster was all their own work, as were most timber items in the house.  ‘I’m a good carpenter,’ he whispered to himself.  But it had all been for Mary . . .

Kneeling on the floor, he peered under the bed he had shared with his wife until ten years ago.  She had died here, and the canine cowered under Mary’s side of the bed.

‘Hello.  I’m Andrew.  What the hell are you?’

No reply was forthcoming.  Andrew walked to the door.  ‘Eva?’

‘Yes?’

‘Bring some bits of meat.  This poor thing’s starving.’

‘I can’t move.’

‘You bloody can, and you bloody will.  Meat.  Small pieces, raw and cooked, whatever you can find.’

He returned to his lower position in life.  ‘You have to come out,’ he said.  ‘You can’t stay under here for the rest of your life.  That’s no way to carry on.’  He was a hypocrite.  The poor animal was hiding, while Andrew was contemplating similar behaviour.