One for Sorrow

by Philip Caveney

  Lou smiled. ‘I am,’ he said, with a grin. ‘It’s a pen name.’

  ‘But that means . . .’ Realisation struck Tom like a sledgehammer blow to the skull. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘You’re Robert Louis Stevenson.’

  Just then the door swung open and Frances came into the room, bearing a tray heaped with cups, saucers and a silver jug. ‘Now,’ she said brightly. ‘Who’d like a cup of cocoa?’

  Four

  They sat drinking their cocoa in a strained silence. Lou was staring at Tom, as if trying to fathom something out, and Tom was piecing recent events together, remembering how he’d been reading Treasure Island just before Hamish’s car had gone off the road. So that was the anchor that had brought him here! He also realised exactly why Lou had seemed so familiar when he’d first seen him. The first page of the Kindle book had featured an old photograph of the author. If only he’d managed to bring the Kindle back with him . . . although, if he had done that, how would he ever explain its existence to Lou?

  Eventually, Lou could hold his peace no longer. ‘Forgive me, Tom, but I don’t really understand how you know who I am.’

  ‘Well, I . . . I’ve read your stuff, obviously,’ said Tom.

  Lou and Frances exchanged puzzled looks. ‘What stuff?’ asked Lou. ‘I’ve hardly published anything.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes? Nobody’s read that. Latter-Day Arabian Nights? I doubt it. And I don’t think for one moment that you’ve read Virginibus Puerisque?’

  ‘Virgy-what?’ muttered Tom.

  ‘I rest my case. So it must have been that story.’ He pointed to the magazine, which now lay draped over the arm of the sofa. ‘It’s the only thing I’ve done that would be suitable for somebody of your age. But you claim you’ve never heard of Young Folks, so . . .’

  ‘Well, I . . . I suppose I’ve read another version of it,’ said Tom, evasively. ‘Yeah, that’ll be it. The one with your real name on it.’

  ‘No such version exists,’ cried Lou.

  ‘There was some talk of publishing it as a novel,’ Frances reminded him.

  ‘Aye and that’s all it ever will be,’ Lou assured her. ‘Talk.’

  ‘But didn’t Mr Henderson say something about showing it to contacts he has in the book publishing trade?’

  ‘Henderson talks a good game. But the twelve shillings and sixpence he pays me per column is all the revenue we’re ever likely to see from that story. And from what he said in his last letter, it’s hardly set the world of children’s literature alight. If anything, sales are down.’

  ‘Yes, but perhaps a book . . .’

  ‘Fran, you’re very kind, But I hardly think something that was created to keep Lloyd occupied on a rainy day is ever going to be published beyond the covers of a weekly magazine.’

  ‘Oh, it could be,’ Tom assured him. ‘Just give it time.’ He picked up the magazine and turned back to the relevant page. He did an exaggerated double-take. ‘Oh wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Yes, Young Folks! Yes, I did read it here. But I . . . forgot. Probably because of that title . . .’

  Lou gave him a sharp look. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh well, it’s a bit long-winded, isn’t it?’

  Lou waved a hand in exasperation. ‘Oh, you can blame James Henderson for that. The editor of the magazine. He didn’t like my original title, so he took it upon himself to change it after a few episodes. What I had was much simpler. The Sea Cook.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Sea Cook: A Story for Boys. Much better, don’t you think?’

  Tom frowned. ‘I’m not being funny, but I can see why he changed it.’

  ‘Oh, indeed? And why’s that?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit dull, isn’t it? You may as well have called it The Wool Glove.’

  Lou looked offended. ‘Oh, forgive me. I didn’t realise I was in the presence of a literary expert!’

  ‘I’m not an expert,’ Tom assured him. ‘I just think it could do with something a bit . . . edgier, you know. A bit more memorable.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Tom took a deep breath, realising as he did so, that he was about to do something incredibly momentous. ‘Well, it’s kind of there already,’ he said, pointing to the title. ‘Only it’s lost in the rest of it.’

  ‘What is?’ Lou looked baffled.

  Tom pointed. ‘I was thinking . . . you should just call it Treasure Island?’

  Lou scowled. ‘That’s a wee bit simplistic for a title, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I think it works, big time! Easy to remember. And it’s got a nice ring to it. Trust me, that’s what you should call it.’

  ‘But . . . Long John Silver is the main character in the story and he is a sea cook, so . . .’

  ‘Jim Hawkins is the main character,’ Tom corrected him. ‘And you didn’t call it The Kid That Worked in The Admiral Benbow, did you?’

  ‘Of course not! That would be a ridiculous title.’

  ‘There you go then. Mind you, you’ve got lots of great characters in here. Ben Gunn, Blind Pew, Israel Hands . . .’ He remembered something that Hamish had told him. ‘Every pirate film that’s ever been made owes a big thank you to this story.’

  ‘Every pirate what?’ muttered Lou.

  ‘Er, every . . . umm . . . pirate thing,’ stammered Tom. He realised he was rapidly getting into hot water, so he changed the subject. ‘You were saying you wrote the book for your stepson?’

  ‘It’s not a book,’ insisted Lou. ‘It’s a weekly adventure in a magazine. There’s a big difference.’

  ‘Yes, but perhaps Tom has a point,’ argued Frances. ‘About the title, I mean. I never really liked The Sea Cook.’

  ‘That’s news to me, Fran.’

  ‘Oh, Lou, you know perfectly well! I said from the very beginning, I thought it gave a reader no idea about the adventure in the story.’ She looked suddenly rather excited. ‘You remember how you read it out to us every night at Miss McGregor’s cottage in Braemar? I was every bit as captivated as Lloyd was. Who knows? Maybe it really does deserve a wider audience than just the readers of Young Folks.’

  ‘I seem to remember people being rather excited when I got the offer,’ said Lou, a little irritably. ‘Suddenly, young Tom here arrives and everybody’s talking about a book. I mean, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s just a wee throwaway story.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s better than that,’ said Tom. ‘What you’ve got here . . .’ He patted the magazine, ‘is something that’s going to last forever.’

  Lou scoffed. ‘As long as it lasts until we need some more kindling for the fire,’ he said, ‘I’m happy.’

  Frances looked outraged. ‘Now you know that’s stuff and nonsense,’ she told him. ‘I have a pristine copy of every issue stored safely away and that one will be joining the others just as soon as Lloyd’s finished reading it.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Lou seemed to slump into a mood. ‘Everybody seems to think they know better than I do,’ he observed. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just the author of the damned thing.’

  ‘Oh, stop being such a grump!’ exclaimed Frances. ‘Let’s drink up our cocoa and get to bed before the dawn breaks.’ She looked at Tom. ‘I’ve put you in the guest room,’ she told him. ‘I’ve already lit the gas light in there. It isn’t much but there’s a decent bed, so you should be comfortable enough.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He looked at Lou. ‘I just want to say it is a fantastic story. I read half of it on the train here from Manchester.’

  ‘You must be a very slow reader,’ observed Lou cuttingly.

  ‘Oh, I took the fast train,’ Tom assured him.

  Lou studied him for a few moments. ‘There’s something altogether mysterious about you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know exactly what it is, but . . . you seem to know more than you should about an awful lot of things.’ He pointed at Tom’s t-shirt. ‘And who dresses like that? Nobody I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Now,
Lou, you’ll make our guest feel uncomfortable,’ Frances chided him. She set down her empty cup and got up from the sofa. ‘Come along, Tom, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.’

  Tom got to his feet. ‘Thanks. Goodnight, Lou,’ he said.

  ‘And goodnight to you, Tom. Maybe the two of us can have a wee talk in the morning.’

  Tom followed Frances out of the room and up a flight of stairs. She opened a door on the first landing to reveal a large, bare room with a single bed and a few pieces of furniture. A single gas lamp on the wall filled the room with a soft glow.

  ‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have got Anna to tidy up in here,’ she told him. ‘And to light a fire.’ She pointed to the lamp. ‘You can turn it off when you’re ready to go to sleep.’ She smiled at him. ‘Thank you again for looking after Lou. His state of health is such a constant worry. I was going out of my mind when he didn’t come home on time.’

  ‘Oh, no problem,’ Tom assured her. ‘I just . . . happened to be there.’ He frowned. ‘What exactly is wrong with him?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s tuberculosis,’ said Frances. ‘It’s always worse in cold weather. That’s why I was so set against the idea of coming back here for Christmas, but Lou is stubborn. When he gets a notion in his head there’s no dissuading him. And he wouldn’t even tell his parents we were coming here. I know they don’t really approve of me, but . . .’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Oh, you know, the divorced woman and all that. People in this part of the world can be terribly stuffy.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I haven’t even asked about your circumstances,’ she said. ‘Lou said something about you being far from home?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tom. ‘Yeah, I am. But that’s ok, I’m kind of used to it.’

  She seemed about to say something else, but seemed to think better of it. ‘Well, in that case, we’ll see you in the morning,’ she said. ‘I hope you sleep well.’ She went out of the room, closing the door behind her. Tom stood for a moment, looking around. Then he walked across to the window and pulled back the curtain to peek outside. Below him was the cobbled street, illuminated by a row of gas lamps. It was silent out there and he was glad to note that there was no sign of a cloaked figure prowling in the shadows. He had hoped that he was finally rid of William McSweeny, but he couldn’t forget that glimpse of him gliding across the road in front of Hamish’s car. Chances were he would appear again and if he did, Tom needed to be ready for him. But for the moment at least, he felt exhausted.

  He let the curtain fall back, walked over to the bed and sat down. He unlaced his shoes but it was cold in the room, so he didn’t take off anything else. Experience had taught him that there was no sense in fretting about his situation. All he could do was go with the flow and hope that eventually, something would happen to take him back to his own time. In the meantime he was the guest of one of the world’s greatest authors, even if that author had no idea of the kind of fame that awaited him. It was a situation that a million historians would have given their life savings to replicate.

  Tom crawled under the covers and closed his eyes. He was tired and ready for sleep, but just as he drifted away, he was vaguely aware of a brief fluttering of black and white feathers, somewhere in the air above his head.

  Five

  Sunlight spilled onto Tom’s face and he opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times and then sat up with a gasp as he realised that somebody was standing right beside the bed, staring intently down at him. His eyes came into focus and he saw, to his relief, that it was just a thin boy around his own age. The boy had short, dark hair, a sullen expression and the same piercing eyes as his mother. He was dressed in a sort of pale blue velvet sailor suit with an elaborate white lace collar. He looked, even making allowances for the fashions of the period, a real dork in that getup.

  ‘You must be Lloyd,’ said Tom.

  ‘And you must be the stranger that’s got Lou in such a tizz,’ said Lloyd. Like his mother, he had a strong American accent.

  ‘That would be me,’ admitted Tom. He yawned, pushed the covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Lloyd stared at him in apparent amazement. Then he laughed. ‘You dress peculiar.’

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ muttered Tom. He located his trainers and Lloyd watched as he laced them up.

  ‘I’ve never seen shoes like those before,’ he said. ‘What colour do you call that?’ Before Tom could answer, the boy prodded him in the chest. ‘And what’s that supposed to be?’ He was referring, Tom supposed, to the image of the gorilla wearing a suit.

  ‘It’s just a picture,’ muttered Tom. ‘It doesn’t really mean anything.’

  ‘But how did it get on your clothing? Did somebody paint it on?’

  Tom decided this was way too complicated to get into. He finished lacing his shoes and got to his feet. ‘Is there a loo around here?’ he asked.

  ‘A what?’ Lloyd looked mystified.

  ‘I mean, a . . . toilet?’ No reaction. ‘A . . . lavatory?’

  ‘Oh sure, follow me.’ Lloyd led him out of the room and along the landing. Tom noticed now that, despite criticising Tom’s trainers, the kid was wearing shiny black shoes with silver buckles on them. He

  paused in front of another doorway. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tom went into the room and closed the door after him. He was pleased to see a flushing water closet, a luxury he hadn’t been granted on his previous visits, but he was rather less happy to note that there was nowhere to wash his hands. He emptied his bladder and zipped himself up. When he came out of the toilet, Lloyd was still standing there, waiting for him. ‘Mama says you want Lou to change his title,’

  he said.

  ‘Er, I did kind of suggest it,’ admitted Tom.

  ‘I don’t see that it’s got anything to do with you,’ said Lloyd. ‘That’s our story. Lou and I worked on it together.’

  ‘Really?’ Tom was unconvinced. ‘You wrote some of it?’

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t actually write it, but I saw the map he drew and I asked him to make up a story about it. And if I hadn’t done that, I guess there wouldn’t be a story. So it’s kind of half-mine, anyway, right?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Maybe. Anyway, I only suggested another title. It’s no big deal. Don’t you think that long one sounds a bit . . . meh?’

  ‘A bit what?’

  ‘You know. Dull. I mean, it was just an idea, he doesn’t have to . . .’

  ‘Mama says that Lou is all fired up over it. Says he didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, thanks to you.’

  ‘Oh, well now, I didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘I think it’s a downright liberty, coming here and making suggestions. There’s nothing wrong with the title, it’s a perfectly good one.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Tom. He looked around. ‘Where is everybody?’ he asked.

  ‘Mama’s down in the kitchen. She sent me up to get you. Lou is still in bed, asleep, because you got him all fired up so he couldn’t rest.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Tom tried to step around Lloyd, but he moved to bar Tom’s path.

  ‘I think from now on you should keep your opinions to yourself.’

  Tom glared irritably at Lloyd. The boy was several inches shorter than him and rather puny-looking. It occurred to him it would be fairly easy to just push him out of the way, but he didn’t think that would be a good idea, not when he was a guest in somebody’s home.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and tried to step the other way, but once again Lloyd blocked his path.

  ‘In fact,’ he added, ‘I think it would be a good thing if you went on your way as soon as possible. Because you’re not wanted here.’

  Tom almost laughed at that. ‘I think that would be up to your mum and dad, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your parents.’

  There was a brief silence while they stood there, staring challengingly at each other. ‘M
y father was a Civil War hero,’ said Lloyd, mystifyingly. ‘He always told me to speak out for myself.’

  ‘Are you an only child?’ asked Tom. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked the question.

  ‘No, I have an older sister, Belle. She’s married and all. But she decided not to spend Christmas with us.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ murmured Tom.

  ‘Oh, Lloyd?’ Frances’s voice called from below. ‘Is everything all right, dear? Did you manage to wake Tom?’

  ‘Just coming, Mama!’ shouted Lloyd. But he didn’t take his eyes off Tom for a moment. He lowered his voice. ‘I’m warning you,’ he said. ‘Keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you.’ Then he turned and strutted along the landing to the staircase. He paused for a moment and stared back at Tom. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Are you coming or not?’

  This time, Tom did laugh. He couldn’t help himself. It was the way Lloyd was trying to act so tough, when he was dressed like that. The effect was really comical. Tom followed Lloyd down the stairs and around to the back of the house where there was a large kitchen. A young woman in a white pinafore and matching frilly hat was standing at a cast-iron range, cooking sausages and bacon. Tom assumed this must be Anna, the hired help that Lou had mentioned the night before. Frances was sitting at a large pine table, daintily sipping a cup of tea. She was immaculately dressed as though for some special occasion. Lloyd went straight to the seat beside her and sat down with his arms crossed, as though he was defying Tom to tell him to move, but Frances looked up at Tom and gave him a welcoming smile. ‘Ah, good morning,’ she said. ‘I trust you slept well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Stevenson.’

  ‘Oh, now we’ll have none of that! Call me Fran.’

  Remembering he needed to wash his hands, Tom went around the table to a sink and operated a pump, splashing cold water onto his hands. Frances looked on in bemusement. ‘Is that a Manchester custom?’ she asked. ‘Washing your hands before breakfast.’