One for Sorrow

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Tom. ‘Everyone does it where I come from.’ He dried his hands on a towel that was hanging by the sink, then took a seat beside Frances, keeping himself on the far side of the table from Lloyd, who sat there staring at him with open contempt.

  ‘So you two boys have introduced yourselves?’ ventured Frances.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom, smiling mockingly at Lloyd. ‘We’ve . . . talked.’

  ‘I imagine the two of you must have plenty in common. Both of you keen readers and all.’

  ‘Yes, Lloyd was just telling me how he helped Lou write Treasure Island,’ said Tom.

  ‘Indeed? A little exaggeration there, I think.’ She shot Lloyd a reproving look. ‘But it was very strange how it transpired. We took a cottage in Braemar for the summer, out in the wilds. We pictured ourselves enjoying picnics in the sunshine but the weather was just awful. I think it must have poured with rain every day we were there. So we were left to amuse ourselves indoors, as best we could. And one day, Lloyd and Lou drew this little map on a sheet of paper . . .’

  ‘See,’ said Lloyd. ‘What did I tell you?’

  Frances ignored him. ‘Then Lou started writing in the names of all these made-up places. Finally, he wrote the words, Treasure Island on the paper and explained that this was a place where pirates buried their booty. And Lloyd begged Lou to tell him a story about the island and of course, that’s how it all began. Lou went into one of his wild passions about the idea and he wrote all day, every day. Looking back, it’s a good job the weather was bad, for we saw hardly anything of him in the daytime. He would read us a chapter each night, sitting by the fire and . . . well, almost before we knew it, he had fifteen chapters and that’s when it all began to get more serious.’

  ‘So, he’d already come up with the best title,’ observed Tom. ‘But then he changed it.’

  ‘It’s called The Wreck of the Hispaniola,’ insisted Lloyd.

  ‘Yes, dear, we know what it’s called,’ said Frances, calmly. ‘But it’s true that the first thing he wrote down was . . .’

  ‘He wants Papa to change it,’ snarled Lloyd, pointing at Tom, as though he thought his mother might have missed this point.

  ‘He has a name,’ said Frances, frostily. ‘And it would be more polite if you’d use it.’

  Lloyd grunted, but continued to stare challengingly at Tom. ‘I don’t think it’s any of his business, coming here and telling Papa to change the title of his story,’ he said. ‘Who is he anyway? Just some stranger who turned up in the middle of the night and started . . .’

  ‘Lloyd Samuel Stevenson, we’ll have none of that attitude at the breakfast table,’ said Frances, forcefully and Lloyd was obliged to stop talking. He hung his head and looked glumly at his hands. ‘Tom is our guest here and we always treat our guests with the greatest respect.’

  ‘That’s absolutely right,’ said a voice and glancing up, Tom saw that Lou had just entered the kitchen. He was dressed in a velvet jacket and his hair was tousled as though he’d just got out of bed.

  ‘Lou, you should have slept longer,’ Frances chided him. ‘You barely had a wink of sleep all night.’

  ‘The smell of frying bacon roused me,’ he told her and he took a seat beside Lloyd. He ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately and then smiled across the table at Tom. ‘You got me thinking last night,’ he said.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lou leaned closer, looking Tom directly in the eye. ‘Maybe my little story does deserve a wider audience.’

  At this Tom couldn’t help noticing the expression on Lloyd’s face – as though somebody had just kicked him, very hard in the stomach.

  ‘And I’m thinking that perhaps it could revert to the original title of The Sea Cook: A Story for Boys.’

  ‘Maybe not that bit,’ muttered Tom, but Lou ignored him.

  ‘So with this in mind, I have just written to Long John Silver himself, to suggest . . . nay, demand, that he introduce me to some more of his contacts in the world of publishing.’

  Tom was puzzled by the last remark and his expression must have shown this because Frances leaned closer and said, ‘Our friend, Mr William Henley. A writer too, of poetry mostly. He was very much an inspiration for Long John Silver. He is a one-legged gentleman, you see.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Tom. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No reason why you should,’ said Frances.

  ‘I’ve written to Dr Jap too,’ Lou told her. ‘I’m on a crusade here and I intend to leave no stone unturned!’

  ‘It was our friend, Dr Jap, who first introduced Lou to Mr Henderson, the editor of Young Folks,’ explained Frances.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Tom.

  Lloyd looked as though he was now on the verge of tears. ‘But Papa, I like The Wreck of the Hispaniola!’ he complained.

  ‘Well, Lloyd, that’s very loyal of you. But we need to rise above such considerations and think of what’s best for the story. Tom here has inspired me to think that perhaps I could do more with my little creation.’

  Just then Anna began to ferry over plates of food. Tom was delighted to see that of all the time periods he’d visited, this one seemed to have the best grub. Gone were the foul slops of Mary King’s Close in 1645, the rotting throwaways scavenged every morning by Jamie Wilson in 1824 and brought to Laird’s Lodging House. In front of him he was delighted to see a full cooked breakfast. Sausages, bacon, fried eggs and as much toast as he could eat.

  ‘Please, don’t stand on ceremony,’ said Frances. ‘As we like to say in San Francisco, dig in!’

  Tom needed no second bidding. He began to eat, quickly and greedily, devouring the plate of food in a very short time. Glancing up, he noticed that Lou was barely touching his meal while Lloyd was simply pushing the various items around his plate, an expression of discontent on his face.

  ‘Lloyd, Anna worked very hard on that breakfast, at least try to do it some justice,’ said Frances. ‘And try to do something about that miserable expression too.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Surely you must have more appetite than that?’

  Lou shrugged his shoulders. ‘You know me, my dear. When I have one of my obsessions upon me, I can’t think of eating.’ Lou studied Tom. ‘But surely it’s time we heard a little more about our esteemed guest,’ he suggested. ‘Tom, tell us all about yourself.’

  Tom nearly choked on a mouthful of sausage and had to take a large gulp of tea in order to get it down. ‘Oh, there’s . . . not much to say,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Of course there is. You say you’re from Manchester but your mother lives in Edinburgh, right?’

  ‘Er, yes, in Fairmilehead. With my stepfather.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lou elbowed Lloyd. ‘Sounds like you two have something in common,’ he observed and Lloyd’s scowl grew darker. ‘I know the area, Tom. Lovely, rural setting. In fact, my parents used to rent Swanston Cottage every summer. I have some happy memories of it. I wrote about it in Picturesque Notes.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ Tom tried not to panic. ‘Well, m . . . my parents live on the . . . the estate.’

  ‘Ah, the farm, you mean! Oh, there’s some beautiful thatched cottages there. So, we must have been neighbours. How strange that we never bumped into you as a little boy.’

  ‘Er, yeah. Weird.’

  ‘So, what do your parents do?’

  ‘Oh, erm . . . well, Mum’s kind of between jobs.’

  ‘Your mother works?’ gasped Frances, as though this was a very unusual thing indeed.

  ‘Er, yeah. She used to work for a mail order company . . .’ He hesitated, unsure if they would know what this was, but they seemed perfectly happy with the term. ‘And Hamish, that’s my stepdad, he’s a travelling salesman.’

  ‘Ah, he goes door-to-door, does he?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Well, more city-to-city, really. He sells shower fittings.’

  ‘Goodness. It must take him an age to get between cities,’ ventured Lou. ‘Oh, no, he’s got a good car . .
. car . . . carpet,’ stammered Tom.

  Lou raised his eyebrows. ‘A magic flying carpet, is it?’ he asked. ‘Like in The Arabian Nights? That would speed things up a bit.’ He chuckled and looked at Lloyd, as though expecting him to join in, but Lloyd’s face remained a picture of misery. Lou thought for a moment. ‘What are shower fittings?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, like when you have a shower? The bits that . . . hold up the curtains and so forth.’

  ‘Ah, in gymnasiums and public bathhouses,’ ventured Lou.

  ‘Er . . . yeah, sure.’ Tom wasn’t going to say that Hamish’s shower fittings were used mostly in people’s homes. Clearly, the Stevensons, like the rest of Edinburgh society, weren’t quite ready for that idea.

  ‘So . . . where exactly are your parents now?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Ah, well, they . . . they’ve gone away,’ said Tom. ‘Yeah. To the . . . the . . . South of France. On holiday.’

  Lou looked puzzled. ‘And they didn’t take you with them?’

  ‘Er . . . no, I . . . I thought they might like a bit of time on their own. You know, they haven’t been together all that long and they’re quite . . . lovey-dovey . . .’

  Lou and Frances exchanged worried looks.

  ‘And besides,’ added Tom, ‘I don’t really get on all that well with my stepdad.’

  Frances looked genuinely upset to hear that. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Well, he’s very changeable,’ said Tom. ‘One minute he’s OK, the next, he’s like some maniac. You know, a real Jekyll and Hyde.’

  There was a long silence then and it occurred to Tom that they might not be familiar with the term. But then he thought about it and quickly realised why they couldn’t be. Jekyll and Hyde was a description that lots of people used, but not everyone knew that it came from a book − a book by Robert Louis Stevenson; a book that he hadn’t actually got around to writing yet.

  ‘Jekyll . . . and Hyde?’ murmured Lou.

  ‘Umm . . . yeah, that’s just something that people say. Around Manchester.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’

  ‘Oh, just that . . . some people, you know, they seem all meek and mild, but inside they’re like . . . like . . .’ He searched for inspiration and then an idea occurred to him. He pointed to the illustration on his t-shirt. ‘A bit like this. They just hide behind this quite, normal look. But underneath it, they’re like wild beasts.’

  ‘That looks stupid,’ said Lloyd, pointing a greasy knife at Tom’s t-shirt.

  ‘Lloyd,’ said Frances quietly. ‘What did I tell you before?’

  Lou had a faraway look on his face. ‘Imagine that,’ he said, ‘A quiet, respectable fellow. A man who shows the world a meek and mild exterior. A doctor perhaps, or a lawyer, trusted by everyone. But what if underneath, he’s a raging animal, capable of the most appalling crimes?’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Tom. ‘Hamish isn’t that bad.’ But inside he couldn’t help feeling a thrill of exhilaration. Could it be . . . had he just given one of the world’s greatest writers the idea for one of his most famous books? Judging by the look on Lou’s face, ideas were already starting to form.

  ‘You know, it’s a bit like our old friend Deacon Brodie,’ continued Lou. ‘Deacon by day, burglar by night.’ He looked at Tom. ‘William Henley and I tried co-writing a play about him, but we can’t seem to get it quite right. You’re familiar with the man, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen the pub,’ said Tom. ‘You know, the one on the Royal Mile? Where all the tourists . . .’ His voice trailed off when he registered Lou’s baffled expression.

  ‘There’s a pub?’ muttered Lou.

  ‘Oh, er . . . maybe I’m getting mixed up there. Yeah, I’m thinking of . . . er . . . a pub in Manchester.’

  ‘There’s a pub dedicated to Deacon Brodie in Manchester?’ muttered Lou.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ interrupted Frances. ‘Your parents are travelling on the continent. But . . . they surely didn’t leave you all on your own?’

  ‘Oh, no, ‘course not!’ Tom realised that the Stevensons were looking at him intently and realised he needed to come up with something. He seized on the first Scottish name he could think of, one he remembered fondly from his last trip into the past. ‘I’m staying with the − the McCallums.’

  ‘Ah, a fine Edinburgh name,’ observed Lou, coming out of his reverie. ‘And which particular McCallums are they?’

  ‘The, er . . . McCallums of Tanner’s Close,’ said Tom. ‘Mary. Fraser. Catriona.’

  Lou seemed to take great interest all of a sudden.

  ‘Catriona McCallum?’ he echoed. ‘Not the Catriona McCallum?’

  ‘Umm . . . maybe,’ said Tom, warily.

  ‘Well, I know a lady by that name. She’s a very talented writer, as it happens. A member of a literary society I belong to. But . . . surely we can’t be talking about the same person? She’s quite elderly now. And she’s never mentioned living on Tanner’s Close. My God, isn’t that where those terrible murders occurred back in the day? Burke and Hare! You know, I started writing a wee story based around them. I really must see about finishing it . . .’

  But Tom was sitting there stunned. Realisation had hit him like a punch to the head, so powerfully, that he almost reeled backwards in his seat. It had never occurred to him that Catriona might still be alive. He’d last seen her as a middle-aged lady in a portrait in the National Museum of Scotland. Beneath it had been the dates of her birth and death. He couldn’t recall them exactly, but he knew it was fifty-six years since his last visit here and she’d been around his age then, so it was quite possible.

  ‘Catriona McCallum is still alive?’ he croaked.

  ‘Well, I should hope so, if you’re staying with her,’ said Frances. ‘Tom, are you all right? You’ve gone quite pale.’

  ‘I, sorry, I’m . . .’ He pushed his plate aside, all thought of food forgotten. ‘You know, I really should go and check in with her,’ he said. ‘She’ll be worried.’

  Lou and Frances looked disappointed, but Lloyd smiled delightedly at the idea of Tom leaving.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll come back and visit us soon,’ said Lou. ‘You know, there’s something about your company, Tom, that’s quite . . . stimulating.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tom got to his feet. ‘And er . . . thanks for breakfast.’ He caught Anna’s eye and gave her the thumbs-up. ‘Great scran,’ he said. ‘Seriously.’ She looked helplessly at her employers as though seeking a translation.

  Tom started backing towards the door.

  ‘Your coat’s hanging in the hallway,’ Frances told him. ‘Make sure you pick it up on your way through. It’s cold out there.’

  ‘I will, thanks. I’ll catch you all later . . .’ He paused as another thought occurred to him. ‘One thing,’ he said.

  They looked at him expectantly. ‘Yes?’ murmured Lou.

  ‘Catriona. Where exactly does she live?’

  There was a long, perplexed silence. ‘But . . . you’re staying there,’ reasoned Frances. ‘So, surely . . .?’

  ‘It’s just gone right out of my head,’ said Tom. He forced a laugh but nobody joined in. ‘What am I like?’ he asked them.

  Lou and Frances exchanged glances. It was quite clear they didn’t have the first idea what he was like. ‘It’s not far from here,’ said Lou. ‘29, Lauriston Street. A rather grand house. You can’t mistake it.’ He frowned. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We are going to see you again, aren’t we?’

  ‘Of course. Soon, I promise.’

  And with that, he was out of the kitchen and hurrying along the hallway to the front door, grabbing his overcoat on the way. He opened the door and stepped outside, shrugging the coat around him as he went. He descended the five steps, but as his foot connected with the pavement it seemed to grow soft beneath him, like a pool of warm oil, and his foot went right through it and into a blackness beyond. ‘Oh no,
not now!’ he gasped. He tried to halt his own impetus but it was too late. He sank to the knees, to the waist, to the neck; and then the darkness enclosed him completely and as he fell further he heard again the brief fluttering of wings.

  Six

  Everything swam back into focus. He was standing in front of a familiar door: the door to Hamish’s house in Fairmilehead. He felt a powerful sense of disappointment ripple through him. Why did he have to come back now, just when he’d found out that Cat was still alive? What if this new adventure was already over and he was back for good? Then he’d lost his chance of ever meeting her again.

  He reached out to open the door and noticed something odd. It had been sparkling under fresh layers of red paint the last time he’d seen it, but now it looked weathered and battered. There was evidence of splintered wood around the lock as though it had been forced open at some point in the recent past. Tom frowned. He turned the handle, pushed the door open and stepped cautiously into the hallway.

  The smell hit him first – the stale odour of dirt and decay. The hall carpet looked as though it hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner in months and over in one corner he saw what looked like a crumpled takeaway pizza box. What was going on? Mum was always so houseproud and Hamish seemed to have gone along with that. Tom walked cautiously down to the open doorway of the living room, aware of the sounds of voices in there. Mum was sitting on the sofa with her back to him and she was watching the Jonathan Guile show. Now Tom knew that something really was wrong because Mum had always hated daytime TV, particularly this programme, a scurrilous talk show where hopeless members of the public were interrogated by the smug host and made to look like even bigger failures than they actually were.

  ‘Mum, what’s going . . .?’ He broke off in surprise. On the TV screen, a woman was sitting slumped in a chair while Guile stood slightly to one side of her, clutching a clipboard. The woman was Mum. She was wearing a tatty green jumper and a pair of scruffy black leggings. Beside her, there was an empty seat, as though they were expecting somebody else.