Beyond the Blue Door

By Elaine Benwell

The day before Christmas two men in Liverpool experience life-altering events, one joyful, the other tragic. Three months later their paths converge in an unexpected way, leaving them forever changed and eternally connected. As their destiny unfolds, their journey takes them to Northern California where they must reconcile with the past and with each other. Beyond the Blue Door weaves elements of tragedy, romance, mystery, and the paranormal with a touch of humor to create a life-affirming story with a strong cross-cultural emphasis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elaine Benwell
• Release date: Apr 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301811663

Elaine Benwell

Thank you for your interest. For those who are curious, my educational background is in history and religion. I have lived in California and in Liverpool and I love them both. My heart is divided with an ocean in between."Write what you know," they say. So that's what I have done, for although the characters in my book are fictional, they were inspired by real people. Many of the events (e.g. pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving) and conversations were based on personal experiences. Beyond the Blue Door was a labor of love and the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. I am under no illusions about my work. I never intended for it to be great literature. It is merely a fun diversion, something that I hope will make you smile. May you enjoy reading Beyond the Blue Door as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Book preview

Beyond

the

Blue

Door

By Elaine Benwell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Elaine Benwell

For my mother and daughter

without whom …

Acknowledgements

Thanks to

Audrey

Camilla

and

Peter

for their invaluable help

Chapter 1

The sleet came in sideways and stuck to the windscreen of the black cab. The wipers waged a valiant war, struggling to take away the traces of ice that obscured the driver’s vision, but they fought a losing battle against the elements. Careening around a corner, the taxi splashed through puddles and bounced across potholes, breaching the curb and narrowly missing a tree. The driver steered precariously back onto the road, hurling verbal abuse at the tree. Shite! Gerr outa me way! Wot ya tryin’ to do, kill me? The longsuffering tree waved its twisted wind-tossed branches in reply to the careless cabbie’s ranting, as if to signal a warning, but the taxi was already down the road and the driver took no notice. Slushy rain flung about by the vicious March wind stabbed at the headlights like a violent danse macabre.

Heh, kill me, the cabbie thought morosely, as he made his way down West Derby Road. Not that it would matter anyway. Me life’s not worth the living these days, not without me Suz. Piercing shards of bitter tears stung his eyes like the sleet that battered the windscreen, and he wept without restraint as he recalled again that life-altering night three months – or three lifetimes – ago when his world collapsed.

Harry had always been a taxi driver and he had always worked the night shift. He knew from his long experience that the night before Christmas was second only to New Years Eve in terms of profit. Tonight the city was bustling with last-minute shoppers and merrymakers. They would pay their fare and tip lucratively. Harry could easily have put in a few more hours before the shops closed, and the extra money would have been welcome, but he bunked off earlier than usual and went home to enjoy Christmas Eve with his wife and newborn daughter. A few extra bob was not enough to warrant missing his baby’s first Christmas. Harry headed for home. On a whim he stopped briefly at a news agent to buy some ciggies for himself and a box of Cadbury Roses for his wife. To be honest, they were for him too, but he would cajole Suzanne into sharing. He would cuddle and tease and make her laugh and she would share her chocolate as easily as she shared her sunny smile. Harry thought about buying a newspaper as well, but when he picked up the late edition of a popular tabloid and read that a famous British actor had died, he put the paper down. Not that Harry was so fond of the actor, but Christmas was not the time to be thinking about people dying. Christmas was all about birth and life. Newspapers were always full of bad news but Harry, an inveterate reader, didn’t want any bad news just then, for tonight he was feeling blessed. There was nothing exceptional about his life. He was merely an ordinary man who scrounged an ordinary living, but he had a job, a warm comfortable home, a loving wife and a beautiful baby girl. And now he had choccie. How right could it be? Life was good.

Harry arrived at his Victorian terraced house in Tuebrook and turned the key in the lock. The house was unusually dark and silent. He thought perhaps Suzanne was taking advantage of a quiet moment and maybe catching up on some much-needed kip. Harry was only beginning to understand how incredibly demanding newborn babies could be. Suzanne was, in Harry’s opinion, the perfect mother and he was a pretty good, if not doting, father. He hoped he would begin to feel more useful as his daughter grew. At this stage he felt clumsy and inept around the baby. Although he tried to help out as much as he could, Suzanne did most of the work. She was often tired but she never complained. A catnap, he thought, would probably do his wife more good than anything. Harry had taken extra care to close the door softly behind him, expecting to find his lovely Suzanne and the baby sleeping gently and not wanting to wake them. Instead, he found them both at the bottom of the stairs, crumpled together in a lifeless heap.

The autopsy report said Suzanne died from a concussion sustained by the fall. They surmised she must have been holding the baby and fell from the top of the tall staircase. Perhaps, they said, she was on her way downstairs to the kitchen to warm a bottle for the baby when she missed her step and tumbled the length of the stairs. The infant girl, broken and bruised, was found under her mother’s body, dead from internal injuries.

Everything Harry lived for was gone. In the span of an evening his past, present and future had been laid waste, and he recoiled from the semblance of what others glibly called Life. There was nothing ordinary in living now, nothing good. Everything was wrong and every day was a struggle. Wracked with despair, Harry wanted only to hide … or better, to die. Simply getting out of bed to go to work became an act of supreme effort, aided largely by the bottle of gin that he kept by his side like a surrogate wife. She was a strumpet, this liquid lover, but she gave him comfort and strength. It was a false strength, Harry knew, but it was the only strength that remained in his shattered existence. His life force had been sapped. Day after interminable day he clung to his bed, clutching his pillow until the hour when he was forced to rouse himself. The irony was that once he escaped the house, Harry was loath to go home again, back to that place, where his wife and daughter – and he – had died. Each morning, when the night’s work was done, he unlocked the door and stepped over the threshold, wanting rest and some respite, only to have the horrifying scene scorched into his unwilling brain again and again, the indelible picture of his honey-haired love and the babe at the bottom of the stairs. The constant reminder was more that he could endure, so Harry prolonged the night, cruising around until the crack of dawn, looking for a fare. Most pubs were shut by 11:00 but the clubs stayed open into the wee hours of the morning. Harry trolled the streets near the City Centre – up London Road to Lime Street, around to Hanover Street, down Seel Street, up Hardman and back around again. Only rarely did he have trouble making his quota, thanks to the young Liverpool party crowd, locally known as the Eighteen-to-Thirty Club, who staggered about very late at night looking for a safe ride home after a night ‘on the piss.’ Little did they know their grief-stricken driver was in almost as wretched a state as they were themselves.

So far, Harry had luckily managed to hide what had become problem drinking, except of course from the lads down at the local, but most of them were problem drinkers themselves and so would not be in a position to scold their rat-arsed friend. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a small nagging voice that tried to warn him and occasionally made itself heard through the boozy buzz. Harry knew he should be concerned, but was too weak to wrestle with the possible consequences of drunk driving. With no will of his own, he depended on the drink to dull the pain and keep him going. After the last fare of the night had been deposited, Harry often would drive to a secluded spot near the seaside to park and sleep it off. It was cold, it was uncomfortable, and he risked being found out by a patrolling policeman or, more likely, a well-intentioned do-gooder, but it was better than going home. He would awake chilled to the bone and aching all over, but as soon as the pubs were open, it was down to the local again to drown his sorrow. There Harry, lonely and rumpled, could share a pint with ‘the lads’ whose varying stages of inebriation made them unaware of his own disheveled state. They were, if nothing else, sympathetic to his plight. No one thought to reproach him for the damage he might do behind the steering wheel. Instead, they commiserated and offered platitudes aimed at bolstering his fragile spirit. They bought him drinks, shook their heads, patted him on the back. ‘Aye, such a shame about yer Suz, but ye’ve got to get on with yer life, ‘arry … Yer still a young man, ye’ve got yer ‘ealth and a job.’ True enough, thought Harry, and more than could be said for many men his age in Liverpool. The unemployment rate was frightening. But no matter. To Harry, the world looked better through the bottom of a pint glass. There was no doubt in his mind that his cab-driving days would be over if he got caught. But, Harry told himself, the worst that could ‘appen is that I’ll be fined a few ‘undred quid and me license’ll be suspended. If I’m done for drink driving I’ll be disqualified. If I’m disqualified I can’t drive, an’ if I can’t drive I can’t earn a living. Big bloody deal. Harry looked around the room at his bevvied mates. If I lose me liveli’ood I’ll just end up on the dole like the rest o’ youse. So fuckin’ wot? I’ve lost everything else. Me life’s been demolished and there’s nowt left but rubble. One more round then! Harry poured another drink down his gullet, and the lads looked the other way.

One fateful night down at the local somebody put fifty pence in the jukebox and pushed a button. A plaintive song made popular by a melancholy troubadour swirled out of the jukebox and Harry slurred along, off-key and incoherent, when he wasn’t choking on the words.

The light’s gone out

My fight’s gone out

I can’t do it any more

I’m aching and sore

Without you

Without you

There’s a way

They all say

And I can do it

On my own get through it

Without you

Without you

But they don’t know

How could they know

They don’t know what is real

They don’t know how I feel

Without you

Without you

How can I live

Endlessly captive

Hopelessly hurled

Into an empty world

Without you

Without you

I was a man

Now see what I am

My every breath was for you

Now I don’t know what to do

Without you

Without you

And they don’t know

They’ll never know

What is real

And how I feel

Without you

Without you

YOU DON’T KNOW! Harry bellowed belligerently to no one in particular.

The song had ended with Harry’s outburst and left in its wake a deafening silence. All eyes were on Harry for the space of several heartbeats. At last, the bartender spoke, his tone more fatherly than reproachful. Now ‘arry …

NO! Harry retorted. Don’t now ‘arry me! You DONT fuckin’ know! He stood up abruptly and waved an unsteady hand at everyone and no one. You lot … none o’ youse know, he slurred. You don’t know how I feel! You dunno fuck all. How could you?" Harry staggered out of the pub and dumped himself into his cab.

So it happened that with an incurable heartache and a blood-alcohol level that far exceeded the legal limit, Harry drove down West Derby Road, heading into the City Centre. The weather was wicked and the streets were uncommonly empty. There would be little work tonight. The wind and rain would be keeping sane and sober people indoors. It was just after 7:30 and the after-work rush hour was over. People were glad to be snug at home, out of the storm, in their warm cozy houses, having their tea. But Harry drove up and down, round and round. His home was not snug and warm. The last place he wanted to be was home. Three months of trying to cope had left Harry desperate and angry, and the alcohol that he had depended upon so steadfastly to salve his wounds and repress the anguish, had worked in unexpected ways to bring his grief and anger to the surface on this black and wild night. Thus Harry drove, battling the raging elements while his own rage mounted and mingled with the despair that consumed him. White knuckles on the steering wheel belied the fact that Harry was losing his grip. WHY? he sobbed. Why’d ye have to take me Suz? An’ me daughter as well? They were all I had! Harry bawled as he drove, his emotions now as out of control as the cab he jockeyed perilously on the edge.

Harry pushed the accelerator down and took a roundabout on two wheels. Ye’ve left me nothing. NOTHING! As he came around the curve he saw too late a man at the curb – a good-looking dark-haired man probably in his late twenties, wearing a long wool coat and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. It all happened so fast. With one gloved hand the man held a broken umbrella, shredded by the wind. The other hand was raised in the air as if to hail the cab, which to his horror was now suddenly headed straight toward him like a bullet. Harry hit the brake and struggled with all his might to regain control of his vehicle, but the taxi was already committed to its course, veering across two lanes and hurling itself at the helpless would-be passenger. Harry couldn’t stop. The taxi spun out of control and pitched over the curb. He heard a heavy thud, then a loud scraping sound. There was another thud and within seconds the taxi was back on the road. Oh god …

Not even vaguely aware that he was heading away from town, Harry kept going, going … driving blindly through the torrential rain that now battered his cab as if in angry protest at the careless deed just done. The wind screamed after him in fury but Harry, in shock, continued to drive, oblivious to the elements and unmindful of either his speed or his direction. He clutched the steering wheel with vise-like strength to quell the involuntary shuddering that had overtaken him. Indistinct little noises issued from his mouth, randomly taking form as denial … no, no, no, oh please, no. Harry drove instinctively until he found himself at his usual secluded spot. He coasted to a stop and sat for a long time, staring blankly at the rain running off the windscreen and listening to the hypnotic slap-slap of the wipers. As his daze deepened into stupor, Harry just managed to turn off the ignition with a shaky hand before descending into unconsciousness.

He didn’t know what time it was when he awoke, but Harry could see that it was daylight and the rain had stopped. He opened his eyes and watched his stale breath come out in rancid little puffs. Harry groaned and shifted in his seat. No frost, he mused, but cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. His fingers were numb, his head felt like a brick and there was an uneasy knot in his gut. Harry was accustomed to waking up hung over, but today the world looked uncommonly fuzzy. He lifted his hand to wipe his mouth and noticed the disconcerting tremor, but it wasn’t from the cold. Without warning his stomach churned and he began to wretch. He flung open the door of the cab, leaned over and vomited on the ground. Harry caught a glimpse of himself n the mirror as he sat up and was shocked by what he saw. Bloody ‘ell, is that really me? Must ‘ave ‘ad a rough night. His stomach grumbled loudly and Harry belched. Too much booze and not enough food, he muttered. I’ll grab a bacon butty on the way ‘ome. And coffee … god, I need some coffee."

Harry found a Sayer’s bakery and threw a fiver on the counter to pay for his bacon sandwich and a large cup of coffee. Ignoring his change, he turned to leave, but on the way out his eye caught the headline in the morning paper: Hit and Run! Harry stopped dead in his tracks. Gingerly he picked up the Daily Post and glanced through the story – a man on the sidewalk had been run down last night by an unidentified assailant. The victim was only twenty-seven – the same age as Harry, and he was a newlywed. To make matters worse, his young widow was expecting their first child. Apparently there had been no witnesses and the police were asking for help from the public – had anyone seen anything that might help them identify the car or the driver that had callously snuffed out the life of this young man? Harry put the paper back, shook his head and wondered at the injustice in the world. Just like me Suz, he thought sadly. So young. So much to live for. Poor bloke. But something about that story had made him uneasy. Harry’s gut was twisting again and he suddenly realized he had lost his appetite. He gulped a few mouthfuls of coffee then dumped the cup along with his sandwich in the nearest garbage bin. I need a drink.

* * *

A year and a day after Harry read the hit and run headline in the newspaper, he awoke from another hellish nightmare, screaming. He had been having the same dream for months. Etched in his mind was the face of a man standing innocently on the sidewalk. Every time Harry closed his eyes the image returned, but it wasn’t until this morning that he understood what it meant. Over and over again, he saw the man hailing the cab and then the sudden look of alarm on his face as the taxi hurled inexorably toward him. And for the first time, Harry realized with sickening clarity that he was responsible for the man’s death. He lay quietly on his bed for a long time, utterly overcome with sorrow and disbelief.

* * *

Harry drove his cab for the last time and parked at the seaside. It was a mild night in Merseyside despite the chill in the air. A thin diaphanous cloud hung like a gauzy hammock under a full moon that cast a shimmering glow on the water and illumined the beach with soft silver light.

He lit a cigarette and marveled at the stark contrast to that tempestuous night in March the year before, when his cab had … no, he couldn’t let himself think about that. But they do say that March is either a lion or a lamb, Harry thought ruefully. Just me rotten luck to get eaten by the lion. Harry watched the rhythmic advance and retreat of the water on the shore with a sigh of resignation. Tide’s coming in, he observed. I’ll just sit for awhile and bide me time. He reached for the unopened bottle of gin beside him in the passenger’s seat. Come over ‘ere, luv. Get yer kit off. Harry broke the seal, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He grunted with satisfaction and cast his eye along the shore, noticing a small fishing trawler that had capsized on the beach. He deduced from the sand that collected in the gaping hole in the hull and the barnacles that covered the bow that the boat had been there quite awhile. More importantly, the receding tide had left sizeable rocks exposed and glistening in the moonlight, but before long they would be inundated. The water will be deep enough at high tide to cover those rocks, thought Harry approvingly. He sat quietly, watching as the water crept up a little closer each time and then withdrew, and with each withdrawal it beckoned him. He turned on the radio, wondering what would be the last human sound he heard. Elton John was droning Madman Across the Water. Harry allowed himself a caustic laugh before stepping out of the cab. He threw his cigarette down and walked to the water’s edge. He stood there for some time, clutching his bottle of gin and staring at the water that lapped teasingly at his feet. Wonder if I should take me shoes off? He shook his head at his own befuddlement. Bloody daft, that. Harry raised his eyes and glanced at the incoming waves crashing on the rocks. The water shot up between them in great fans of spray. He looked around, searching the shoreline up and down until he spied what he wanted. He took another long luxurious drink and with one final look around to make sure he was alone on the beach, Harry waded into the water. He climbed atop a large flat rock, sat down hugging his bottle of gin close to his chest, and waited for the tide to come in.

Chapter 2

Bronwyn held the phone with her chin while she scribbled absently on a notepad. So you’re really thinking about coming to California for Christmas?

Yeah, if it’s all right, said the voice on the other end. I’d love to do Crimbo away from Liverpool this year. And I’ll be on me odd anyway.

Why is that?

Well, Mum and Dad are going to Spain for Christmas, aren’t they? In fact, they’re taking an extended holiday. Should be gone six weeks or so. And ar kid will be busy with his in-laws. I wouldn’t fancy spending Christmas with my brother anyway. He’s such a bore.

Well, you shouldn’t have to be alone at Christmas. I know it’s not unusual for Brits to take a vacation – sorry, go on holiday – at Christmas time, but that’s one facet of life in England I couldn’t get used to. I’ve just never understood it, Nic. Christmas isn’t the time to go away. More than any other time of the year, it should be a time to stay home and be with family. But if your family is leaving and you’re going to be on your own, I’m sure Mom would love to have you. In fact, I’ll bet she’ll be really glad to see you. Bring some proper English tea and a jar of Marmite and she’ll be stoked. She misses that kind of thing now that we’re not in England any more.

Stoked?

Yeah, stoked. You know – thrilled, chuffed.

Speak English, B the voice chided.

Now don’t start that! Bronwyn sighed, exasperated, but she could hear her friend Nicola quietly chuckling. Despite the 5,000-plus miles between them, the connection was crystal clear.

Beware scousers bearing gifts, Nicola giggled, then added, Ugh. Marmite. I dunno how she can eat that stuff. But I’ll sort it. I’ll bring her the biggest jar I can find, yeah?

Bronwyn laughed. She’ll be well and truly … chuffed.

Hey, guess what I found? teased Nicola.

What?

I cleaned my room yesterday and I found an unprocessed roll of film. I took it in to get it developed and it’s all pictures from your going away party. There’re some really great shots, especially of you, and some of your mum.

Wow. Cool. Be sure you bring them with you so I can see them.

Of course. I’m planning on it. Nicola laughed out loud, I bet you don’t let me forget either. After another giggle, Nicola added, I’m meeting Roz and Bev and the rest of the gang for our usual dinner on Wednesday and I’m gonna take the photies with me to show them.

I miss our Wednesday nights out. Bronwyn sighed quietly, remembering how she and Nicola and a number of their friends would meet together every Wednesday night at one of Liverpool’s many pubs, restaurants and eateries to sample some new cuisine. Spoiled for choice, we were, she thought to herself. Everything from Indian food to Irish pubs. Bronwyn was shaken out of her reverie by Nicola’s voice on the other end of the phone.

… and I said I’d rather not.

What?

I said I’d … you haven’t been listening to me, have you, luv?

Sorry, Nicola. I’m listening … I just didn’t get that last bit. So, where are you guys meeting up this week?

I just told you that. The others wanted to pick a place on Lark Lane, Maranto’s, most likely, but I said I’d rather not. I’m skint this week so I suggested The Egg – you know, on Bold Street. Lots of food and easy on my purse.

Cool! Bronwyn made an effort to sound enthusiastic. Have a good time and tell them all I said hello. Then, glancing at the clock on the wall she said, Look, this is costing you. We’ve been on the phone for over an hour. I’ll talk to you again in a couple of weeks. Next time it’s my turn to call. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Mom and see how she feels about you coming for Christmas, but I’m sure there will be no problem.

Okay, luv, I’ll talk to you in a couple of weeks then. Say hi to your mum for me.

Bronwyn hung up the phone and headed for the kitchen, where her mother was assembling a salad for dinner. Diana stood at the counter chopping celery while Spazzy the cat paced a figure eight around her feet, hoping for a tasty tidbit to hit the floor. If